Poem About My Younger Brother


​whose name sounds like rocks
against the waves
who is tall 
serene, stoic
has immaculately polished shoes;
he’s probably going to be the
next president
of Lithuania
or something.

He doesn’t laugh
he combs his hair twice every morning
and folds all of his skeletons 
neatly into drawers — 
no one ever sees them.

He brushes his teeth
scrubs behind his ears and
cleans his fingernails.
His gait is impeccable;
there is no death in it.

When you meet him
he’ll probably say hi,
give you a firm handshake
and a pat on the back,
stick around for a few drinks
and smile at all the right times

but late at night, 
his skin will start to peel
his wrists will start to seep
he’ll excuse himself,
ever so prim,
as the skeletons 
start calling him
home. 

​
​Miss Formaldehyde


There once was a man who lived in a clutter 
And never went outside,
For he was engaged in a flirt and a flutter
With Miss Formaldehyde.

He used to have drive, he used to be zealous,
But lately he had grown stale; 
 Miss Formaldehyde had grown jealous–  
She fought for him tooth and nail.

She fought quite hard, unbeknownst to he
Against his own bodily system
(For, as he was enchanted by she,
She was set on destruction, that vixen).

She had dark hair and a pleasant complexion
And an even lovelier smile;
She used it to steer him in an awful direction
In which he would stay quite a while.

 She’d extend her hand, a finger she’d crook,
And silent-mouthed she would call
To lead that poor man to a place where he’d book
A date with the most damned of all.

And so they would court, and so they would dance,
And secrets in her he’d confide,
Oblivious to the fact he was put in a trance
By toxic Miss Formaldehyde.

With much gaiety his heart would fill
 Amidst a spin and a twirl,
Forgetting completely his joy and his ill
Were both brought about by this girl. 

So he’d sit in his dark corner
With a small sly grin on his lips.
He’d stare at his glass half-full of porter,
And in his head, dance with his Miss.

For in his head he was alive:
A-Dance, A-laugh, Aflame.  
Yet tricky Miss Formaldehyde
Had him claimed in all but name.