Some men lack chins
Or have jowls that quake;
With beards we correct
The gods' mistake.

Sadly, it stands
For "One True Pairing."
It's the sort of pain
Only eased by sharing. 

"'That which exists without my knowledge
Includes the age-of-consent." —Judge Pearlman

The Hunger Games
Is to Battle Royale
As a twelve-dollar steak
Is to eating a cow.

It's not up to snuff
You're right, Dr. Dragon,
But it's Friday at three;
My rhymes are flagging.

It's not an IP
In which I'm invested;
Ass-weasels or else
I'm not interested. 

This entire conversation reads
Like stoveside old-timers
Spitting seeds. 

I like my women
Like I like my coffee—
Processed,
And pulverized
In cold wheels;
Complex
And fading away
To leaftaste
And acid
And days spent
Slung back
In bed. 

When all of the aberrantism
And the artifice
And the affectations
Are skinned away—then,
Bone-deep
And Depp-borne,
Brian made-down
In the evening glow,
What remains is two aging men
In the clothes of others.

That's a good call—
That's potential beef;
Here are some subs
That should prevent grief:

If you're concerned
About proper rhyme
Here's a tip
That'll save you time:

So the commentariat
Gives you static,
But it's worth it all
For 'melismatic.' 

Time in theatres
Is never wasted,
You've digested media, 
(even if untasted);
If you can't derive some value-add
From any given movie
(no matter how bad)
Then you're making less
Than minimum wage,
But whether boredom,
Or hate, or blacked-out rage,
You transcend "consumer"
When you engage.

I'm not saying here
That it makes me great,
But that's my personal
Favorite
Second date. 

I wish I could give you
More than one like—
One for me,
One for Updike. 

As someone who waited
Breath abated
On the TicketMaster site
Three hours one night—

As long as we're
Posting gossip here—
King Midas hears
Through asses' ears. 

To be vultures
In the purest sense—
Parceling out organs
Ibis-headed, and squawking,
Is one of the last few ways
We have left to participate
In the plaguey pageantry
Of our aseptic funeraries.
Where once we interred
In some carnified canon,
Hushed voices, and clothed lips,
And burnt herbs, and gloved hands—
Now, ashed and…

Last Friday night,
I drove to Georgia
With the windows down
And the sun
Throwing light like ink
Against the treebark.

Nothing ever really goes away,
Not love, or loss, or soft decay,
But there will come a time,
When the stars have smeared,
And the tally slates
Have all been cleared,
And whether from our wanton, wily ways
Or by some arbiter of brighter days,
We'll be reduced to ash and spine
And the crippled ghosts of our divine—
The tabula…