No more dates engraved in stone — now when our bodies grow weak and die, we become t-shirts instead, emblazoned with an image of our smiling faces captured in our youthful prime and frozen in a moment how our friends like to remember. Our souls are screenprinted in vinyl on a 50/50 cotton blend and passed out to our loved ones so they can wear our memories on the outside and then take them off when it’s convenient. Most run in XtraLarge so our family and friends wear our souls to bed to comfort them while they dream; the rest run small and find their use as undershirts or painting rags. Others still wind up in a four-sided wooden box, buried beneath the catacombs of clothing in the bottom dresser drawer. Some lucky few end up on plastic lunchboxes with matching thermoses for soup, plastic frisbees, or kitchenware, and find utilitarian purpose in the afterlife until they are conveniently misplaced or warped in the fiery depths of the dishwasher. Our fabric memory is not as weather-resistant as granite, but at least it’s portable — itinerant, like our own weary lives. But if death is a fashion, then immortality is merchandise, and these days everybody wants to live forever.
A small sampling of things I've written over the years that could arguably fall under the general blanket of "Poetry." Much of the poetry you see here was originally published on Five By Five Hundred, and you can also find my stuff in upcoming issues of Asimov's magazine. (please note: this isn't actually structured into any kind of order or anything)