what the sleepless nights have done


I want so badly to caress the
lines of your face
but my hands are postcards
I forgot to mail

I sit down and
become the river’s edge
and the stars are above
someone else’s head

the silence devours
every last loving thought
as my head rolls off
into a patch of grass
on which cattle will
no longer graze.



victim of the five borough sickness


another airplane
passes overhead
as I sit here
with a post-it note
and a black
magic marker
trying desperately
to forge a ticket
for a flight
out of this city.


Josh Thompson is a poet and short story writer living in New York City. He bartends at night to pay the bills while trying his best to stay sober and write his masterpiece somewhat decently. He has been published in The Ugly Tree, PoetrySuperHighway, Pawpers, Thick With Conviction and Drown In My Own Fears, among others. He's twenty-eight and still stuck in wondering...