Thursday, November 25, 2010


Thankful for all that I have had in my life,
what I
still do have,

and what I have yet to have.

"My Thanksgiving" ~Don Henley

A lot of things have happened
Since the last time we spoke
Some of them are funny
Some of em aint no joke
And I trust you will forgive me
If I lay it on the line
I always thought you were a friend of mine

Sometimes I think about you
I wonder how youre doing now
And what youre going through

The last time I saw you
We were playing with fire
We were loaded with passion
And a burning desire
For every breath, for every day of living
And this is
my thanksgiving

Now the trouble with you and me,
my friend
Is the trouble with this nation
Too many blessings, too little appreciation
And I know that kind of notionwell, it just aint cool
So send me back to sunday school
Because Im tired of waiting for reason to arrive
Its too long weve been living
These unexamined lives

Ive got great expectations
Ive got family and friends
Ive got satisfying work
Ive got a back that bends
For every breath, for every day of living
This is
my thanksgiving

Have you noticed that an angry man
Can only get so far
Until he reconciles the way he thinks things ought to be
With the way things are

Here in this fragmented world, I still believe
In learning how to give love, and how to receive it
And I would not be among those who abuse this privilege
Sometimes you get the best light from a burning bridge

And I dont mind saying that I still love it all
I wallowed in the springtime
Now Im welcoming the fall
For every moment of joy
Every hour of fear
For every winding road that brought me here
For every breath, for every day of living
This is
my thanksgiving

For everyone who helped me start
And for everything that broke
my heart
For every breath, for every day of living
This is my Thanksgiving.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Solitary View of Somewhere

Sitting amongst the wreckage of ruin,

an invisible man in the dark.

A void into the distance,

an empty nothingness...sitting.

He is vapor,


an entity of lost and never found.

Apathy and no direction.

A nauseating view of nothingness,

a full view of empty.

A cup full of shallow.

A lackluster existance,

only equalled by sheer stupidity

and vapid discussions of chatter with no solid.

Better to be mute,

then water with no flow.

Silence a gift to ones with nothing to say.


Monday, November 8, 2010


The brightest day will create the darkest shadows,
watch the glare,
because the sun is blinding.
Stay in the dark.
Safe, quiet, silence.
Stillness like the sound of White.
A transparent void where there is no entry and no exit.
The middle is surely a dead end.

Sunday, November 7, 2010

Mary, Mary

She plays Jesus as she types,
calling to spirits above; hands held high and mystic words recited,
a spell of sanctity and sanctimoniousness...
in between sips of Chamomile tea.
Clipping coupons and working overtime.
conjuring deities and conquering Satan,
the hippie girl in pigtails and platforms...
a modern day flower child in a Mary Magdalene dress.
Praying for a
Saviour to bring her home...
someone with a clean soul...or at least a job.
Bible boys on bikes carrying bouquets of Daffodils laced with sin,
arrive on her doorstep on a mission of mercy,
the good book open to Galatians 5:19,
they yell, "Pray Sister", as she gets down on her knees.
Feet stomping, hands clapping, they pray for her redemption.

Saturday, November 6, 2010

To Paint

I wish I could paint...
I thought as I gazed upon his work...
alive with color and imagination,
a craftsman of creativity.
I paint with words...
images in the mind with deft tongue and playful spirit.
My muse is the melancholy melody that plays in my soul.
Words like shotgun blasts to the common man.
My "filter", I've a snake sheds it's skin,
bare and naked to the world.
With truth and with fire,
and brief bits of rage...
I speak, and I spit...
a tiger in cage.
Words rolled out like dough,
this baker...she cooks!
Phrases caressed on the tongue,
with a twist...
and a smile.
I'm brazen...
I'm smokin',
this babe...
she's got style!
I'm wild and I'm free,
and I say what I like.
Come closer, my darling...
I don't nibble...
I bite.


You walk with me,
and hold my hand...tightly.
Slow stumbling steps that once walked tall.
Still with pride and strength and purpose.
The strong hand of a strong man that once pulled me up;
wiped away my tears from bruised knee and broken heart,
now shakes as it writes; I love you, daughter...
on that dime-store Christmas card.
I see you with tattered bow and worn heart...
tired from the many heartaches,
yet full of love and hope.
I see you as you were,
and as I was...
Forever the little girl in dress of Blue,
wild hair of Red with Pink ribbons cascading,
caught up and tangled like the old swing in that park by the lake.
You in that summer shirt the color of lemonade with the scent of Old Spice or Brut,
or whatever we could afford to buy you that year.
Years passed ...
memories of fishing on the lake at dusk,
as you fought off the mosquitoes and I fought off over-anxious suitors...
boys with the smell of sweat and car engines
and the swagger of would-be Romeos searching for their Juliet.
Those Summers passed too quickly and the Winters were never-ending.
As life passed too quickly as well...
and I hold your hand just once more,
afraid to let go.
Knowing that it's late and it's time to go.

Gingerbread Man and the Lollipop Kid

Quicksand feet and molasses hands...
gingerbread woman
all sticky sweet.
Glazed eyes and candy lips,
arms outstretched in an empty hug.
Cinnamon heart and painted on smile,
waiting on the marshmallow man,
with his corn syrup promises,
and kiss of Maple sugar.
Lollipop kid in Lemon and Lime,
trendy young lad ahead of his time,
Licorice arms and Cherry heart,
Jolly Rancher style and melted dreams.
Dime store romance,
with the Bullseye girl.
Eyes of Ginger and soul of Caramel.
Living life in the brownie house.

The Garden

She is my child's flower...
in his secret garden,
in a world of their own making...
where the ogres are time,
and the boogeyman is life.
Where fairies dance by starlight,
and fireflies are their lanterns.
She grows wild,
in the dark side of the forest,
small and quiet in her beauty,
intense and full of magic,
casting her mystery in a moonlight dance,
a wanderer in a world not quite ready for her.
She is just beginning...
a delicate bud, yet to bloom...
a sweet fragrant Rose in his eyes,
in all her Summer splendor.
He tends to her,
and takes great care to keep the weeds away,
lest they smother her and crush her spirit.
Her sun is the words of beauty that spill from his mouth,
when he whispers to her his childhood secrets.
Her water is the tears he cries as they part,
vowing to meet again in fields of promises and daydreams.
He is a faithful gardener,
day and night he tends to her.
An overlooked beauty,
rare is their love.
Innocent and soulful,
she is my baby's "baby",
and I wonder at the magic she possesses to captivate my child so.
Brilliant and breathtaking is their view of the world,
artist and muse in equal exchange.
A sonata of even harmony.

Wait For Me

As he sits like a tombstone...
amid a mountain of indecision,
frailties and weakness.
At the top of a pile of overturned earth
sits his insecurities and doubt.
His loneliness...
screaming at him like a banshee,
yet he had not the courage or strength
to see beyond himself.
Decency for another covered by selfishness,
like the Black mourning coat he now wears.
As she waits...
glints of Grey form in her hair,
her skin of Ivory grows pale with each season,
lines form in her face,
like maps of the many roads she has travelled with no destination at their end.
Eyes that once shined like the stars
falling upon the still of a night sky,
in his midnight dreams...
are now vacant and still.
She grows cold awaiting his embrace.
But wait...he now returns.
Her lips open waiting for him...
cold with the stench of once warm breath that has long since become rancid.
He reaches for her hand,
once warm with promise.
Now, open...
Always open, for him to hold.
Arms that longed for him,
empty...many nights,
are now heavy, weary and still.
they fall into embrace.
*Watch the video on the Visual Poetry page tab on the top of my blog*

Grits and Gingham

And they would dance...
her in that Pink waitress outfit with soiled Gingham apron,
and those White nurse shoes...
scuffed at the right toe and worn down on one side from standing too long in one spot,
and that
Hail Mary doily hat.
Queen of the diner...
and the greying greaser...
Brylcreem D.A and Navy tat on sagging bicep,
worn White t-shirt with Wild Turkey stench,
biscuits and gravy grease and those Kool cigarettes rolled up in one sleeve.
As they danced around the jukebox,
Tapioca pudding stuck to the floor,
sitting this one out with the Cherry Coke dried to the table.
A collage of cheap tin and glass ashtrays...
holding a buffet of over-chewed Juicy Fruit gum and Marlboros.
Silver napkin holder gleaming like a princess' mirror waiting for her prince,
"Rose Garden" playing on the jukebox,
children playing at the
waitress table in the corner...
Jacks, Old Maid and Go Fish.
Good and Plenty and Bazooka gum.
Coloring books with cheap wax crayons, flat on one side with the paper peeled off.
Johnny Cash
walks-the-line as Tommy yells, "Order up!"...
the kitchen doors swing open like high noon in a John Wayne movie at the town saloon...
and the
Vietnam cowboys walk out the front door onto the concrete Ponderosa into an Appalachian sunset.
*Watch the video on the Visual Poetry page tab on the top of my blog*

Visual Poetry

Check out my videos on the Visual Poetry page!


Bam, bam, bam...goes the frying pan...
Once, twice...again and again,
with the repetitive motion of a hammer pounding nails into soft balsam.
As blood sprayed the sheets and walls like a tapestry of color in a Peckinpah film.
A collage of the tragedy of a life, and a love, wasted.
The pigment, a rich dye of all the pain she endured.
A kaleidoscope of blood Red, and a Black soul, mixed with the Yellow in his spine.
Slap, slap, slap...she felt on her face ....
through blackened eyes swollen like the bee-stinged lips of a pin-up queen,
the faithful dog returning for scraps, only to be kicked and beaten.
Nevermore quoth the raven...
never more said the maiden.
An ending to a story...quite overdue.
Some speak in hush...
but the neighbors all knew.
As he felt the tap, tap, tap of the hammer sinking into cranium and crevice...
skull cracking and snapping like the bones in her arm when she burned dinner.
Snap, crackle, pop went the memories and the love.
Rip and tear went her heart, as his body hit the floor.
Boo hoo...
his life is no more.

Roses of Yellow and Lavender

At death we do part,
in the ground,
in the dirt,
to be covered in the tears and sorrows of this life.
Roses of Yellow and Lavender,
Stars falling from the skies as clouds race past in Dante's dance.
Eternity and destiny united at the final curtain.
Black embrace,
still and cold,
like Ivory and concrete.
Hearts bleeding and displayed,
for the lovers to sigh,
mourners to weep,
and lier to mock.
The trees of Winter with branches dark with death,
breath cold and rancid with the smell of mold and stale promises.
Rumors and speculations,
whispered talk of lies and deceptions heard in the distance,
in the grave,
on the wind.
A vision of haze and mist across meadow.
Morrow does not come to these lips,
closed now forever,
never to speak of passion or love again,
Sweet kiss of life,
futile as lost love,
lips silent and sewn shut.
Safe in this crypt,
away from the others,
together as one now,
locked in eternal moonlight and embrace.
*Watch the video on the Visual Poetry page tab on the top of my blog*

On existential loneliness

Is existential loneliness essential to creativity?
I find that in my darkest moments come my best writing.
Some writers go off on writer's retreats which often involve journeys into the woods or various places of deep solitude, and close themselves off from society and disruption.
Does this help or hinder?
If poets are such a depressed lot and are always in a state of self-sanctuary, is this really necessary?
Might we just channel the muse in the middle of traffic,
grab a pen and write on a napkin? (done it)
Is pressuring the muse to perform the same as pressuring a lover and does it result in an unsatisfactory result on both sides?
Does it contribute to writer's block?
It is also to be noted that some of the best works of poetry and literature are often created in a writers deepest moments of blackness.
true loneliness then, the key to greater creativity?
If one finds
real happiness (if it even exists),
is it ever the end of the true longing one feels in the soul?
Is that why many poets and writers choose for themselves subconsciously(and maybe even consciously) lives and loves that we know will never really satisfy.
For to lose love, that is forgivable...
to lose the muse is to incite madness and heartbreak of an even more painful and enduring kind.



Sunday, October 31, 2010


I need a spoon...
to scoop out
this mess in my head.
And a bowl...
for my soul,
cause it's dark and it's dead.
Just a drill...
for the thrill,
do the trick...
'cause I'm fucked up,
and crazy...
and twisted as shit.
A nailgun maybe...
so I do it right...
although it
is messy
and might take all night.
A glue gun is better
to fix up
my head..
and fill up those holes
from words...left unsaid.

We've Got A Bleeder

If I bleed and spill the words from my soul...
let it fall upon the paper in crimson currents...
would it be enough?
Is there a knife sharp enough to cut out all the pain?
Must I rip through these scars to heal?
Ligaments and muscles tense, as I rip the flesh from my bone and brow.
Will the nightmares turn to daydreams?
Will dawn arrive on death's hand or angel wing?
Can the hot searing metal brand me as one of them?
Smoke and charred skin with the smell of burning funeral pyre like Viking funeral,
a Valkyrie awaiting her Valhalla.
Will a moment of misery arouse my demons and finally cast them out?
An exorcism of my past and present failings awarded by judge without jury.
Is the rapture just a step away for the damned?
Salvation is but a lie we tell ourselves...
to silence the shouting in our ears that none can hear...
except the walking wounded,
the lost and forgotten.
We are just characters in a Dickens play,
the lost orphans with chilled nose and frozen fingers pressed upon the glass.
Seeking feast on the inside, yet alone and cast aside.
The beggers in the street, the outcast, the forgotten and unforgiven.
Finding unity and strength in our flaws,
we bind together like packs of dogs searching for the one place of warmth to rest.
Shelter just a temporary facade in one place or another.
We face the new day alone in the company of our own heartbeat.

Fairy Tale

I watch at a distance, wondering at the miracle before me.
I see it, out there...
see them together...
the chosen few.
I see how he adores her,
touches her hair...
looks into her eyes,
and falls into heaven at her touch.
Her words unspoken,
brings him to his knees.
The angels sing
when he speaks of her.
Bliss and happy endings and fairy tales...
The promise of poets and beliefs of children.
He reaches for her, and she smiles.
Teeth crooked, hair unkept and body at least fourty pounds too many.
She is his miracle.
A being perfect to another.
She is unattractive to many...
but to him she is goddess.
Surrounded by Gold and beam of light.
She is a flame in his sight, fire in his soul.
Aphrodite at the laundromat,
Hunter Diana in the woods,
Mother Earth and her child.
She is all to him.
He breathes just for her,
with or without adornment...
she is his jewel.
I sit barren in this darkness,
while time envelops my soul like a shroud.
Dismissed like school child for summer vacation.
Wrong men or wrong timing.
Bad choices with bad boys.
Losers and liers.
Making mistakes or being one.
Lost men looking for their salvation,
With me, a temporary angel....
a respite from their blackness within.
My purpose just to give my heart to ones that have none.
As I fill their empty places that lay within...
and they leave me with canyons to deep for anyone to fill.


Walking in shadow,silence surrounds her.

The will of the wisp on midsommer night.

The only one, the nomad, wanderer.

A vapor.

Breeze in your hair and the wind that touches you, fingers caressing your face at dawn's light.

Oblivion and darkness, the crushed rose underfoot.

A vision in the corner of your eye.

The comet across Black sky.

The brass ring on the carousel, the lost doll in the dust at the end of the day.

An untended flower in the garden, now grown over, and strangled by the weeds.

Invisible, untouched, the forsaken.

The rusty compass with no needle.

The broken weathervane at the top of the abandoned barn, which long ago lost all direction.

A name tag still on the table, long after the party is over;

and all that remains is glasses of untouched wine and half-ragged streamers.

The uninvited and the first to leave.

Fog on a lonely sea, the siren that beckons sailors into eternity.

The one that got away.

The freedom you screamed for and the darkness that envelops you once you find it.

Only known by alias, and not known at all.

The great mystery, the enigma, the damned one.

The mirage on the distant highway, as you go on, unguided without map.

The unholy in the confessional, seeking penance and asking forgiveness.

The sinner and the saint.

The silent one, the still, the immovable object, the unseen force.


The guide to the other side, the boatman, the keeper of the key, last of kin.

Gifted with word, but not of life.

Hi-ho, the derry-o, the cheese stands alone.


Hand Out

Homeless not helpless.

Sharing food amidst sidewalks Grey and littered with papercups and other peoples throw aways,

society's cast-aways and forgotten begin another day of survival...

A token of kindness doled out in servings too small for many,

yet just enough and more, for the part of civilization that no one notices nor cares about; unless it's Christmas or some other reason to exhibit some sort of humanity.

Camaraderie between strangers of the street that share much more than most will ever share,

and see more than many will ever see...or care to.

The wide-eyed wealthy gleefully toss pocket change at the poor,

as if they were tossing coins into a fountain and wishing for more...

more than their over-decorated homes and fat stomachs will ever need.

People unseen like shadows on the pavement.

A cart of memories and poor man's treasures, broken hearts and broken dreams all in one place.

Tied up tight, as if to keep the remaining hope inside.

Bags of various sizes, full of bits and pieces of life.

Plenty of baggage here...but out for all to view.

Nothing left to lose because they've lost it all.

Speaking in whispers to each other in a language only they can understand.

I lean in closer and am touched upon hearing their conversation,

littered occasionally with profanity yet full of humor and brilliance,

profound views...street poets.

The lower classes exchange silent thank you's and goodbyes with a nod,

and move on to nowhere in their nomadic journey travelling across street and alley.


Random quote

"Unless it's mad, passionate, Extraordinary love, It's a waste of your time.
There are too many mediocre things in life, Love shouldn't be one of them."
Dream for an Insomniac - 1998

Don't settle.

Friday, October 29, 2010

Sit Down, Son

Dreamer,poet,artist,free spirit,the reliable rebel...My one true joy in life...
My eternal love.
My soldier when my days are dark,
who fights for me when the world comes down on me and tries to crush me.
When my heart breaks he cries for me...
Never knew I could love so completely.
Tiny hands that once held mine,now larger and wrap around my heart.
My friend,my rock and my reason.
The only man who has been a constant in my life.
"Don't fit in,don't blend,you know you're different and thats a godsend."
Women will fall at your feet to be by your side,others will cry to possess you.
A simple man you will become.Inner depth,heart full of empathy and compassion.
Mind of intelligence and higher thoughts.
An old soul in a baby's body.
Clear of mind and clean of soul.
My blood.
I see me and all that I was and more than I can ever hope to become...
All I need,I needed just one...
My only son...
My only one.

Frappuccinos and Fuckheads

Snap,crackle,pop...cracking knuckles and chewing nails...

tight as a noose around a dead man's neck,

ready to break like a twig underfoot.

Starbucks coffee in hand,

her in Pink flip-flops and pony-tail,

he in those important glasses,

looking so intrigued...

and vacant.
Oh so interested in her conversation(sarcasm),
as he puts chin in palm and leans in closer.
She talks of children as yet unborn,he talks of ones gone before...
attempts and quips of wit and wisdom.
Banal bullshit and analogies mixed in with vague apologies.
Making appointments to laugh and love and order carry-out Thai food.
Conversations filled with knowledge but lacking intelligence.

Damn Clowns

A slow parade of death,
This carnival called life.
Clowns weep for your lost innocence.
Acrobats climb the ladder to eternity.
The elephants...
memories that you cant forget.
The monkey you can't get off your back...
your regrets.
Tightrope walkers...
those chances you were too afraid to take.
There...the fat woman...
your greed.
Those midgets...
all your childhood fears.
Strong man...
what you tried to be.
The beautiful woman sitting alone in the stands eating popcorn...
the one who waited for you...
lost...due to your pride.
never again to meet another love like hers.
Ah, the lust you tried to cage.
The trampoline...
like a stretcher for the awaiting dead.
Gods and angels hold your ticket,
and open the gates.
Pagan tones play on the carousel.
Fire eaters and sword swallowers eat the sin and pain...
As all join in the circus eternal.


Sleep...Let me dream.
Of better days and warmer nights..
Of stars and love and beauty...
Of lovers eyes in mine..
Of touches and caresses
And things I can no longer see.
Cover me...
Let me lie here till eternity passes...
And my eyes no longer have to open to tears...
Wake me...
To beauty and sunlight...
Blankets wound too tight...
and pillows caress.
*Watch the video on the Visual Poetry page tab on the top of my blog* ( formerly "Visions")


She speaks of Byron and Van Gogh,
of poets and madmen and midsummer nights dream,
of longing and lust in nights of Black and Crimson skies.
As she bleeds inside and cries tears no one sees.
She speaks in lavish words of imagined lovers and hoped for love,
a doomed romantic in a self imposed prison...
of self doubt and invisible insecurities.
Amber lights like sunrise light up her night,
while the scent of firewood drifts from a glass jar.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Guest List

My soul worn down like shoes that have walked too many miles,
on dead ends and alleys with no outlet.
One way streets of crushed dreams,
possibilities of hope for happiness crushed out like cigarettes put out on the bricks.
A Catholic self-flogging of my inner sins and outer desires,
a bias of choosing the hard road,
the road less travelled along with Frost.
I have breakfast with Plath,
as she checks those cookies in the oven that final time.
Cocktails with Sexton at six,
as we talk of men and the perfect Red lipstick.
After dinner Opium with Lord Byron,
as he romances me with silver-tongued whispers of erotica.
Tales of random wanderings with Kerouac,
as Shelley and I meet in the mind.
Invoking demons with Yeats.
while I walk through the inferno with Dante.

Independence Day

Bar B Que and fireworks,

wet bathing suits and hot dogs with that "char-grilled" taste,

parades with tone-deaf bands and "declarations of independence",

shows of patriotism with panache.

Reds and whites mixed with the blues,
and one-too-many beers at the fest.

Kettle corn and kiddie rides.

Uncle Sam on stilts,
waves to the crowd in his cotton White beard,

throwing Gold foil-wrapped candy quarters to the children,

as they scatter like young soldiers dodging bullets.

Timmy drops his fruit punch as he runs to the front of the line,

and Johnny Boy drops to his knees on the front line as he takes one to the chest,

his blood flowing in cascades like Hawaiian Punch,

grasping his chest and the picture of Annie, as his dreams and his life slips away,

and he falls into the mud.

And somewhere far away...

carnivals with Gold-toothed carnies,
let your kid ride for a quarter,
on the freedom train.

Sunday, October 24, 2010


Shrouded in darkness,
Black shroud of darkness,
silence enfolds her.
No light,
just darkness...
and never ending.
Solitude a lover,
that never leaves her bed.
By candlelight and moonlight,
Black as pitch,
dreams written as vivid reality.
An unending script of madness encircling brain and body without edit.
And such is the dream...
Red-hot embers that glow like end of night's fire,
sparks release into midnight,
In visions he sees her, a distant dream,
He wakes in the middle of the night in cold sweat,
his succubus in the late night hours,
ever beckoning to draw him nearer,
siren to his satyr.
Ghosts in the moonlight,
rumpled sheets,
and sticky sweet,
her lips press to his in an open mouthed embrace of ecstasy.
Voices in unheard language and and other tongues,
speak in rhymes and sonnets in his ear at dawn.
Her nails in his back,
cutting crevices and tracing muscle along imaginary roads.
She is his dream, his muse and his madness.
He wakes from his dream,
turns to the silence that lays beside him,
and reaches into nothingness.
She wakes from her dream,
and turns to touch the empty place beside her.



Scrubbing, washing, cleaning,
folding socks.
Smiling pretty in family photos.
Packing lunch,
bologna and Oreos.
School bus kisses,
Sunday brunch and Mimosa's.
Clipping coupons and red tag days.
Afternoons of soap operas and Oprah,
Perfect life for the perfect wife.
Family of three and one to be,
picture of tranquility.
Once a month sex and once in a lifetime love.
Mini vans and Easter hams,
PTA and school plays.
Distant dreams and midnight screams,
nightmares at 1 a.m.
Kiss at the door and hope for more,
Errands and ways to fill the day,
grocery lists and chances missed.
Garden needs weeding,
porch needs sweeping,
pants need mending,
heart needs tending.
A smile and a kiss on the forehead,
good night, sweet dreams.
All is never what it seems.
Good night, sleep tight,
don't let the bed bugs bite.
All is clear, all is bright...
yeah, sure...

The Poet

They call me a poet and whisper in hush,
I talk much too little and think way too much,
my friends are all crazy,
like Byron and Yeats,
I sit home on Fridays and don't go on dates.
I hate society or so I am told,
withdrawn and broken,
or maybe too bold.
It's not called true art,
nor bought for your wall,
I look for life's meaning,
and hear when it calls.
I see the moonlight,
and write by the stars,
say what you will,
but I am life's bard.


This place of rapture...
spoken of at twilight in silent whispers and sighs,
Is it heaven's touch, granted by the divine,
blessed by Godhead and heavenly cherubim,
or the bane of man, the heart's crucifixion?
It damns the saint,
who would confess all,
on bended knee at love's sweet altar,
all for but a touch,
begging mercy and feigning purity,
at the expense of substance and soul.
It baptizes sinner,
in tears of sweat,
bodies entwined and twisted...serpentine, in the great mystery,
in black of night,
speaking in tongues of madmen.
It exiles the lonely man,
in eternal damnation of self and solitude,
heart, broken and bleeding,
offered up to the wind for silent ears,
for none hear his weeping.
The kiss of Canaan,
this rhapsody incarnate.
The union of souls,
a lighting of fire, the electricity.
Fingertips with touch like fragrant Lilacs that dance upon water at sunrise,
sweet with the perfume of Summer.


We drove from our city apartment along roads with white rocks.
I watched children with jeans clean and pressed,
creases as sharp as the tongues of the nannies that called them in from the heat.
Parents too bored to notice, sat in their White wicker chairs, unaffected.
Catalog families, like L.L.Bean or Talbot's...
Families that looked like a painting, a story of Americana and the good life.
Armies of men who spoke little, if any, English,
groomed front yards bigger than my neighborhood playground.
I was fascinated by a world I'd never seen.
We would get hot dogs or heroes and eat them in the car as we drove...
the scent of french fries mixing with the freshly mowed lawns in a Summer cologne carried on the wind.
Clean, and bright and beautiful and open air.
Different from what I'd known...
Dirty concrete and a closed in city...and so much Grey.
The stench of car exhaust and tar,
City workers fixing yet another hole on my street.
My back porch was my only yard,
the railing rotted with those nails sticking up; ripping my hand open as I ran up the back steps.
This drive, a special trip we would take a few times each summer.
The park with the beach,
and the huge rocks where waves crashed over them like a movie in slow-motion.
Pebbles and tiny seashells underfoot as we walked along the shore,
making sounds like the crisp crunching of broken glass.
The air clean like the smell of a tide far away from another place I've never been.
A bridge in the forest that crossed over a pond, a secret place...
where my brother and I would go catch frogs.
Fireflies dancing at twilight,
to be caught in our tiny hands,
sand under our fingertips and dirt on our faces,
we'd peek inside our clenched fists,
at a bit of wonder and a glimpse of magic,
soon to be released into the Summer night,
to rejoin the mystery of childhood and dance of dragonflies amidst the dusk.
A blurry vision of a woman, with a younger face.
Hair of chestnut, and dress, chiffon...
a Monet watercolor of blossoms that ran in the rain.
The scent of Gardenia's and a mother's love,
a soft perfume carried on a breeze to be remembered only in memory and my moments of madness.
"Evanston" published in the Spring 2008 issue of Black Oak Presents/ Black Oak Media

Keep Love Warm For Me

Keep love warm for me...

as I sit in this cold of Autumn,
leaves falling as another season dies,
Scarlet fire in each branch.
An empty heart,
in the approaching darkness.
I fear Winter and it's death
and the cold and Grey it brings.
The dark season, this Black slumber,
death of all light.
I grasped at warmth, far away,
it withered and fell out of reach.