I drank her words too deep

I drank her words too deep.
Her poison settled in my guts
Flowering inside my flora;
It kills my fauna.

Clawing at my ribs like rats in a bag
Drowning me in blood, in bloody, bloody strife.

None so wise as they that lose their memories,
Yet, I am he that remembers.
I am he that is forgotten,
Yet, never can I forget.

Hating whole halls of my mind palace
Resenting rooms made of memory
–showering together, bodies pressed
–playing in fields beneath the sun, no clothes
–balancing on balls of feet, weight of your womb
–nests of pillows, forts of cloth
–sizzling dinner, my inept fingers cut while cutting

I dash them cross the floor, smash them all
Except I don’t
I can’t.
Instead I pick them up
Cradle them to me
Put them back up on the mantle
Polish them a little
Fighting to stay standing.


My life was a script

My life was a script
–Get a degree
–Get a house
–Get a spouse
–Get some kids
In that order
Down to the letter
Just wait and see
All of it down to a “t”

The script–
A noose–strangling me
Tearing away lives i wanted,
Ripping away loves i cherished

The script–
Now, in tatters at my feet
Blowing in the wind that was
A mother’s touch: my parent’s fear

The script–
She flutters
Seizing me up
Sizing me up for the gutters

My home is filled with stuff instead of love
i pass the time with thoughts of idle destruction

My parents’ warnings:
You can’t, not, shan’t, won’t, will never
Taming my wayward spirit every day
i stomp
i scream
i shout
And cry for joy//fear//rage

i gaze around at the iron bars
That are my furniture
i pick up a flamethrower
It’s time for spring cleaning.

The First Act

Actus Primus

We meet
We swoon
She falls
I fall


We touch.

Actus Secundus

We dance
We charm
Eyes averted
Brushing hands
She flirts
I flirt


We kiss


We read
We play
Without fear

We make love.

Actus Tertius

We build things
She her written work
Me her smitten home
I must have interests
Where are my ineterests

We fight
We make up
We fight
We make up


I’m none the wiser
She is writing break up letters

But, our friends, our family
We are happy

Actus Quartus.

We fight and we fight
New loves
New loathes
She writes letters to others
I write poetry to her

Where is the spring I was promised
Where is the child of my solace

I did not die for love
I did not die for love
I came so close

Actus Quintus…




Any Way

always had to yearn
my dreams away
can’t hold on to lovers spurned
another day
maybe I’ll see her
some other way
when I’m old and withered
staining sheets and buttocks splayed
as couch cushions drain me dry
and I lose another day
in lonely lobbies I’ll stay
maybe she’ll rapture me away

found it all at the last
too bad she’s in the past

Bits of Bliss

Bits of bliss scattered around
The senile recreation center
As the orderlies make their rounds
Treading past signs that scream Please, Enter
Where forgetfulness is bounteous
And the rememories of follies
Have reduced Caesars comma Julius
To one more holly jolly nobody.

Their memories, plucked from the ground,
Like fruit ripening without a flavor,
Leave behind not a scent, not a sound
And yet each and every one is savored:
One part nostalgia, one part remembrance
The perfect umami for tired tongues
When they splinter into fragments
Allowing them to breathe, filling their lungs:

A lover’s lap,
A singer’s laugh,
A proper shave,
A dirty shag,
A father’s jacket,
A mother’s arms,
A child’s breath,
A quiet kiss,
A baby’s bliss,


A King Without a Name

A King without a Name
A Queen without a Face
A Prince without a Heart
A Jester without a Tongue
A Court without a King
A Country without a God
A Corpse without a Coin
A Storm without a Center
A Coin without an Edge
A Cliff without a Bottom
A Home without a Fire
A House without a Family
A Child without a Laugh
A Boy without a Friend
A Girl without a Friend
A Hero without a Fear
A Villain without a Hero
A Dear without a Dearest
A Parent without a Care
A Teacher without a Note
A City without a Crime
A Story without a Truth
A God without a Myth

Two Truths

Two tales within the woods are told
Two paths, inside of a wood emerging
My soul was bought, pilfered, and sold
From a tale, whose sorry moral often is told
Of two paths inside of a wood diverging

The one, we say, was well traveled
The other, in equal measure, was the same
The sights, the scents, the people babbled
Their chattering untruths unraveled
Until bitterly I turned away ashamed.

No difference in the paths there were
No change, no sign, no, none at all
No sight for sore eyes, no rememberer
New eyes, still blind, unfocused were
While I, the third path, fled from them all.

Cottontail Stew

Round and round
The rabbit hole:
Peter Cottontail.

That motherfucker.

Eating food
That isn’t his
He gains again
The ill gotten

Munching veggie matter
Carrots’ sticky sweet
Heads of lettuce
Tomato hanging like
Dead, dead rabbits.

Hopefully he hops
Nibble, nibble
Toil and trouble.

Macgregor burns
The little lad
Burns and bakes him
In the oven.

Boils and roasts
His tender innards
Scrumptious stew
On glowing embers.

Simmer, simmer