Tuesday, May 31, 2011

the street

the street gives
under a cloud cluttered
sky, painted blue and white
and froth and frost and i
know somewhere you
are under this sky and my
pain returns
no matter how many
vodka tonics i swallow
and sad songs i listen to
and dollars i give to
those promising to
take the memory away
like i wish
the sky would fade
and the street would
travel to a place
without horizons.



Trouble is coming.
Going to crawl into your room.
Stand over you while you're sleeping.
Touch you in places that pre-teenagers
don't like to talk about, but yearn
to experience in the dark.
Fondling, stroking, and wanting
to discover whether the trouble
standing over them is as bad as
everyone makes it out to be.

Voyeurs at Lunch

Lunchtime at the park finds me eating
my pickle and meat sandwich, while
trying to hide my eyes watching
people, especially the women in skirts,
or the young couples sitting at picnic
tables imagining their conversations
of lust, and filth, and hope, and loss.

'i realized at 25 years she makes me
more happy than any other person. i'm
glad i married her.'

'Why do you like these pants?'
'Because i can see your panties.'

'My husband never licks my ass the way
you do.'

And as fascinating as those conversations
are, i'm more dazzled by the light
cutting through the trees.
The leaves whispering as the wind blows,
or the grain of the grass as it lives
below our feet, those feet at the end of
those long legs that reach up under

those skirts, like i wish my hands could
even as they read their books,
write in dairies,

or tease me with a shake of the shoe.

Because i know even the homeless guy
with plastic bags for a pillow can't
help but wonder what it would take to
rest our heads there. Under those skirts,
in that park, even with everyone
watching because we're all voyeurs here.


When Darkness Falls

i shove back the sunshine because
i need the clouds today

i shove back the sunshine and wander
down the ice covered street hoping
to slip and break

i shove back the sunshine because
i'm tired of hearing of peace and God
and love when all
i feel is hurt

i shove back the sunshine and swallow
glass because anger is a gift

i shove back the sunshine, but don't ask
me why, don't ask me to open up to you,

i shove back the sunshine and hope
when darkness falls
i won't have to think anymore


Why Won't It Heal?

A wounded soul cannot hide,
it cannot be soothed,
it cannot forgive,
it cannot find hope,
it cannot heal,
and trying to
show it,
share it,
discuss it,
reveal it,
only makes me sad.


Friday, May 27, 2011

My Creations

My creative spurts come at odd times,
moments of premature poetic
if you will.

At the bar surrounded by drunks while
scrawling on cocktail napkins. On a
packed in a coach seat

surrounded by angry late passengers
dreaming of traveling in first
while i scribble on

the back of a barf-bag. In a public
restroom next to a man sitting on the
praying to God that

he'll never eat spicy food again,
while i etch graffiti on the stall
in front of me.

During sex as she screams out my name,
her name, and her lovers name, while i
my thoughts across her

lower back. It seems my creations and
moments of inspiration are disposable
of genius, captured by

a mental condom, or the uneasy droning’s
of a very sick man.


lock the door

she whispered
as she took off her shirt
and asked more

'can you keep a secret?'

i nodded no and un-did my pants
as she slid her skirt down to
her ankles, but left her heels on

'good, so do you do this often?'


i managed to squeeze out
while watching her breasts
grin as she released them from
her bra.

i had so much to say, but her
blouse hanging on the doorknob
keep me silent, while her thighs
awoke my libido

'so you're a liar and a secret keeper?
good. i like that in the men
i pick up at bars.'

as i was about to speak
she put her nipple in my mouth
and i succumbed to the greatest
pacifier of all time,

while she road me for hours
and told me of all her
worldwide conquests, and how
shallow men often called
her a slut, but only in bed

'i am a slut.'

she proclaimed as if she
was telling me she was Christian,
or Muslim, or Jewish, and
it was only at that moment
i became aware of her torn

panties still in my hand
and the rough carpet burning
my ass and i couldn't
believe what i was doing,

disgusted with myself i left,
still only
after i was finished.


Living Through Destruction

we sit on a roof top watching
the clouds coat the top
of the world and give notice
of the storm heading our way.

the beach below is showing
signs of life and i wonder
why we need to run. do the
creatures of the sea run?

don't the birds stay
in their trees? i watch the
blue clearwater ripple with
life as the tourists take

their tee shirts, sea shells,
and fried skins to flee back
to where they come from.
While we sit on the roof

as the winds rise up and the
bay water tips off white,
and in the distance the gray
and black blend, and the fury

that is coming to life out
there is so mesmerizing and
enticing that not even women
hold this gaze from me as long,

but much like a woman it keeps
me waiting. Waiting until she is
ready to come ashore and show me
nature’s way of

living through destruction
and tearing me apart under the
sheet of the night.


Like A Whisper

like a whisper. low.
almost a hum in your ear
when you close your eyes
i am there.

a single key on the piano
played slowly
over and over again,
in rhythm with your pulse

pumping blood
throughout your body.
that secret tick.
low. almost a hum

in your memory i
pull back to life
something long since
forgotten, but now

when you close your
eyes is there
as fresh as yesterday.
low. almost a hum

in your ear
these words cast
a net of attention
longed for by all,

like a whisper of an
old friend.
calming. soothing. low.
a hummed song

shared between two
friends waiting to
be together and
raise their voices.


Justifiable Homicide

How many more times will i let you spit in my face?
How many more times?
Your stupidity is my own ignorance.
What a fool i am.
Even a blind man accepts his fate.
Why can't I accept mine?
You destroyed my past and you attempt to destroy my future.
Perhaps i should just give up.
There are no more questions of forgiveness,
in fact there are only
questions of when i will end
both of our misery and this entire mess.
i take your life so i can live mine.
My hate is your murder.
Your death is my life.
My life that you no longer own.
Your death is my final gift to you.
Do you like it?
i hope it's the right size.


Thursday, May 26, 2011

A Junkie

to an idea
of what
i'm really not sure

without closing
visions of people
who frighten me

i fear
my addiction dreams
of no fix
although i
constantly feel
as though
i need one

because my dreams
are questions
with no


A Good Street

there in the car
i see it hidden behind
the mask of normalcy
in these sub-divisions,
cul-de-sacs, and backyard
there is a seed of deviance
that continues to thrive
there behind
the smiles, the girl-scout cookies,
and little league baseball
where all the bases are covered
with private rooms, special outfits,
video cameras, and
on the backs of knees, necks, and
underbelly of breasts until
the moans grow higher. grow like
big fat juicy tomatoes in the
backyard gardens and my Lord don't
they taste perfect.


a fight in the cold

there is a circular wind
blowing as she stands
with a fist and i wonder
why make it so unclear?
why speak in broken riddles?
why allow the poet to hide
behind silly images and
metaphors when you can come
right out and feel the breeze
while she knocks your teeth out.


A Changing Man

Someday this construction
will end and the project
that controls me will complete,
after i admit my
drinking problem and pray

for forgiveness from my body
that wakes each time shuttering
in a illness and destroying
what i try to restore, and i'll
admit that i like to pick

up questionable women and do
even more questionable things
to them and tear them down as
best i can like a human
earthquake trying to expose

their soul as much as i try
to reconstruct my own if for
nothing more than to stop all
the questions and advances
and offerings

of salvation in answers that
i know the speaker can't make,
but like any good contractor
will be coming back for yet
another check

because they underestimated
the expense like i've underestimated
how long it was going to take
to rebuild again as i open
another drink

and order her to undress
and crawl on the floor to me.


My Favorite Mistress

hello, Misery
have you come to fuck me
my mistress
my roughest lover

hello, Misery
reveal yourself slowly
peel back those stockings
undo that blouse
expose my weakness
fuck me again

hello, Misery
let me taste your deceit
let me burn in your lies
let me die by your hand
let me know my favorite sin
let me - fuck me

hello, Misery
your skin cracks mine
inside a cold chill
spreads from my mistress
to me
my favorite last moment

one last touch
one last fuck
one last mistress
until I scream her name

i am yours, Misery