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.

4.20.02

Trouble

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.

2.03.01

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.

08.20.03

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
something

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,
because

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

04.16.03

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.

1.03.03

My Creations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

02.02.04

lock the door

she whispered
as she took off her shirt
and asked more
loudly

'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?'

'no,'

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.'

finally,
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.

8.20.03