Sunday, November 29, 2009


Does it even ruffle a feather
Of your proud peacock tail, does it
Mean anything that these few
Obvious, indulgent months--

Full of silences and petty bickering
Underneath which lies weak resolve and
Codependence, masked with half-assed
Kisses--will end with two Japanese dolls for

You, and the memory of a few
Orgasms for me? Does it needle you, that
Underlying all of that, no molten ore,

Dense with heat or iron will, no.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009


Can we place a practiced kiss--

On forehead, sweet as peaches
And just as loaded with
Meanings, layers, and a poison pit?

On cheek, like a phone number
Learned by rote and worn to pieces
Benign as brushing teeth,
Hello, goodbye, banal and brief?

On lips. Locked, unlocked, or unhinged?
"I'm pissed," in bliss, coquettish hint?
In fire, warmth, or wintry dismissal,
In rhythmic, primal discourse
Where you've made your mark
With intentions often missed?

And can we sit with careful distance
Placed between our hips and faces?
Can we sit instead and ponder
Every quandary that exists?

The purple dome that rests above us,
Arching downward, gently freckled,
While we wait with bated breath,
And the heat that builds between us
Weighted with our expectations
Seems to press us ever closer
To our plaintive, precious question,
To the key contained entirely
Within the strained and reckless limits
Of a single, practiced kiss.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

View Live Feed

If it doesn't fit on the pages of a magazine
A tweet, a facebook feed,
Or a cellphone screen,
(Although I'll allow that somehow
Those things just keep getting bigger,
Thank Nokia or LG for your expanded
Canvas, please),

If it doesn't fit within the confines
Of a sitcom scene,
Within the time limits of an attention span
Like a thirteen-year-old kid with ADHD
Who's high on prescribed speed,
Too geeked out to remember how to breathe,

If it doesn't catch the eye of a teenage girl--
The only thing she'll ever read cover-to-cover
Is Twilight, even Harry Potter couldn't keep
Us kids in check, and I would've settled for that,
Grammatically correct and a pretty good read,
But let's face it, it was a handful of years ago,
And in any event good writers are a dying breed--

Chances are, if it isn't cheap, or better yet free,
If it isn't contagious as recycled '80s trends
Or v-necked tees, if it isn't easy, effortless,
Instant, in the time it takes to blink uploaded
Direct to my short-term memory, one-two-three,

Don't even think about being remembered,
Not even for a moment so sweet you wouldn't believe,
Because it sure as shit won't hold them
And, come to think of it, this is even boring me.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

A Symphony

A symphony is passing overhead--
A murder of crows,
A thing with no rules,
Freed even from gravity,
And rudely they lurk,
Excuse them, they were never taught
Their manners, letters,
Or which fork to use.
Not like that outline of a stealth bomber,
Those geese,
With their landing gear tucked
Neatly beneath,
An angle drawn with a protractor,
With precision,
And such good map readers.
Not like that single monster,
The flock of starlings
Which moves in roiling unison,
With single cells that know,
Before the decision is made,
When to turn.

It is the crow's ragged voice,
That interrupts the loudest,
Sounding starkly above crowded streets
And the autumn woods alike.

Breathing halted

Breathing halted, stunted
Acrobatic heart
Fingertips on mountaintops
Geographic lark
Exploring hills and foreign ranges
Plundered, lips part
Shoulder valleys, softer angles
We really shouldn't start
But gently, still, I sink, I skim
Your skin, this work of art

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Forgotten but not yet forgiven

Forgotten but not yet forgiven,
Four years' patient pacing,
You stole my heart,
A poison dart,
To calm its frantic racing.

Calming hope was newly risen,
While still you laid the trap.
You stalked your prey,
All for a lay,
A girl perched in your lap.

From tip of snout
(and pretty pout)
To cloven hoof,
Made me the ass,
Your blush and bluffs
Were hidden tells I missed
That cleaved my heart.
A knife so sharp
Behind your back,
Behind a practiced mask.
The plunge, a kiss,
Metal to skin--
A twist, so pissed,
And still I come
(And come, and come).

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Chicago 3

Shoelace guitar strap
Finger trace scar map
Hearts played on catgut
Someday when eyes shut
I'll call and you'll run
Blinking, breathing stungun
Small burns like ashfall
Flashbulbs in dancehalls
Dawn broke on bed nest
Ghost stare, head mess
Firestart a smoke ring
Cottonwood-fluffy fling
Changed boy, hang the girl
Off and gone around the world
Songs pass pursed lips
Memories of mountain hips
Hopelessly and ever lost
Weathered smirk, double cross.

Monday, November 2, 2009

And here I thought

And here I thought that volume was the key
To arguing effectively
Before she moved a mountain range
And with a whisper, softly
Sucker-punched me
While we stood upon a sinkhole
Sliding sideways through a city.
First we danced across the surface,
A thin veil over deep cuts
Jabs and thrusts I couldn't parry,
The bottom of my stomach dropping out
To sounds so soothing, she could
Be singing me a lullaby,
Rocking me to sleep.
I had never known so clearly
By the wrenching of my guts
And gaze away from what so
Plainly was a trainwreck
Caught in quicksand, this
Had turned a bit quixotic.
And her field of quiet windmills,
Once so staid and stoic, lured me
Now into unbridled fury
As we slid into a standstill,
In a stalemate while a hundred moves
Were weighed, then waved aside in turn.
So I let this fire die to embers,
another day to burn.

Sunday, November 1, 2009


Riding the veins of a city
Aboard a silver chariot
Moving with purpose.

Cruising the rivulets
Of a metal river delta
Swallowed by a pike-fish.

A boy with brown skin, arms
Crawling with white-scar centipedes
To show he meant it when he did this.

My pages covered with eyelashes
Shaken free by eyes too eager to appraise.
Restrained, I wouldn't risk it.

Snake stops its belly-slide,
Belching out its gullet's contents.
He stood to leave, but almost missed it--

Reaching for a cane. He limps.
These scars--long lines of deep cuts
And dots for the stitches--

Were made of accident and not intent,
And I--a judgment away from flippant!
Ashamed, gripped his wrist, and kissed it.