Saturday, October 27, 2007


beginning middle end
It all ends.
Sooner or later.
Everything ends.
So why start?
Why try?
If it all turns to ashes
why even begin.
Better to hide away.
It's all status quo
of some sort or other.

A's status quo is self-righteous hermit
so lost in her long ago love.
B's status quo is triumphant bitch
just dare yourself to cross her.
C's status quo is perfect wife martyrdom
wearing a rhinestone tiara.

And mine?

Where is my anchor?
Where will I be safe?
Where will I be whole?
I can cry
and not be done.

I am blindstupiddeafdumb.

I am hurt
I am always
all ways


You ask me why when where they have gone.
I sent them away.
Far away.
It was them
it was me.
I chose me.

You make your own choice.

You can do anything
you will do anything
to please me
to maintain the status quo
it is not enough.

It has to be because you want to
in and of yourself.
For you.

I will not be resented.
I will not be the boundary setter.
I will not be the push-come-to-shove.
I am too proud.
Or perhaps,
not proud enough.

Roll up my whip, hang it on the nail.
Walk away.
The dead horse?
It will rot
in sunshine and in rain.
I'll not beat it anymore.

Barn door open,
one step into the blinding light.
My eyes will adjust.
Tears absorb the glare.
When they stop, soon,
they'll stop soon,
yes, they will,
world is washed clean.

Moonlight soft
I'll have new eyes.
Breathe in night air.
Clean my lungs.
Drink it.
Clean my insides.
I'll be new.
All of me.

Dorian Grey: Portrait of the Artiste as a Young What?

It is a pretty picture.
So symmetrical.
Nice. Very nice.
I hate that word-nice.
The pieces fit so well.
Nothing discordant.
Nothing special either.
The kind of picture
doting parents coo over.
I taste vomit.
Pass me a hammer
Pass me a drill
Pass me a sawzall
I will get myself out
if I have to smash it with
my bare feet.

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Lights on Broadway

Half awake, I feel
your hand resting on me.
Turn, watch your eyes open,
open but still asleep,
inches from my own
and kiss you.

Cannot sleep
never seem to sleep
Lights from outside
flickering computer screen
digital clock
all the electronic distractions
remind me
how alone I am.

You block the lights.
If I am still alone
with you, here, now
at least I do not feel so cold.

But I can feel it,
that metallic tang of ending.
The seeping cold.
Don't know when or why
but its hands are on my throat.

Make it stop.
I can see the valley, not the apex,
when I open my eyes.
Going downhill so much faster
than going up.
End will be here
too soon not soon enough.

You will end it with
histrionics, flames, broken crockery.
While I? I will let it die with
a whimper, sideways glance, silence.
Petty hurts piled up. Ego. Trivia.
It slowly ebbs away

Moon pulls up crashing tides.
White caps in the narrow loch
Slow disappearance of a river,
dammed and damned again.

Friday, October 12, 2007


There wasn't anything here to eat. What a sucky menu. Okay. Soup. Chicken soup. How bad could that be? Wait. Pretty bad. Hmmm....vegetable soup. Much safer.
He leaned back in the booth and stared out the window. Or tried to. It had filmed over due to contrast of cold outside and warm inside.
To say it was warm inside was an understatement. Typical, overheated in the winter and over air conditioned in the summer. Hard to stay awake when it was so hot in here. And I ordered soup? Should've ordered ice tea.
Nothing to do but wait. Wait for soup, wait for James. Wait for what? For a lifetime to start? Keep waiting.
He wiped off the window with his sleeve. No one out there. Might be a wait. James was notorious for not attending to the time, late or early as his mood dictated.
"Hey," James said, sliding into the booth.
"So?" He clasped his hands , the tension rising from him in waves. "So?"
"We got it. You got it. They signed you. Here's your advance."
And James, smiling, handed him the check.

Conditional Clause-Contrary to Fact

I lie here, awake,
thinking of lies.
So many.
Yours mine ours,
certainly ours,
lies hidden deep within ourselves.
We believe our own lies.
Well, that is best.
When the liar believes the lies
it is easy
so easy
to maintain the illusion.
But the veneer is ripped away.
Lies revealed.
Climb out of the boiling soup.

You'll say anything
I want to hear.
I'll believe it
and you'll believe it
if you say it often enough
loud enough
soft enough.
Your words kiss the helix of my ear
as they travel to my insides
looking for a home.

Sunday, October 7, 2007

Poverty Pig

They ask what kind of animal I am
and why.
Glance out the window
choppy grass yard
dead summer flowers
give off sweetness of decay...

I am an armadillo.
My nose is too long and pointy
and my tongue,
probing for tasty ant bits
hidden underground.
Tail a counterbalance
or perhaps
a Havisham wedding train.
You cannot harm me.
My armored back protects me
if you flip me over
my too-soft belly is easily gutted.
And, one day, I will be roadkill.

Thursday, October 4, 2007

Cafe Deutschland or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love My Life

Inspired by the painting, Café Deutschland by Joerg Immendorff, 1980

Hit me again.
I feel so good
I have never felt better than I do
right this minute
Oh yeah....
The ceiling is so far away and it is mirrored.
I can see myself!
Can you see yourself?
Of course not, you are there outside the picture
Not lying on the floor with me.
Although if you were here
we could roll under the tables and
we could stand up and dance
I can stand, I can dance.
Play that funky music, white boy
Really. I can.

They are going to eat me, the dingos.
The mad dogs eat Englishmen,
knives forks spoons ready to go.
I am not cooked, how can they eat me?
Although I am a bit toasted, I think.
slide me onto a platter the other side of the ceiling.
But now its so much better
I will be eaten bit by bit
washed down with mugs of turkish coffee.

Smoke needle pills.
Just give me a hit.
The fiddler, he'll get me stuff.
Oh yeah..mmm that rush.
Maybe I'll grab one of those spoons
round spoons cup cup cup
My hands cup your breasts, pull you to me.
Burning down one night stands
grab a spoon and a candle-
(Is it candle lighting time?)
and melt it into my veins.

The dingos are in the mirror
As am I.
But I have no flesh.
Empty eyesockets refuse to see.
Laughing because I think I'm still alive
I'm not.
I've been dead for years
Play that funky music, white boy.
Lay down the boogie and play that funky music til you die.

So dead, play the eulogy. Please.
I will crawl into the oven to be cooked.
I will be burnt and rise up
smoke trail to the sky.
There is no heaven.
Barbed wire
keeps me in this private hell.
Only place I know.
My private hell.
Hang it with Christmas lights
so no one knows
so no one sees
what I see.
The dingos are hungry and
They was dancin' and singin' and movin' to the groovin'

The flies, flies everywhere...
They eat the dead,
laying little maggot eggs
to finish the job.

The dead have true omniscience.
We see everything
you're not going anywhere.

Play that funky music white boy
Lay down the boogie and play that funky music till you die
Till you die
Oh yeah.