What you Want to Read

There are some I write for you

And some I write for me

The ones that hurt me most

Are the ones you’ll never see. 

We write to express oceans

Our turbulent, tender seas

But the wounds that truly rift our hearts

Is our unseen poetry. 

We write what we imagine

Others want to hear

But sores that ache too long or deep

Our readers cannot bear.  

Mistress

Your lady perches

On a rusty throne

Broken and ugly

Her vigilant, swollen eyes always

Watching me…every move

Waiting for one more

Moment of disparity,

The edgy scepter of doubt,

So she can move in

Be your savvy she devil

With the razor studded whip

Her grip

Brutally stitched

To your marrow

Your central nervous system

Your mangled spine.

I imagine one day

I’ll open the door

And she’ll be there

With a glass of whiskey

And a barrel of bullets

She’ll pull the trigger

Because she loves you...

Without causing a tremor or ripple

In her glass

Of Windsor Canadian North American Whiskey.  

There was a pile of dirty towels

At the bottom of the stairs,

That I had to step over

Find you in the dim lit basement

Sleeping on a dirty couch

Heavy in despair

I lay down on top of you

Wind my fingers through your

Auburn hair,

Oily from neglect,

Trace your damp skin

Your crepe thin eyelids

Skim your tender lips

With feathery fingertips

While you pretend I’m not here.

I press my heart into yours,

Cautious arousal,

Mutual affinity,  

That shouldn’t be

Indignant cruelty

From indulgent deities

That for eternity

Bound your soul to mine

The little cement block beneath
The roses, glistening pinks and whites,  
A sentimental thank you to the donors plate,  
Looking more like a gravestone,
And I had to for a moment
Work hard to remove
Your bones from my thoughts
Because there you were
In your coffin
That I try not to think about
Too much.
I kept walking, keep walking,
Past the roses
Past the gravestone
And really should work harder
On seeing you as a furious beam of light
Rather than a body in a coffin
Forever decaying a little each day
Because the air will never
Fully reach you
And properly dissipate
Into the earthy breaths that
Created you.  
It’s a little too much
To think about
For a bright summer morning.

The Rehab Group

The women are heavy and doleful

Still curling their bangs

And wearing pleated jeans.

Or the skinny ones with tight,

Unforgiving buns piled high and austere,

You’re not fooling anyone, sweetheart,

Squeezed into acid washed pants

Leering at everyone under several

Coats of midnight mascara.   

The men slumped in their chairs

Gripping their hands together

Slouching in defeat,

Outwitted, dimwitted,

Checkmate,

Mother fucker,

You’re done. 

But I try not to judge them.

On the Richter scale of trauma   

They score 7.5 on their good days.

I listen to their stories

And in my gut

I know

That this is life’s meanest

Selection

The thwarted cogs in humanity

Caught between the fucks

Of kin and fucks

Of sin.  

Those Pictures

An aging beauty queen’s frigid smile

Coy, stupid smirk

The superficial, terrorized look

Of an animal just before

The car careens into its impotent, lazy head.

That’s the face in those pictures.  

We will all be there someday

Make no mistake

With our heads bowed    

We’ll grasp, without acknowledgement,

Our reaper’s hand.

No sense in flirting

With the reaper,

He will cleave you in half

Before sending you to hell

Or wherever you’re going.  

The cat sits outside my bedroom door

Pawing to be let in

Not caring, like cats do,

Of the crisis tensing the molecules

Thickening the air in this room.  

I fucking hate

Surrender.  

But beauty withers

Always replaced…by something bigger

And better and more alive

Before it dies  

Again..and again.

You Want to Write A Poem

That’s brave…

To take my life

And eagerly, spitefully

Put in on a page

For others to ogle

To study the ugly corners

And the littered floors

The filmy walls

Brave and bold

Like removing someone’s

Underwear, turning it inside out

Reveling in paltry stains

That aren’t yours

Will never be yours

Will not be yours

You fearlessly stand

With a golden halo

In front of Heaven’s Gates

Waving a white flag

Freshly washed

In my urine

And for that

You will easily be

The heralded hero

Bold and true

You beat this shrew

And discovered the witless charms

Of martyrdom.