a bit more time
she calls in every once in a while looking for a bit more time to square up her bill the corporation doesn't work like that and she won't get her check from Social Security until the 20th and it's the 7th now and I wonder what she'll eat until then ...
crossed paths
he wasn’t at all as I’d imagined mustached, and graying not at all-- mindful nor debonair still, the years left a familiar seethe bulging, in spiking points ‘neath his veined skin’s fraudulent indifference when he told me his name-- I hadn’t mentioned that I knew of him or that I’d ...
Howl at the Moon
“Where are my pantyhose, Mary?” I hollered across the house to the fiery redhead who’d be my wife, if I’d the balls to marry her. I continued flinging things in a fevered search, waiting for a reply. She never answers when I holler, and doesn’t come when called, but she ...
Four AM
Four AM doesn’t inquire politely. It kicked the door down in a spray of splintered hostility, stomped across the wooden floor, and dropped its burlap sack of stony thoughts on my forehead as I was sleeping. Though uninvited, it then flopped down in a chair to stay a while, bellowing ...
vessels once filled
I don't know what they're talking about. I've never seen a woman's reflection swirling in my whiskey, a lost love staring back at me; when a mumbling-fool's summer daydream ends, as it has before, when the will is gone, both broken, when I stop asking why, when they become wavy-memory's ...
poems at sunrise
I daren't question my eyes-- these things I see, shaking me, taking my pen, once again, writing their poems at sunrise ...
fields of May
E'er love of one and one, and each of both Hath spoken afore, betwixt, and with Ran 'crost shimmery wheat, fields of May Ne'er measuring breadth, nor width I awakened one night from a dream in which I'd written a beautiful poem-- of a type that I've never even learned ...
precipice
she loved me like a snake loves a rat as it scrambles slithering trails and clawed striations our remembrances chased to the edge of the world where the mossy soil crumbles underfoot spilling into the abyss there, at the precipice only two choices remain one, decidely unkind and I understood, ...
Will of the Divine
In lonesome love of cloud-wisps’ hope, legion’s wistful, wishful eyes did grope for torch’s light in dismal skies, praying solace of deliverance may come upon nigh. Knowing, a poet’s eyes draw woefully down, thereupon, twitching, on snowy ground, thrashing unabashedly, truth’s splendor be found, gasping, as it quivers its last ...
truthful writing
Truthful writing belongs to the solemnity of solitude. It abandons the quaking orgy of fame, and its incessant clanging of chains inside the empty puppet theater. It spurns puerilities and glittering adornments, as they assemble like smiling children. It murders them, in dark apartments, with painted-over brass numbers hanging crookedly ...
