A truth bomb doesn’t go down so well
It’s bitter and the throat fights it
Unwilling to accept its stinging realizations
Like a pill too difficult to swallow
Like a drink that refuses to follow
The path from esophagus to stomach
Splitting the body and mind in two
Refusing to cooperate with you
The trick is to stop fighting
And let the truth sink its hooks
And take root

Seize the day,
But it’s hard to seize anything with two broken knees—
A care package from the sleazy asshole
you had to borrow a thou from like a week ago—
talk about impatient, Jeese.
And they always say bad things come in threes
I wonder what’s coming next.
But two broken knees
isn’t enough to deter the truly strong
Two broken knees
isn’t to stop you from getting what you really need
Two broken knees,
one knee for each job it takes to hold down the home
One knee for each kid at your feet shouting
Feed me please,
Saluting you with an empty fork
A piece of bread, a piece of cheese
Anything to satiate the urge, the need
Two broken knees,
One for every million broken dreams
Dreams about planting trees, planting seeds
To aspire and to inspire
But all life gave me was two broken knees
And two hungry kids
And the sad truth is there aren’t enough mes to go around
Even one more would do
At least I’d have
an extra pair of knees

He bought her flowers today
Tulips
He lives for these moments of calm
Between vodka stingers and mint juleps
Between the hate and the vitriol that shoots from their
Lips
Escalating to flapping
Lips
Building to a fat
Lip
Crescendo
But the tulips are drying,
The petals are crumbling
He’ll apologize later
and hand her a box of Kleenex
and he’ll apologize with his
lips
put your
hips
into it
make those
tulips
mean
something

We washed her clothes with care
As if she’d somehow return to us and all that kept her from us
was that her favorite dress was dirtied in the crash
it wasn’t necessary
the dress she’d take to the grave with her had already been chosen
and these bloodied rags would never be worn again
and still we were compelled to scrub them clean
scrub them clean of all the memories
that stained the fabric
We washed her clothes to rid them of the regrets and fears
she left behind in red patterns
That seemed to mesh so perfectly
with the dress’ floral pattern that it was frightening
We washed her clothes to forget
the last time we saw her
Lying in the road
With the rain drowning her and washing away the tire marks
Forever imprinted on our hearts
We washed her clothes to forget.

You played me like a baby grand
Enlivening my strings with your touch
You sought me out in a crowded room
As I sat in the corner gathering dust,
Even beginning to rust
You stroked my keys, delicately at first
Tickling them with ease of touch and gentleness of heart
But as your fingers became more familiar,
Your touch was less like a caress
And more like a violation
You rushed the melody when you should have taken your time
And now my keys are raw with wear and tear
Used and abused
Bandaged and abandoned
You left me in my corner
And now the only songs I know are those of desperate longing
You played me like a baby grand
And left me bruised, hurting, and badly in need of tuning.

The neighbor’s dog howled for hours the night you died
It still howls, and always on those nights when the bed feels emptier
I even wrapped pillows in blankets to remember
But the weight is never quite right
Those nights when I need to feel you in my sleep
And I reach over to feel your chest,
Shock always draws me from sleep
And it feels like finding out all over again
The closet is still full, divided as it has always been
Sometimes I lay in there, trying to wrap myself in you
But all that is there are memories contained in paper and photographs
And your twenty-seven undershirts, which once desperately clung to your skin
Just as I wish I could

Scattered among the dry clay are the long-forged footsteps of the ones whose burdens and prejudices have settled on our own hearts,
unwanted they may be, but we must carry on with them regardless.
Their weight can drag us down if we let them
Stop dragging your feet, straighten up and show them the meaning of resilience
Show them that you are better than the ones who allowed to them to fester in themselves and selfishly passed them along to you
Strive to make them lighter, to make them easier for you and yours to carry
Carry that load, and carry it with grace

Lazarus sang the children to sleep
With songs of beasts that emerged from
The throats of our injustices and set the world
On fire with marvelous flame the color of a Caribbean sunset
Thomas Becket and Ethel Rosenberg tangoed across the sky, their shadows
Throwing darkness over the night and making silent martyrs of the stars

You can call it love
If it makes you feel better
I call it the sordid science of body heat and fluid exchange
I call it the emotional and spiritual collision that occurs between two beings that is over too soon to even enjoy
Sometimes I just call it fucking
Does that word offend you? Fucking.
Believe me, far dirtier things have come out of this mouth
And even dirtier things have gone into it
My tongue should have a star on the Fucking Hollywood Walk of Fame
My hands are explorers
They put Magellan to shame
I  could find your West Indies
No compass required
Moans—from the other room
Symphonies of salacious sexual scenes
Played out on a private stage—two tickets sold
It’s no use pretending the spotlight’s on me
The actors are acting but they’re empty and have nothing left to give
My tears can be our lubricant;
My heart is beating out a song;
This isn’t a celebration, it’s a funeral
And someone—something has died
And it dies here every Saturday
Before the sticky sheets have even had time to dry
He leaves before he even has the chance to wipe the beads of sweat from his forehead

A slow, ethereal sigh
Courtesy of a lovelorn stranger
Reminders of the chances we wasted
And the ones we never had
Hearts beating fiery, expectant blood
Lungs greedily gasping for air
Patience wearing thin
Even when our bodies are strangers
We always know they are there
Illumination, contraction, and release
The chance has passed
Blood pressures decrease
Slowly, slowly now.
Slow.
And stop.

My senses are at work, though they are bound by chains
I hear the tapping of the rain, wind howling through a tree
I see shadows filtered through cracked window panes
But still, I am only seeing what they want me to see

Peer into this mind, and you’ll find a vacant room
I’ve had every secret poked, prodded and torn out me
I have nothing to hide, I have nothing to prove
Because along with every secret, they stole my every dream

The words forced from my lips are not my own
They were put there without my knowing
They destroyed the place I used to call my home
Invading it with their hands and dissecting it with machines

The rains come ever stronger, shaking the branches and flooding the fields
Where's rain that will clear the slate? There's a soul here needs to be cleansed!
But this rain won’t ever wash away the mess: the flowers it yields
All the rain ever does is come and go without meaning or consequence

gray, ghostly and grim
her face haunts my mind
a twisted, fatalistic grin
taunting with her eyes
she invades my mind
she searches my soul
and finds an empty vessel
to carry out her devilish goals
i welcome her invasion
she beckons me with a hand
i bow to her with palms upraised
and lie with her in the sand
use me, consume me
make me yours
spilt freshly from my heart
this blood, watch it pour
her own eyes drift to mine
ever-taunting, ever-grinning
i'm afraid i've no use for you--
the world turns upside down, it's spinning--spinning
her face is shrouded in darkness
where few others can see
but i am intimate with darkness
for now it is all i can see

The sky is our canvas
it beckons to us
(come here, my child)
color me beautiful
color me blue
color me any color you choose
But leave me beautiful, and fresh, free,
so that your children, too, can color me

My tears have flooded valleys,
And created the rivers and seas.
Demolishing cities and towns,
Without a single, solitary sound.
Mountains, with ease can I move;
The lonely, my sweet song can soothe.
But on a dark and restless night,
My song shakes the heavens with its terrible might.

Lo sono l'amore
I am love

My spell is simple and timeless,
It takes hold without notice.
Pulling the strings of a naïve heart.
I am a mad puppeteer, a master of my art.
I am no mystery; I am not a puzzle, a game.
You’ve seen my face, you know my name.
Even the wise ones know me well;
Even you have fallen under my spell.

Lo sono l'amore
I am love

You can taste me in the air, sweet, but sour,
Stars and gods alike succumb to my power,
Capture my scent, it is both bold and brash
Smell me among flowers, even among trash
I am omniscient, omnipresent, taking
any form, any shape: I am everything.
I am Me, I am Him, I am Her, I am You
I am Love.

Lo sono l'amore
I am love

"The colors of the pales (the vertical stripes) are those used in the flag of the United States of America; White signifies purity and innocence, Red, hardiness & valour, and Blue, the color of the Chief (the broad band above the stripes) signifies vigilance, perseverance & justice."

America: Blue

There is a small cot in the musty, old attic,
on which the owner sleeps during those nights
when he plans to open the tavern
early the following day.
This night is one of those,
and it is on that wooden cot,
that he hears the noise of breaking glass,
that rouses him from his slumber.
He’s had the pistol
since he started the business,
and this is not the first time
he has gone for it.
He starts down the stairs
as quietly as he can,
doing his best to stifle
the creaks and groans
of the worn out stairs.
He freezes, another sound.
He readies his pistol,
aiming into the darkness of the tavern.
And that’s when he sees him,
whoever the bastard is,
standing behind the register,
robbing him blind.
“Hey!” he shouts.
The man,
whoever the hell he is,
jumps with fright and lurches forward.
The smell of gunpowder and blood
overwhelms the room.
By the time the police arrive,
the owner has flipped on the lights,
and that beautiful light display,
of Old Glory itself,
the namesake of his business,
is showering light over the entire establishment—
it seems to dissipate
the smell of the gunpowder,
and it makes the blood on the floor
shine brilliantly—
and the owner gives it more thought
than he ever has.
"Will you forgive me my sin?"
He asks, a tear forming in his eye.
But Old Glory does not answer.
The blue lights of the first squad car
are not enough
to break his concentration on the display.
The sick, sinking feeling
growing in him at that moment,
stays with him for days afterward.
He is bartending at the Old Glory Tavern
on the night the story first breaks,
he is on television,
and his friends whistle,
and clap during his interview.
“Good for the son of a bitch!”
someone shouts out.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,”
another adds
before taking another swig of his beer.
He is a hero,
a protector of the American Dream.
People tell him it’s his Constitutional Right,
to protect what is his.
He has been sneaking drinks
the entire night.
That sinking feeling is turning violent
by the hour.
Where the poor bastard stood,
clearing out the register,
he can still see the blood stains.
And
Old Glory
is glowing in the window,
brighter than ever.
Burning its colors into his eyes,
into his heart and into his soul.
Somehow,
he cannot bare
to look at the display anymore,
the red, white and especially the blue,
which somehow burned brightest,
and so he turns it off
halfway through the night.
He closes up early,
though his patrons
are all for celebrating,
and decides to take the long way home.
He thinks about the man,
whose life he has ended.
By protecting his own
Constitutional Right,
he has violated the
Laws of Nature, and there was no justice to be found in that.
No one can protect him,
not even Old Glory,
whom his father had always told him
would protect him from anything.
He is a hero now.
An American Hero.
And we all know what happens to them.
He has walked so long,
and is so lost in his thoughts,
that he has not noticed
that he has wandered
onto the property of Old Man Morris,
his neighbor,
who always keeps a shotgun
under his mattress.
Morris sees the shadow stumbling across his lawn
and takes aim.
The air tonight smells of blood and gunpowder,
once again,
as the trespasser topples over, dead,
in the eerie blue light of Old Man Morris’ back yard.
The headlines will read:
“Local hero shot dead in ironic twist of fate.”

"The colors of the pales (the vertical stripes) are those used in the flag of the United States of America; White signifies purity and innocence, Red, hardiness & valour, and Blue, the color of the Chief (the broad band above the stripes) signifies vigilance, perseverance & justice."

America: Red

“There goes the last hundred,”
he thinks,
as the woman takes her leave,
the light catching her beautiful white dress
and blinding him for a moment.
How he wishes he were blind.
How he wishes he could not see
how easily the rest of his wealth
had gotten away from him.
He tosses his empty wallet aside,
having indulged in one last earthly pleasure,
and prepares for death.
He does not bother to dress.
It makes no difference to him
whether they find him naked,
or in the discarded robe on the floor.
It does not matter to him
if they even find him.
He will be much better off
all the same.
He lays out three pills,
a red one, a blue one, and a white one.
He finds it ironic,
as he downs the last pill,
the red one,
that the same colors that have allowed him
to amass such great fortune,
were the same colors that have taken it away,
and the same colors that will take his life.
He turns down the bed,
slips under the sheets,
and awaits what will be
the best thing that’s happened to him in a year.
“There is no better solution
to unpayable debts
than death,”
he thinks, laughing at his own cunning.
He finds it a shame, though,
that he has wasted so many hours of his life
in worthless meetings over money matters.
What could he have done instead?
His mind is blank,
as he wants it to be,
but still he desperately tries to think
of what he has missed out on.
“But that’s the point, isn’t it?”
He thinks,
“You don’t know what you’ve
missed out on until you experience it.”
He is lying there quietly in his bed,
turning multiple thoughts over in his mind.
But the ever-growing haze of color,
a deep and beautiful red,
the color of a blooming rose,
or his heart,
which he could feel slow with every second
brought back to him a memory of childhood
that he'd much sooner forget.
“You’re weak,”
his father says to him.
“Always will be. You’ll never amount to anything.”
He feels his heart beat slower,
As he lets the words fall from his lips,
“I’m not weak.”
He could the red, white, and blue
working their fatal magic.
Working their way
into his bloodstream and
into his heart and into his soul.
Somewhere within him,
a fire began to burn,
and he knows it is now or never.
Hours later,
as the sun rises over the street,
he finds himself walking along the sidewalk,
breathing in the cool, summer morning air
the previous night’s humidity died away,
and life is all together pleasant.
The streets and buildings
are bathed in the glorious red
of early morning.
And the sight,
he decides,
is the most invigorating thing
he has ever seen.
He passes a place he knew in his youth,
where he kept less than well-to-do company,
a place called Old Glory Tavern.
The large, colorful light display
of Old Glory herself,
the red, white, and blue,
is being dismantled by three men,
and dumped in industrial strength trash bags.
“What’s going on?”
he asks one of the men.
“Place is closed up. Owner’s dead.”
he responds, before returning to his task.
He addresses his next question to Old Glory,
"What have they done to you?"
Old Glory, who never answers questions,
makes an exception,
"It's not what they have done.
It's what you have done.
It's what all of you have done."
And Old Glory fell silent.
A deep and profound sadness overtakes him
as he watches Old Glory fall,
and he decides that he has had enough of his stroll.

"The colors of the pales (the horizontal stripes) are those used in the flag of the United States of America; White signifies purity and innocence, Red, hardiness & valour, and Blue, the color of the Chief (the square above the stripes) signifies vigilance, perseverance & justice."

America: White

She waits for her husband's departure,
and the sitter's arrival,
to leave her two children,
and catch the late crosstown bus.
The moisture in the pitch black air
Fiercely attacks her supple, pale skin
as soon as she opens the tenement building door
and steps out into that
warm, summer night.
She passes that oversized
red, white and blue
light display
in the window of Old Glory,
that run-down tavern on the corner,
where her husband spends his Sundays,
and she is forced to look into it every single night
and feel it stare deeper into her
than even her husband ever had.
Tonight,
she decides to hurry past it,
only catching a glimpse in her periphary,
avoiding its violating stare.
The bus is nearly empty,
with the last of the day’s workers
on their way to begin the night shift.
she wonders what she would do
if she were to meet her husband,
and quietly laughs at the irony,
the eyes of a man a few feet from her,
meet hers
only for a moment,
before looking away again,
but their imprint,
now seared into her soul,
only fills her with the shame she had tried to avoid
by hurrying past the Old Glory tavern----
The bus soon empties,
And she finds herself alone
as the bus comes to its last stop,
on the outskirts of town,
a few short blocks from her destination.
She finds the building,
much larger and grander
than the one she lives in,
and rings the bell.
“Just a minute,”
a voice she recognizes.
She waits for the click of the lock,
the sound of which races down the empty streets
and back to her ears,
to open the door.
Once upstairs,
he politely offers a drink,
which she just as politely refuses.
And he politely removes the white dress,
the only dress she owns,
and tosses it to the floor.
The next hour or so is a blur,
a fractured mess of images and recollections,
she would sooner forget.
The clawing, the breathing,
the moaning, the heat,
the monotony, the humiliation.
Oh, how she wishes it would end.
And it does,
after what feels to her like an eternity or more,
The welcome sound of a crisp bill,
as he unfolds it from a leather-bound wallet.
Even Ben Franklin is staring daggers into her heart.
She pockets it quickly,
says “Thank you,”
and is just as quickly
back in the white dress, and
back out into the humid night.
The less she sees of the place,
the less she will remember.
As she descends the bus platform
for the second time tonight,
she approaches Old Glory again,
this time,
stopping to take in its brilliant color,
reflecting on her face,
in her heart and in her soul.
She stares at it,
as if to challenge it,
and whatever the hell it stands for.
She has done what she has to do,
To provide and care for her family:
The son she gave birth to at sixteen;
The daughter born with a sickness
that affected most of her mother’s family,
and that she had passed down;
and a husband whom she still loves,
even though she never sees him.
She asks the only question
she can think of.
“So,” she asks of Old Glory,
“What are you accusing me of?
I’m innocent.
I’ve done what I needed to do,
For my family.
What’s more American than that?”
And for once,
the red, white and blue
withheld its judgment,
but in its silence,
it could not provide her an answer.
Satisfied, her shame stifled,
she walks back to her building---
ascends the stairs---
and relieves the babysitter.
She kisses her two children “good night,”
and falls into her mattress,
waiting for her husband to come home,
before lapsing into a contented sleep---.

Confucius say:
A man who soils his own pants
cannot be trusted
in someone else's.

"It's a goose, clearly," said Jim,
who had shot the bird as it perched above.
But his pal Chuck had his own ideas,
which he made known as he put on his gloves.
"I'm not so sure about that, Jimmy.
I think that there is a loon."
"No," another pal, Tim, chimed in,
"it's a duck, ya' goons."

The three men took another look at the squirming creature
as it took its last breaths,
they thought about what the hell it was, how to cook it,
but not of their own deaths,
like most other people would if they had been responsible
for the death of another
But for these three men, only the creature's nomenclature
was worth any bother.

"Definitely a goose," Jim said again,
"Don't you think I'd know if I'm the one shot him?"
"I dunno, Jim, it looks a little small to be a goose,"
Chuck said, while stroking his chin.  

"It's a duck, God damn it!"
Tim yelled, his face becoming a fiery cherry red.
Now Jim was becoming angry,
and in his fury, whipped his rifle out again, aiming directly at Tim's head.

Tim stopped in his tracks,
"What the hell are you doing?" he fearfully asked.
"Say it's a duck again, Tim,"
his friend warned, his true violent nature had been unmasked.

A hellish sound echoed
through the trees,
and poor Tim, blood squirting from his head,
fell pitifully to his knees.

Jim looked at the corpse,
and tried to formulate a plan,
while his other good friend,
went back to get their van.

They picked up their friend
by the hands and legs
and stashed him in the trunk
among discarded cans and beer kegs.

"What'll we do with him, Chuck?"
Jim asked, staring dreamily at the ground.  
"Dunno, Jim, I guess we could push him
into the lake and say he drowned,"

"No, no. The bullet hole."
Jim said, "We could say it was suicide."
Chuck nodded, liking the idea very much
"I dunno, you killed him, I think it's for you to decide."

Jim chuckled a bit, as he
opened a fresh beer.
Chuck smiled and said, "I know one thing's for sure,"
"The hunting trip's out next year."