I went there without you.
The invitation for Winter
was a blanket of fog,
and my feet were peeking
out from the bottom.
Winter breeds dread
and I coped by spending
restless nights hopping
from bar to bar in
hopes that the right Spirit
would guide me down those
lightless streets and lighted streets,
down the sidewalk on Madison Avenue
trying to make it back to 65th so
I could sleep in my own bed.
In the room the women come and go
talking of D'Angelo.
Black Messiah, not Voodoo;
"Ain't That Easy," not "Playa Playa"
playing through someone's iPhone
out the Bluetooth speakers
on the coffee table next to
the gin and the ashtrayspliff.
The Demon was brought
out of me by the Jack and Coke,
fire from my mouth and eyes
and the headache!
Oh, I begged, on my knees,
my besought hands folded,
asking for the tongue of flame
to be removed from my head!
That my personal Nephilim be
extinguished by the deluge!
And he left me,
as silently as he came,
in a puddle of my *****
on the bathroom floor,
clutching my legs to
my chest.
May 12
May 12, 2026 at 10:27 PM UTC
The bitter cold came
quickly; it arrived on
the brittle fangs of snow in
October, falling before
Halloween ghouls or the
Advent of December.
We locked ourselves in
that Sunday, watching
it coat the sidewalks
while the little one
knocked blocks together
in front of the fireplace.
You sipped coffee,
crossed-legged on the floor.
And, I swear, no
August heat has ever
made me feel as
warm
as the bitter cold
that came quickly
in October.
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 2:14 PM UTC
the boy watches as
snow falls quietly and peacefully outside, similar to
the way his grandfather died
in his sleep -
with a quiet dance, soothing and liquescent.
he treads through the cold dusting the frozen flakes fall onto
his hair and slowly melt,
freezing his skull,
chilling him down into the part of his brain that kept telling him
to stay inside;
to not speak to her.
"don't you ******* listen?
she is like a rainstorm that floods the rivers;
like a hurricane
that tears trees from their roots."
he cannot hear that voice anymore.
he knocks
as timidly as cherry blossoms
fall from their trees.
the door is opened
by the delicate hands
in which he used to bury his head and weep about
the loss of life and the lives that are
too lucky to be alive.
her eyes -
two jade green courtyards where he would spend days
watching the days go by with a blink of an...
eyes that met his -
clear brown as earl grey tea
and as sad as a child falling asleep
without a bedtime story.
he whispers quietly,
feeling his brain thaw
and his heart clawing and begging
for any scrap of hope.
"did you ever love me?"
"no.
i never loved you. i didn't even try."
Oct 13, 2017
Oct 13, 2017 at 7:13 PM UTC
I imagined myself leaving
someday. Trading
plains for seas, exchanging
something loved for something
unknown.
And maybe it's the fear
of quietly whispering
goodbye that unsettles me.
Maybe it's the inevitable
end of familiarity,
like the sun's western descent
after a day that should not
end.
And when it does,
we all pack our bags
and say farewell.
Eventually,
I will trace new roadmaps on the
back of my hands;
I will find the familiar
creaks in the floorboards.
And when the sun sets,
someone will leave a light on
for me.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 11:19 AM UTC
there is joy in this:
that you woke up this morning;
there's breath in your lungs.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 12:32 PM UTC
I was never afraid of ghosts
before I kept seeing your face
in every mirror I passed.
The past kept you silent.
Locked you in a casket
and buried you in a pile of
faded photographs and
ink that bled recollections
across blank pieces of paper.
Now you are the thunder
that comes after lightning;
you are the shards of glass
after each mirror b re a k s.
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 3:53 PM UTC
The cathartic release
of weeping on the kitchen floor.
Hands on top of head, screaming
"how much longer will this last?"
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC
Cue the banjo solos
and the violin swells.
Sleeping children in
withering weeping willow
high chairs
covered in creamed carrots.
Young cherry blossom lovers
shout curses,
shatter floodgates,
let tears flow;
petals are brushed away
by the wind.
Widows and over-easy eggs,
crossword puzzles and
sad irony on fifteen across -
"Murdered, 'Ides of March.'"
The weight of their fatigue
growing dark and heavy
under their eyes.
A waitress breaks silence,
"More coffee?"
A sleeping child awakes,
crying under the brightness
of the morning sun.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
I.
He writes a letter
and sends it to her:
"My vacation's ending;
I'm out of my mind.
Tears follow after
days when I still felt
alive.
I never conquered Hate;
Love has been waiting,
just wanting some kind of sign
to trust,
(I never thought)
to hope,
(I'd die)
to care.
(alone.)
Please tell my mom this is not her fault."
II.
She writes a letter
to the one that she cares for:
"Tomorrow holds
a reason to live
and a reason to grow.
Days when I can still
feel the good things we know.
I can't wait to see you again."
III.
He takes a taxi,
a young man drives.
Hope fills his eyes
at the end of the ride.
She arrives
safely with suitcase in tow.
He says,
"I didn't think enough."
She says,
"I should have not been gone for so long."
He is back safe in her arms,
without much regard
to the moon or the stars.
He keeps his head up and sails
through her pretty eyes.
She says,
"I'm yours and you're mine
and that's it, forever."
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC
In the waiting room,
I watched two little boys
play with shadow puppets.
They transformed their hands
into figments of imagination
under the ghostly sterile lights
as doors swung wide
and gurneys and white coats
escorted the suffering
into rooms dressed with
pleasant paintings of peaceful woods -
placed on wall that have seen
far too many flat lines;
windows that have heard
far too many last words.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC