People only ever want to ask me about
the poetry -
those verses about
busted up noses in outer space;
about the pros working
way down passed
the corner of Broad and Main;
about fistfights and hard, hard drinking.
But I built a flowerbed this weekend...
Twenty two tastefully irregular stone blocks
in a crescent moon shape,
filled with the blackest of soils.
The sweat of toil.
The digging.
The planting.
Exotic grasses. Asian maybe?
Purple and yellow flowers.
Zinnias or some **** thing.
All covered in a thick blanket of brown mulch.
It's a fine thing to have dirt on your hands
instead of blood.
No one ever asks me about flowerbeds.

Remember...
when you meet,
and you’re sitting
at a little table with her,
chatting and laughing,
making eyes over martini glasses
or coffee cups,
and she starts talking
about “the others”,
what they did,
what she did,
and you’re telling yourself
whatever it is
you’re telling yourself...
as you chew on her story,
swallowing parts of it,
hiding others
under your tongue.

Remember:
you ARE
one of
“The Others.”

Taste that
on your tongue
for awhile.
Try not to choke.

I’m the hidden book,
Leather bound
Threads fraying
On the top shelf.
You like the paperbacks
And hardcovers,
Pretty titles
And modernity.
But please know
I’m collecting dust
and I deserve a chance.
Just this once,
Brush me off
And open my pages.
Read my story.
I promise I won’t leave you hanging.