I don’t know how to
act in solitude and silence anymore.
I have been conditioned for
the crowd and
electric mania.
Literally, I can hear
the scratch like sound of
the pen tip on
the paper—the strange
sounds my stomach is
making—distant digital
noises from my abdomen.
I don’t know what to
do with so much tranquility.
There is a gentle clicking
noise coming from inside
my head, like crickets
on a soft July night,
or the unlocking of the
door when at last she
makes it home.
I want to eat this
feeling on hot buttered
toast with raspberry jam.

Sometimes, when I
talk to the ex,
I feel strong
as a rope.
Nothing she says
or does fazes me.
I guard my emotions
and keep the
conversation strictly
about the kids, and
how we can better
co-parent.

Other times, when
we talk,
I feel like
Humpty Dumpty
teetering on a brick
wall.
Her cruel words
are like strong
gusts of wind
sending me to the
cold hard ground
in a thousand pieces.

On days like these
I berate myself,
"What the ****
Is wrong with you?
Why did you
let
her in again?
Her heart is
small and
diseased."

I fell in
love with
hope
and a
false image.
When I saw
reality
It was
like
finding a
snake in my
bed.

I've suffered bouts of
writer's block that
made me feel like
half a man.
Metaphors and imagery
evaded me.
It was frustrating
and painful.
a desert
an iceberg
a forest with
no trees.

Lately it's the
opposite.
I'm on the
most prolific writing
streak of my life.
It's like building
a ladder to heaven.
I can taste colors
and smell sunshine.
It feels like I
found the fountain of youth.
Like I'm a **** star,
a rock star, like I can
grab stars out of the sky
and light up my writing desk.
I sleep in the
crook of the moon
and dream
that this steak
never ends.

Death's Icy Kiss
I’ve heard tell
that
when someone freezes to
death, the end
comes after the dying
mind sends a
false warmth throughout
the body;
life’s final trick,
although I have
to admit, that last
lie is
more merciful than
most truth that
I’ve experienced.

I wonder if
the last
few
moments are filled
with fond memories of
better times;
sweltering July nights with
the kids,
the sulfuric smell of
fireworks filling
the air?
I wonder if the
freezing
man could almost
taste the
warm apple pie or
the grilled hamburger with
mustard dripping on his
silly Hawaiian shirt?
If this is the case
death’s icy kiss
isn’t so cruel.

I was playing
chess without
any pawns.
The dawn
came up
brutal and
strong.
My queen
had a knife,
and stuck
it in my
heart.
That was the
end
before I even
got a start.

She was dressed
business **** the
night we
read poetic love
letters to each other on
public access television.
It was like
that mad moon night was
made just for us.
Magic show in between our
readings.
Is it all just a dream,
dreamt by a dormouse
asleep in a ***** bottle?
Don't wake that furry little
screwball.
This can't end.
Wedding plans,
torts and tarts, and
a tiara for my queen.
My heart is stained by
her love.
My soul reeks of
our champagne celebration.
Life,
together forever,
unmolested by
the concrete and the crows,
and the godless
heathens, bent on
their toboggan ride to
hell.