The deceased was seventeen years old-
An enlarged heart, the coroner claims.
A basketball player on the court.
his team trailing in the game.
Their perfect season was at risk
when he shot and made a “Three”
He then collapsed upon the court
midst shouts of victory.

Hearts are unromantic things
That race and slow by turns.
They simply pump
While we run and jump
And prance about life’s stage.

We take for granted our own hearts
As we wander through our days.
Our faithful friend who never sleeps
So we can laugh and play

And when hearts fail we feel the pain
Of songs now left unsung.
That’s why we’re haunted by the tales
of Athletes dying young.

The picture hangs upon the wall
of a slender woman, une eleve
She is eternally en pointe
a Student of   great Nurerev.


With Martha Graham’s Corps de ballet
She’d danced (before the children came)  
Performed a beautiful Glissade-
enjoyed, for a while, a muted fame.

Light and shade proportionate
here catch her look of radiant joy
The dancer, ignorant of her fate,
seems more  a heavenly envoy.


But you and I both know the rest-
The ravages of age and time
The sad result of little strokes
that slow the step and cloud the mind.


Here is her cane, her walker too
Their owner has succumbed to age
There will not be a pas DE deux
Nor bouquets tossed upon the stage

five years
of slight tears
& subtle sadness
but i guess that's what happens when
you think our love's an accident.
i cant convince you that it's true
ill always feel the same
whether you do or not
but please
just let a dead corpse rot.

Drop the top toy and watch it spin...spin...spinning
The world has somehow shifted now looking for the end or the beginning?
Tilts this way and you want to close your eyes
You keep them open and look all around
But can't seem to see your feet on the ground
The middle when it is balanced is when you should pay more attention
But you are so **** scared not knowing if its gonna go left or right
One thing for sure if the top does not turn then how will you learn
And I for one will never give up on that fight
Then it spins and tilts the other way
This is when you hold on so very tight
And when you also know that everything will be alright
Where ever the top toy lands
This is where you will make your stand!

Our shaking hands,
See they weren't made for  
cigarettes
And all these words, flowing through our heads
Weren't meant to let us
sleep


We were only 16
Scarred, but beautiful
Like broken things sometimes are
Rarely are
Young, nicotine stains
Lungs full of words we drowned in
Choked on
Burying friends we had grown up with

How sad
How sad

A year later

Another funeral
We all look older
Wrinkles on our foreheads
But were only seventeen
Too young for crows feet
Unmistakable
Unshakable
Grief painted in our eyes
And we couldn't even look at each other
A year later, shaking hands
Same nicotine stained fingers
On our baby hands as we threw the dirt
On his casket

Another year
*Another friend

The walls of this place
have protected me
since the moment I
was first aware..
Here in the darkness
I float upside down
like a fruit bat
asleep in his lair.
Now I feel pressure
and pushing
Something’s draining
the fluid of life.
A dim glow growing
constantly brighter
at the end of a tunnel
there’s light
My heart beat
is marathon racing
as I’m dragged from
my sinecure dark.

This new place is large
and its freezing
Put me back in,
I beg you
I scream.
My protests are ignored
as I’m prodded some more
Then I’m slapped
on the ****
by some cur
I’m lain down
on a warm curvy belly
and this woman, called mom,
weakly smiles.
At least this part
doesn’t seem
frightening
Perhaps I will stay
for awhile