-

Held beyond oblivion,
shackles cut the flow,
chains of rusted memories
wrapped tightly
around my windmill brain
Squeezing life, in or out,
pooling on a jagged earth
Grimacing contorted gestures
and pointed fingers heckle
as I am dragged through the streets
of my misshapen thoughts
Over cobblestone alleys,
dark lonely walls splattered in
pig blood graffiti
spelling my name wrong
Dripping slowly, staining brick
and off color facades
changing by the day,
exposing expressions
of those shunned
in the face of popularity

From the softness of her wrist
Bleeds vibrant shades of red
But all she sees is black and white
A beating heart but dead
As tears cascade across her cheek
From kaleidoscopic eyes
Feels not but the paralysis
Sees only greyer skies
So blind to her own beauty
She breathes her final breath
Gone are the watercolours
Now shadowed by her death

He was an exister
Was bestowed the breath of mundanity
Never questioned
His parents
His teachers
Grew up to be a lawyer
Not to bring justice
But to be a lawyer
Because he never questioned
His parents
His teachers
And then he retired
He had saved all of his earnings
Not because he needed to
But because he never questioned
His parents
His teachers
Society
Finally he had retired
At last, he could live
But before he could
He took his last breath of mundanity
He died

Riding in my backpack
chattering gibberish
she charms the man
who is in a good mood
so he repairs my typewriter
     on the spot, no waiting,
     for two six-packs of Bud.
He throws in a free ribbon, too.
“Don’t tell Boss,” he says, winking
at my daughter, who is as yet
too innocent
of her power.

Timmy Ray, poor boy from Kentucky.
Football scholarship.
Degree in Business Administration.
Respectable job, bored.
Enlists with best friend in Marines as a macho trip.
Vietnam, what a crock.
This ain’t football. And it ain’t fair.
Schemes to get out,
ignores an order to go out on patrol,
******* mission, but the friend goes,
gets shot up bad.
Timmy Ray runs out to help the friend, is shot.
It’s all blood and mud, man, blood and mud.
Friend paralyzed, Timmy Ray okay.
Court-martial for Timmy Ray, discharge.
The friend takes an overdose.
“No moral here,” Timmy Ray says. “My
war story. That’s all.”

Timmy Ray makes sculptures, big metal things.
No people.
“The human body’s been done,” he says.
Downtown Detroit in front of an office
he welds a pile of globes,
names it “Love” so he’ll get paid
but he says it’s really “Moose Brain.”
These days, Timmy Ray’s hand
trembles. He volunteers at a suicide
hot line. No moral there,
either. Moose brain.

isn't it odd
how we can know
human nature
well enough
to write poems
that move others
to tears
yet must hear
the words of others
to cry
alone
.

I want her to read me
Like I was the never ending story
See the glory of my being
As I see hers
Touch the curve of my spine
Though leather it might be
And see inside
To the beauty of my creativity

Linens scented of

last night's rendezvous,

  still wafting midst

            reticent moments,

cognac and aromatic

   candlelight burning 'neath

      surreptitious breaths,

  as we deciphered

    sultry shadow's seduction

              midst clandestine poetry

Her arms flailing
pinwheeling through the air
in dramatic attempt at emphasis.
His arms across his body
to absorb the impact
from her words.
Her eyes wide
like something possessed,
as expressionists weep.
His eyes closed
to keep at bay
the wicked witch.
Welcome to the new tribal dance.

If I want my gypsy life,
My solitary dream
It does require a sacrifice,
More than I can exprime.

Car dans ma vie bohémienne,
Je dois me tenir seule
Même si mes sentiments m’amènent
À vouloir être en deux.

Je sais que dans ce jeu de rime
Je râte ; quand-même, j’essais
Car sûr mon cœur tes yeux s’impriment :
La lumière that day.

The candlelight that twirled and danced
And lit up eyes and hair
As deep inside something woke, pranced
And breathed a fresh, new air.

This was something I'd never had:
Un sentiment profond
Regretfully I leave, though sad;
Mais l'route gitane, c'est longue !

My poisonous lips lock
With his beauty,
I restrain the tears-
Imprisoning them behind bars of a happy façade.
But they are not criminals.
It is my smile that is guilty.
I utter the three words he wants to hear
And smile
While my heart writhes
In pain
As I lie.