I fell for him, not in whispers or sighs,
But in crescendos, in rhythms, in skies
Painted with notes that danced in the air,
Each song a thread of the love we’d share.

He wasn’t just music—he was the sound,
The hum of the earth, the pulse underground.
A genre, a chord, a tune soft and true,
Would echo his soul, would carry his hue.

But now he is gone, and silence remains,
A hollow refrain, a ghost in the strains.
Yet when music plays, I’m drawn to the year,
I search for a sign he might have been near.

Did he hum this tune? Did he hear this beat?
Did it brush his soul? Was it his retreat?
The thought is a comfort, though bittersweet,
A harmony bridging where life and death meet.

For love like this does not fade away,
It lingers in songs, in chords that replay.
So I listen, I wonder, I dream him alive,
Through melodies where his spirit survives

I rummaged through the cabinets
opening and closing
the cupboard doors,
sliding plates aside
and lifting up each coffee mug.

then, I checked underneath the sink
moving the cleaning supplies out of my way
when finally she asked,

“what are you looking for?”

“a girl who doesn’t think I’m ugly,” I replied,
“it seems to be impossible to find.”

she stood there silent.

it was the first 5 seconds of peace I’ve had
since I broke it off with the last one.

after that, I double-checked the oven
for good measurement,
found nothing
walked out of the kitchen
and back into my rumpus room
where I give up my endless search.

do what makes you happy
and the rest be ******

forget the critics
the naysayers
the reviews

forget those who pounce
at first glance with
unsolicited feedback

forget those who wait
with serrated edges
for the unveiling
of your back

forget those who lambaste
and castrate your creativity

or worse, those who
try to help you
improve it

and then there are those who
uplift and support your work

say thank you
and
forget them
too.

forget about polishing the knobs
off the editors of poesy or
the literary brotherhood
and sisterhood

forget about your friends,
your enemies and
your audience
all together

they are a cough drop
trying to cure an illness

do it
the way it was meant to be done:
without obtrusion
without approval
without asking

don’t allow them
to cloud your mind
with judgment
of any kind

do what makes you happy
and the rest be ******.

looking around this empty room right now,
I’ve come to accept that the gig is up;
the party’s over, the lights are off
and everyone’s gone home:
the music here is quiet and tame
the basement echoes in phantom laughter
the window panes are no longer broken
the pyramids of beer cans have crumbled
the late nights have turned into early mornings
the dancing girls have turned into career women
and I had it good for a while, maybe too good;
shooting dice and rolling sevens and elevens
but now everything comes up snake-eyes.
I finally understood that the foundations of people
were more unstable than water and
less faithful than a Rush St. ******.
friendships and other relationships
sank faster than a mafia ****** weapon
(maybe that’s why they call them “ships”)
but as the aging hours of time came
crashing through like lightning:
I found love when love was unkind
I found hate when hate was merciless
I found people and stubbed them out like cigarettes
where by and by, it all turns to ash,
just mounds and mounds of ash,
windswept by gentle persuasion
and now they’re buried in their shrink-wrapped lives;
dropping kids off at soccer practice, attending PTA meetings,
hosting chili cook-offs, yelling at football games,
disgusted with Tuesday’s, bowling on Wednesdays,
pretending everyone’s doing fine and living quite well
while I am left here with myself
and this eerie moment
of reflection, now realizing:
it’s all gone.