It tastes like fire.
I've been run over by crickity
subway carts
one too many times
and now my deformed fingers
can't pick up pencils.
On the way back from
Manhattan
I was tied to rusted train tracks
and left to drown
in the salty August rain.

Old man with cane,
let's call him Michael,
prods at my sockets
picks at my skin.
Rope burn stings almost as much as an
infected
sore
from all the laps around
my head
is filled with
maggots
and being
last year's leftovers
again
and again

Maybe one day I'll make finger sandwiches
for classy luncheons
in a pagoda in my backyard.
We all will be jolly
and have balloon laughs
as we sip our aged merlot.
  And my young children will waltz in
  with their curtsies and bows and then
  go off again to be with their nanny.
And I will be occupied
with the things in my pocket
so I won't know what the dark is anymore.

                                                       ­                I'd rather live in the dark though.
                                                         ­                   In a raunchy studio apartment
                                                       ­                          with a semi-attractive but
                                                             ­                  the most beautiful woman
                                                           ­                                who is educated
                                                        ­                   and still knows how to color.
                                                           My children will understand what it means
                                                           ­              to be alive and I'll let them decide
                                                          ­                               if they appreciate it or not.
                                                                ­   We will feed the ducks every Sunday.
                                                                ­    I want to be among spirits not bodies.

She kept up with her housekeeping.
Typically. Very Neat. Shelves everywhere.

Today, the melon baller was out of place
and she was busy batting flies.

Actually, there was only one fly.
Senses deceived.

The humming was too loud to go undisturbed.
Attention becomes focused digitally

on enhanced minute wrecks.
Hours spent trying to get the flies.

Illusion.
One fly.

She didn't know. Suspected worst.
Kept at it.

The sexless man walked in with a tophat. Brimmed.
Asks why the dishes weren't done.

Too Busy.

Why the floor not swept.

Too Busy.

Vacuum.

There's flies to get. I'm busy.


The house is a mess. The house is a wreck.

I took this with me on my journey to the top of the world.
I thought I needed something
sweet to remind me of our summers
when you still had your long hair and still liked to
climb trees.

I remember how afraid I was
that I'd fall or trip
on hidden roots
only meant to throw off
the nocturnal rodents.

But, you always thought my thinking was silly.

We picked up rocks that were particularly
dull and *****. Ordinary miracles
hold a special meaning in carved hearts.

I craved roasted turkey and cranberry sauce.
The kind my grandmother used to make on Saturday evenings.
I wanted to go home.
But I realized, the path I was on only lead to you.

The love of my life has caution tape wrapped around her like a mink stole.
And I don't know how to break it to her,
but I happen to know a thing or two
about the sort of wind she carries.
Sweet, Serene,
But, when it comes
Oh it comes.

maybe next time
when I
pick enough
blackberries
they'll be
ripe.

The face of a sorrowful man
can't compare to the
tear bottles of whiskey
spent on stale bread.