We who live on the fringes
of the working-class
know her all too well.
A tulip of a child,
precociously blossoming
at eleven or twelve,
cute and acutely aware.
Never knowing her father,
her mother changing
boyfriends like fashion,
new each season.
Little girl's mind flush
with women's hormones,
she wraps herself around
the first small male kindness;
a good warm hug what she needs,
but has learned but one way
to express love.

light brush strokes



delicate    oranges and pinks

                 fresh blooms     of cloud



overlaid



breaking day    silent

close my eyes
think of myself
being there

to where
screams
are free to roam,
then bounce back,
immune to tortured souls

allowed to spread
in       wa     e
                 v     s

for some reason,
Ararat comes to mind
right now
but to be honest,
Arayat would suffice

surrender...
surrender,
surrender

                   all these rocks

Can
I
disturb you?

Even just this once...

let me
let out
my

sanctioned screaming,
and release it to these mountains.

His gift was liquid melody
It collected at the brow , trickled
down his face , splattered onstage ,
it soaked the score page , invited
his following to engage , provided a
river of thought , he shared freely of his
complicated mind then suddenly he was gone* ...

I've scrubbed off all the makeup,
Stripped of all my clothes.
I have to face my body,
Bony and blue,
Still so young,
But visibly aging.
I'd give anything
To see myself
In true state again.
The I that I was,
Young, pure, and untouched.
The I before the first sense
Of self awareness,
The I before that first
Cool, innocent cigarette,
The I before that first secret drink,
The first forced kiss,
The first basement time alone,
The first walk home to not my home,
The first flirt,
The first sneak out,
And the paranoia that came with it all.
I haven't seen that I
In far too long,
Nor do I know if I'll see her
Ever again.
But sometimes it's nice to try,
To break myself down
To my rawest state
In hopes of finding her once more.
So I'm just standing here.
Naked and my face scrubbed raw,
Being stung by those tears
I tried so hard to avoid,
Looking my I in the eye
And whispering,
"You're still in there.
I know you are.
You're still in there."
God, I hope.

On my selling on a day in the blazing May
I was looking for a small place for a light bite
when I noticed through my heat dazed eyes
the signboard "Snack Bite".

Inside was the peaceful coolness of a suburb bylane
and I would have pretty soon dozed off
but for the strong smoke of spice, garlic and onion
that shut out every senses except hunger.

No menu card, sir, the waiter cut the silence,
on our menu at this hour is only fish fingers,
all else sold out.

No problem I said, I have been here for a light bite.
How many pieces come with a plate?

Ten, sir, superbly fried.

By ten minutes the steaming thing was before me
ten red crispy slices of fish fingers
and I immediately got into business
remembering what my ma used to say,
To a hungry mouth every food tastes fine
and so neat and fine the pieces looked
so artfully arranged on the plate like human fingers
I reflected on the pause having finished the fifth.

Human fingers? I froze in terror,
why didn't I notice
leftovers of crunched bones and nails
on my plate?

The only other man at the table, I heard
was ordering for another plate.