this is the moon's
quiet rose, the unfolding
of the clouds, tranquility
resting her head,
the beautiful sea.

The monster waits
His prey near
Hidden in darkness
Feeding on fear.

It was a question I had worn on my lips for days –
like a loose thread on my favorite sweater
I couldn’t resist pulling –
despite knowing it could all unravel around me.

‘Do you love me?’ I ask.

In your hesitation I found my answer.

I live in a trailer park,
beyond a decade now.

I suppose outside of here,
they're called "mobile" parks.
Here, they're trailer parks.

There is a trailer hitch,
but that ain't pulling this ***** nowhere,
no-how.

Trailers in Juneau, Alaska stand crookedly rectangular,
with a 60s/70s "I wasn't built for this ****" tiredness.

Rust, moss, fungus, dirt, cat ****:
dilapidation,
all common traits to the TP kingdom.

These are rhomboids with a forceful will
to be real homes, on steel beds with wheels,
propped up on cinder blocks, ambition, and dreams.

Modifications and additions have been nailed, and *******,
and glued and affixed in every possible manner conceivable.
An 8x4 plywood laid on a tarp to stop a leak is not a repair, but an
improvement.

These improvements make the mobile into a trailer,
flirting with that trophy ***** ******* called home.

No disrespect.

Expensive, alluring, pay-as-you can,
home ****. They'll take you for all your
worth. And smile. And so will you.

Real people **** and make love here.
They die of cancer,
go through pregnancy,
pick their nose,
do math homework,
*******,
write poetry,
*******,
do ****,
mow lawns,
hold children hostage,
make coffee,
help their neighbors,
go to vote,
make art,
***** their neighbors,
dream.

They slide their backs down the walls
of their homes in bouts of sorrow,
turning their guts into fistfuls of rocks
and despair. Heaving out their regrets
in spit and snot and fury.

They all live here.
And so do I.

Loneliness quite of house
Death of a mother.
Loneliness lost in time
Death of a lover,
Loneliness mixed emotion
Death of a friend
Loneliness broken of heart
Death of a wife
Loneliness,life so bleak
Is it suicide,which I seek.
Loneliness without a hand
Only the lonely will understand.

My cat’s timing is
impeccable.
I’ve been slothful
with writing lately,
and the cats play
the antagonist.
I sit in my
favorite chair and
put some Vivaldi on.  
I’m determined to write.

As soon as I pick up
my notebook and pen,
the black one with
the white spot on
her neck jumps on  
my lap and bites at
the moving ink pen.

Her sister chases
imaginary bugs on
the coffee table, and
knocks over a slim
glass of water.
She runs away.

The newest edition to
my cat family is a
large tiger stripped
female that is
currently trying to
avoid the puddle, while
she bats at the
leaves of the fig tree.

I bet Bukowski
didn't have to
deal with this ****.
On second thought,
he probably did.