Dear DSM,

There is so much I want to say to you!
There is so much you ought to know!
You who live high up on medical Olympus,
You who live so that others may also live,
You who look down on us mere mortals,
You who look around and all you see is misery,
You who stand above the dark clouds of our minds,
You who stand for all that is noble,
Tell me, is my name written on your pale-white page?
Tell me everything is going to be OK!

There is so much I want to say to you!
There is so much you ought to know!
You who hold the secret alchemy of melancholy,
You who hold the keys to life and death,
You who preach a gospel of salvation,
You who preach though not all heed the call,
You who sing a song for the broken,
You who sing our song,
Tell me, will my soul be saved?
Tell me everything is going to be OK!

There is so much I want to say to you!
There is so much you ought to know!
I who long for your protection,
I who long ago gave up hope,
I who waited all my life for answers,
I who waited in long New York winters cloaked in bitter fear,
I am here now to testify,
I am here now my soul to cry!
tell me, what have you to say?
Tell me everything is going to be OK!

There is so much I want to say to you!
There is so much you ought to know!
We who float adrift along the edge of the abyss,
We now live while tomorrow no one knows,
We who wear many, many faces, though all are faded,
We who crowd the halls of hospitals and slaughterhouses,
We who call ourselves survivors while we still can,
We who are hopeless, helpless, sleepless and blue,
Tell me, who are we to blame?
Tell me everything is going to be OK!


There is so much I want to say to you!
There is so much you ought to know!
All things that must be said and done,
All things will fall into place at last,
All things we’ve salvaged, and all that we’ve lost,
All things we’ve left behind,
All these things that I must say to you now!
All these things you really ought to know!
Tell me now, will this voice be heard someday?
Tell me everything is going to be OK!

Dear DSM,

Until then,

THE END.

there you are again
forever fixed in photographic perfection
your piercing eyes standing guard
against the shift of seasons

no shade of deceit
could void the depth of you
while I lift the veil of spring
and your cinnamon smile
comes flooding through the gates

The astronaut and the cosmonaut
Met while in orbit
And danced the waltz
Beneath a ray of Moonlight-opaque.

*All hands and feet battle your space stations!

The Poet was arrested this morning,
Charged with disturbing the peace;
I guess he must have forgot to conceal his razor-sharp tongue
Upon leaving his humble home at dawn...

Relentless;
like a blinded
late night express,
the wool yarn
soft unravelling,

nothing will
stop it now,

it lands
on the muted
goodness
of mom's
lavender rug,

while her
"dinner's ready"
call travels
through a
crevice
from the room
next door,

two and
a half
decades ago
today.

"This is my letter to the world
    That never wrote to me."*
                                    —Emily Dickinson



We would sit under New York skyscrapers
Upon the marble steps of Midnight
My friends and I
Dwelling on the Good Times

We knew it then
Our laughter was vastly infinite
Above us
The prosthetic Heaven
Of concrete and iron beehives
Overtaking Sky and Sleep

Heady Days
Drunken Nights
Our Youth lost
Rather wasted
And a devil-may-care
Hope for Tomorrow

We sang the Songs of the times
The tunes that would soon forget Us
It was alright to stroll down the gutters
Of our endless Urban Paradise

But those days and nights are long gone now
And I now wonder whether Space & Time
Will someday reconcile those memories and these dreams
Of the age that came and went and fled and lingers still