Hollow words haunt hallowed halls
Of holocausts and hostile walls
The divine demise of dictated opinion
The resentful repulsed by resilient religion
Wrapped in wrath, whispers writhe wildly
Holy hiding henchmen hear idly

The divine DNA,
the handcrafted man,
the miniature God,
of his father's hand.
One may start to ponder
As we cut down trees
that we chose instead
to become worker bees.
We could have been gods
Mount Olympus would dance
We sacrificed Eden
to become little ants

My arms were crossed,
And the stars were crossed,
So I was cross
That you crossed me
And I crossed the line.

Flowers withered
At your august speech
And at August’s heat.  

Your love is bed sores.
The clothes I’ve worn
Still adorn the hardwood floor.
And on soft, sad nights
In the dark I was sworn
to selfish secrecy.

he bets 7 to 1 odds
you'll lose your roll
forfeit your money
or forfeit your soul

a crooked smile
you haven't seen in a while
you want to trust
but you know will beguile

a crossed promise and a bit lip
a shrouded truth and honest fib
he means nothing he says
- but everything he did.

Pete and Pauline Porker
Speaking through their snorkles
Double-chinned, wet-lipped
Checking out Facebook fibs
Snarled, yellow,
Tinted-teeth
Buys fudgie-bars
And potpourri
Their greasy-mouths
Spew forth and give
Fountain sodas
of commercial spit.

Tired modern gypsy
Hopped up on junk
And street-side bebop
That only he hears
Tells me he’ll read my palm
For a buck oh’ six
Including tax, of course.
He holds my fortune for a price.
He can see clearly
If he drinks his malt potion,
And rubs his magic ball
Behind the dumpster.
He grinds ashen hands together
And it makes the sound
Of a snake hiding
In the grass.
My hands are wet and sweating
From fear or nerves
For who am I to judge
The prophet come.
I show him my hand,
He examines it between his own.
His are covered in dirt,
And stories.
Mine are as clean and pale
As a newborn
Quietly sleeping.
His eyes are rolling
As he drags
Haggard thumb with
Cracked yellow nail
Down the lines of my hand
Muttering in tongues
Or slang
I can’t really tell.
And I reach the pinnacle of fear
That suspends time itself.
“I got bad news, missus,”
He says
And gently closes my hand
With the reaffirming squeeze
Of a mother that wasn’t mine.
“The world ain’t nothing but a giggle,
And it’s all laughing at you.”
He looks out to the sky
And with a loud guffaw
At god himself on the horizon
He slaps me on the back.
“Don’t worry, baby, don’t worry.
We all stuck here.
Even the ones walking.
We all stuck here.”
And this time I looked up at the sky too
And I laughed at god and the madman
Though I knew not which was above me
And which had just held my hand.

In Budapest I’d take a lover,
We’d meet outside a ruin bar,
And I’d notice as we stumbled
On the cobblestones
He walked beside me and not ahead.
And we’d **** on cotton sheets
On a twin-sized mattress
In a hostel full of friends
I haven’t met yet
While the city pulses outside
In an unruly procession.
He spoke into my wild hair
That until we must leave Budapest,
We would be wed.
I asked him what would become of us
The next day.
A smile plays on his lips, bemused
With the taut delicacy of stringing a harp,
He tells me, “we will part.”
And I’ve never known a kinder partner
Or a gentler fate
That feels like the dissolution of sea foam
Rather than the crashing of a wave
Threatening to drown you.
He would tell me he loved me
And it was easier to believe from
Someone I’ve known an hour
Than someone I’ve known a year.  
We didn’t leave bed the next day until
Late afternoon.  
We kissed simply and quietly
And yet it drowned out the whispers of the Danube
We clung to each other’s sides
The way a cobweb sticks to the sleeve of a sweater
Sure, soft, and smothered.
The next day I had a bus to catch
And tired eyes.
We checked out quietly and held hands
Until I had to go right
And he had to go left
And we did so with one last caress and kiss
And that was that
And it was the greatest love I had ever known
And I wonder if it were because of him
Or because the future wasn’t around
To complicate it
And that I didn’t know the difference
Between loving with abandon
Or without it.

The bar light shines
on a woman trying to be beautiful
with the rehearsed demure
of silent film.

It creates a wreath
the color of movie popcorn
and grandma's kitchen paint.

Only one thing burns
as much as the bourbon
As an indifferent patron
spins a ring
on their finger.

A raucous group of old friends
play their favorite song
for the whole bar to hear
of their happiness.
It moves me for but a second.

But I slink against the wall
for safety and comfort.
I am out of place
with no passport
in this foreign land.

My face doesn't match
the way I painted it
and I am a cheap joke.

I grasp at whatever straws
the universe drops before me
and they always come up
the short one.

I think I would rather
you try to hurt me
then to forget me.

I'd rather you stab me in the back
than turn yours.
Perhaps masochism
is the greatest love of all.

I'd rest my mind
On bouncing knee
Use polish rag,
to make it clean
Every nook,
clean with bleach
Each idea
and memory
And although I know
I'd love it's shine
Without tarnished thought
It's a brain not mine.

Every moment a growing distance
Whether it be the speed of the plane
Or your apathy.
Your silence still makes the sound
Of a belt being unfurled from your waist
and I cower with trepidation.  
Treat me the way you mean to -
Be as cruel as you intend
Clearly and with no distractions.
**** me and then never talk to me
Until you’re hungry,
Because I can decipher by now
The language of your disinterest.
Stop trying to dress it up -
In “how are you” and
Dispassionate kisses
As shallow as 2% milk.
I’m tired of finding reasons
For you to grip me a little tighter
And say my name more often
And hold me in the dark
And look my way in a crowded room.
I wish you would do anything,
like you really meant it,
whether or not it would hurt.

My Notre Dame is burning
Let the bells ring
Of ancient fools.

My dad looks me in the eyes
And asks me how long he has to live
Is it terminal?

The Jim Beam speaks back to me
Of fathers come and go
And I lie.

I lie with my lips glued to my teeth
And nostrils flared
And with mimicked repose.

My spire collapses
And I book flights to Paris
So I don’t have to answer questions.

How can I take care of you
When Notre Dame is burning?

Daddy, someone has to put it out and I’m sorry.

Though all babies are welcomed
As cherubs and innocent things
All are born of circumstance
Starving soldiers or spoiled kings.
Some children sip from silver spoons
And others taste spoons of lead.
Some mothers pinch round, chubby cheeks
Others cannot keep them fed.
I know my child’s only fault
Is that he was born to me.
Destined never to witness Rome,
Due to my own poverty.
I tell my son what mothers do,
That he can do all he dreams,
But late at night, I bury tears
For someone told that to me.
I look into his eyes like mine,
And wish I’d set my lover free
So he had found a finer half
And loved someone more than me.
I too was born from circumstance,
I too was careful to dream
But still I dream for my son,
Most of all, that he is more than me.

Every crumb, a cake
Each flower, a bouquet
I hoarded tiny treasures
And tucked them safe away
And though I knew you’d go
I’d always hoped you’d stay
I had interpreted your vice
As a tender, warm embrace.

a century for every
year I pretended
we were supposed
to be strangers.
Were I to tear
off my clothing
to bandage you
I'd be left naked
and cold
but sometimes
I feel that is
how you want me.


Running from
and running to
are the same thing,
you know.
And now as we embrace
we have the monsters
coming to consume us whole
at our backs
but in your eyes
at least we go down
together.

I was tired, and looking
for a restful place
for my head
and you thought
I'd sleep forever.

My eyes are open now
and the alarm clock is ringing
and the birds are chirping
and it is dawn,
and I dare not wake you up
as I leave.

I wanted
to maybe hold hands
but it's hard to do
when you're drowning
and trying to keep
your head above water.
Your current is pulling me down
and another riptide
will surely **** me.

Maybe one day,
I'll see you ashore.

I write in hopes that someone,
Somewhere in time
Has neurons moving
In the pattern of mine.

Hodge-podge of strangers
looking at my door
I welcome you.
Let this time in here
turn us to friends.

Let me serve you
on my finest china.

Please come into my door.

Let me take your coat,
tell me, how fine is this house?
and I can tell you
it is truly better
for having you in it.
For every smile shared
under my roof
For every laugh
had in these walls
has given me a home
when I was once homeless.  
For that, this humble one thanks you.
Please come in, for you too are home.
Let it be known
That this is not a dim porchlight
but a beacon
come in, come home
dear stranger
let's go home.

O' Liquored Escutcheon!
Please aid me in my plight!
I came for a beer,
and now I fear
I'm here for another night.
While the jukebox is puking
the disease-riddled bodies are movin'
I take a bow,
and I fall down
Someone, somewhere was right.

In my darkest moments
Of loneliness and loss
A vision did intervene
On my journey to the cross
And this beacon gave me cause
to for once stop and turn
I averted my eyes from my path
Unsure of what I'd learn
Light shone through a prism
and filled me like wanting reservoir
each color took my breath away
A light glaring from afar
With trepidation I did move
my feet from intended course
and my desire for the light
overcame my fear of remorse
I begged for the rays to bathe me
in their holy hue
More and more I felt it's warmth,
More and more it grew.
I yearn for it arms outstretched
to revolve in it's cosmic pull
I surrendered my ego to the footpath
and then I surrendered my soul.
I kneel in wistful worship
as solemn as a stone
I've waited for this all my life,
a light to guide me home.

I am a setting
Retired to
At the end of day
and end of life.
I am an ear drum.
Banged on by irritants,
long stories,
bad jokes.
I am a reservoir
for your seed and your sweat
The pocket for your
primitive exertions.
I may be encompassing
But I am not all.
Scenery is never captured
By written word well,
But the artist has been trying to catch
it's smirk for a thousand years.

Tell me
How long has it been
Since we last danced?
It was before your smile became obliged
And your laugh had the scratches on it
Of a beloved record
That was played too many times.
And it was before your caress
Turned to a machine
Stamping labels
As the conveyor belt turns.
And it was when little nothings
Were wholly felt
And not some incantation
Invoking response.
And it was when we held hands
To stay together
Instead of to avoid
Falling apart.
How long has it been?

If I have ever
stared into the eyes of our lord,
I know I have seen it

in my son's hand grasping my finger.

And if I ever felt His smile
I know it was
            when I opened my arms wide
            and felt the sun's warmth on tender skin


and I know I felt His mercy
when I awoke
to a brand new day
made just for me.

Made just for me.

I built us a home
Inside a globe
And it was small
And confined
But it was ours.
Until one day you broke it
And put sunset eyes on the sea
And headed towards the horizon.
I cut my hands trying to pick up the pieces
But ended up sweeping them away
As they crumbled to dust.
So I set out the other direction
And dedicated myself to topography
Not cartography
Because there are people who own maps
And people who use them,
And I vowed to be surveyor,
And never a historian,
And I vowed to never share a map
With another lover again.

The words have been at the tip of my tongue
For as long as I can remember.
I saw the first sound in autumnal eyes
In the first crisp days of December.
I was a fool to search for forever
Without first stopping to consider
maybe love is meant to last a moment,
Not a day, or week, or a winter.
Nor must it be plagued by incessant need
Nor be sealed by a kiss or a ring
Nor be the sweetness the poets promised
Nor give reason for the birds to sing.

When the soft Knoxville summer
Slips it’s way over the Smokies
Ghosts through Gatlinburg
And passes Pigeon Forge
We opened all the windows
And made love in the mist.
I jumped into a gorge
Naked and full of expectation
Washing the sweat that
Only conquering mountains
Can conjure.
I erupted from the water
New and fresh and clean.
While sullen hazel eyes
Watched water drops
Trace down my *******
A siren drying in the sun
On the rocks.
The trees were dying
White and blanched
In Everest emerald green
While the mountains cast shadows.
My love for you much the same
As the quick moving summer.
A lifetime turns into a blink.
Your body pulsates on a rock
Next to the wild Obed
And you are just as untamed.
You had a past you never mentioned
But always remembered
And a father who forgot you.
I collect stones from the riverside
And dream of you being happy.
I lay in a bed of purple honeysuckles
On a mountain bald
And share a bottle of bourbon
With a man hiking
the Appalachian trail.
He tells me he is
Almost famous
And I laugh at the word “almost.”
He plays the trumpet
And moves souls
With every utterance of his lungs.
He continues on the trail
And I never see him again.
We get late night ice cream
And my cotton shirt sticks to me
In overwhelming humidity
And suffocating heat
But I am laughing
And hanging out the car window
Through winding roads
and wild thorns
And summer has ended
And so have we.

Eyes of blue
And skin of laurel
Serene indifference
Meaningless quarrel

Body still
But panic sober
A lifetime of stuck
And a lonesome October

A 911 call
And a lack of composure
An empty syringe
And a long for some closure

An absent friend
Giving a cold shoulder
An absent friend.
Wake up now, Laura

The executioner showed no pity,
With an axe as sharp as tongue
And he guards his blade,
And the choices he made,
While maidens prefer to be hung.

He condemns the dark witches,
With a stroke swift and sure.
For he has no time,
To forgive the crime,
Of the enchanting scarlet ******.

And of all the guilty harlots,
One did catch his eye,
As she was brought to the block,
He thought of his ****,
Despite her end being nigh

As she lay her neck bare before him,
He had let down his guard,
And though he felt it was love
He put on his gloves,
And swung the axe twice as hard.

All the world, a stage
And all the stage, an act
And all the act, a script
And all the script, a lie
And all the lie, the world!
The audience directs
while the actors watch
The globe theater of
ever-changing roles
Auditioning for parts
Without knowing their lines.

There on my chest
And the valley below
Lay before me a man
Who himself was a window

A peek through that window
Would let me see
All the things I wanted
For him and for me

So when I discovered
I thought it queer,
that I was the window,
and he was a mirror.

On the drive to my mother's house
I noticed the streets were alive.
The rural dead was lit up
with sedans and vans on a drive
I thought it strange on this road
when usually, I saw not a soul.
Many mothers just like mine,
must stay in the rural gold.
And I thought myself not quite wrong,
But not quite right, when I saw the cause
They turned to the cemetery on the left
While I myself drove on.  
Many years later, I used my signal,
to tell those behind me of my woe
as I made a left on mother's day
with no where else to go.
I felt the pity of the drivers,
as they drove on past me.
I looked in the rearview one last time,
Full of wisdom, but full of envy.

I and you,
You and me
Tangled, tousled
Thrown off sheets

Unraveled, unwrapped,
untame.
Understand?
Uncontrolled, under me
under spell,
and under hand.

Don't lie to me,
but lie for sleep
let morning pass,
and leave us be.

i saw a homeless man
fidget with a twist tie
the way i fidget with my rings
crossing bourbon street
alive with the fare-thee-well
of sober times.
with weak conviction,
i admit the stars crossed one of us
and cut the other a break.
we are both drunk,
we are both merry.
we are embroiled in the microcosm
New Orleans has to offer
one day a year, guilt-free.
he jingles his cup for coins
and i show my **** for beads
and i will be bedecked in glitter
and jewels,
and he will sleep on the stoop.
but we both find our shoes drenched
in the mysterious gray waters
that plague that street tonight.
with the guise of my beads
i feel like a queen
but it would make no difference
if i were a homeless man
fidgeting with a twist tie
on bourbon street,
jingling my cup for coins
and sleeping on the stoop.

I'm so in love with you,
and all the little things, that you do
It wasn't too long ago
When times weren't so low,
At a time when you loved me too.

Why don't you come and stay for a while?
I'd **** just to see your bright smile,
We'll lay in the shade
and without thinking I'd say
Why couldn't you pick up and dial?

I know that you're so far away,
It'd be ludicrous to ask you to stay
I know that that you're gone
That my boy's been moved on
And he has no more time for play.

It must have been a tough call
because somewhere between summer and fall
You've found a new girl
with Goldilocks curls
and she doesn't look like me at all.

I don't need to hear your sad pity
but you used to say I was so pretty.
You don't miss me one bit,
so on branches I'll sit
and think of trees in New York City.

Your son's face looks just like your own
and god, I've never felt so alone,
The weeds cover the flowers
where we'd chat for hours
My arms were always your first home.

blocks of wood that ought to be
bird houses
and cards that ought to be
games
and hands that ought to write
and a heart that ought to love
and a brain that ought to work.
suffocated by half-baked ideas
and canceled plans
and smothered by
dreamless sleep and unfinished projects.
defunct and derelict
the artists grip
slips off the chisel
and nothing looks like the blueprint.
i spent prestige like coins
on a half moment's respite
and a half moment turned to an hour
and an hour turned to two years
cowering;
i am cowering in my own shadow
of what i thought i was
though i know not it's shape.
i don't deserve to be capitalized.
fluidity longs to take shape
but slouches in the mold
a failed and brittle thing.
my neck is bolted on as
i cannot look forward or back.
my respite is over
yet my palms are empty
and my fingers are idle still.
i can only manage to wave.
adieu, my friends,
adieu.

I swim through tremendous oceans,
through waters of worry and crisis shoals
paranoia forms a tidal wave,
that threatens to swallow me whole.
The currents are strong against me
to swim, I try my best
and soon I am tired and lost,
and ****** into the depths.
I see anger's buoy beckon,
but I know that is no better.
I can cling to it for long,
but I cannot cling forever
My arms would soon tire
and away, I'd soon be swept
Once more gasping and fighting
Against the gravity of the depths
Lost at sea, is the sailor
who did not follow the sun.
And if he looks down in shame,
He will not see the stars point on.
When rescue ships are far and few
and supplies are back on beach
I sigh and think of shorelines,
that I know are out of reach.
I want to float on my back,
and let the waves take me home,
The search party stopped looking,
For too long I've been gone.
But it takes a strong swimmer
to make it back to shore,
when one is this far out,
and I cannot swim anymore.
As the waves roll beneath,
and try to pull me under
while the gale whips salt
to tear me asunder
The pull grows stronger
and the water surrounds me
and what I long for most,
is that I did not fear drowning.

Susceptible to supple pleasures
and carnal desires.
I should be home writing and yet
I try to find my pen and paper in the night.
Ending up in the back of a van,
while hands dig around for kratom
and mouths dig around for justification.
There are so many balloons in here,
I thought it was a party.

A man tilts his head back salivating
and yet I feel unworthy of his presence.
Why did I want to be kissed?
I remember the grabbing,
pulling, biting, panting,
but never did his lips graze mine.
And yet in the ruddy afterglow,
I thought he loved my words too.

A girl spells out her dreams in ink,
her hand moving like it means to catch something
on the tension of water
and I wonder if she ever will.

I find myself sober,
and yet envy the drunk.
We each believe the other,
is not living life.
What evidence do I have,
that I am  not wrong?

Every day is Halloween,
when you recognize the costumes.

Why did my pen and paper lead me here?

I went home and collapsed in dreamless slumber.
I awoke to mascara running and lipstick stains,
a reminder that my job is to be a comedian
for the universe's cosmic giggle.
I reach inside myself for the divine,
but find tacks and taciturn excuses.

I slept for an hour but wept for a day.

Is coping the new
celebration?

Propaganda pills
dutifully swallowed
to preserve the integrity
of a world proven hollow
To sieve the spirit
through regulation holes
To protect the body
and to dissolve the soul
To maintain the order
To profit off the rotten
The white man seeks the answer
The native has not forgotten.

Open mouths making o's
Waiting to pour in
the next can of Pepsi-Cola
agape at the sight
like fish feeding
the same stare in their eyes
As they see but do not think
Of the world outside the tank.
Open mouths making o's
Counting down the days
until the next
test-tube cheeseburger
accidentally falls in.
Gotta drink this,
gotta eat there,
gotta smoke that.
So many people grabbing
at the chance to feel full
so many empty hearts
stumble upon each other
trying to feel something.

we live in a time,
where tradition trumps mind.

where habit defeats virtue,
where old conquers new.

Mankind is looking dire
So it seems I now admire

the quitters most of all.

I fight with god and whoever
Keeps spitting truths at me like peanut shells
**** the doctors
And **** the first time my dad decided to drink
And especially **** the last time I decided to drink.

He did this to himself and I love him
And I’ll pay for his mistakes
But my pockets are empty

I eat **** sandwiches with stoicism
I praise the autocracy of the medical field
That told me dad is dying
And I should too.

Miracles don’t happen to people like me
And families like ours
In towns like this.

I’m dying with you
Stage 4
I’m dying with you.

I’ve got nothing to lose
Until I found I had more.

**** your age and **** my youth
**** Medicaid
And **** the truth.

Pressing the weeds that you pulled
In an ancient book like it were a bouquet
Presented with gusto and pride
As bright as the pest itself.
A cool bed and a cool temperament
Leaves me listless.
For once I’d like to eat and feel full.
I eat with my eyes the appetizer of your figure
And the breadth of your chest
But I never reach yours.
I am hungry and wanting
Beyond *** and repair
Beyond curt courtship
And cold companions.
And at some point I’m tempted to pull the rope,
Unsure if it will drop the curtain or the floor
And not knowing if you will want an encore
And filled with trepidation.
Why do we whisper?
It makes me want to cry.
A little louder now, love
Tell me what you want
If you want anything at all.

Red rover, red rover
heart of gold
and bed of clover.
chip in the pocket
and twenty months sober.
times moving fast
and I wish it were slower.
an old open wound
that longs for some closure.
a day in the sun
and a night in exposure.
twenty-five years
yet it's already over.

The vindication of violation,
is etched in our ecstasy.
The insatiable invitation
Looks on longingly,
to be accepted with no exceptions.

Twilight tinctures transforms
to mild midnight musk
by anatomical alchemy warm
In the dark discord of dusk
Our communion is calculated.

Only hedonistic heat
can melt the polite pretense,
Our dialogue is discrete
Left in static suspense.
I dissolve into your delirium.

The intimate impalement
gives way to grotesque gratification
To cure the ancient ailment.
We ignore the implications
Of this meeting meaning more.

As I ride to robust rhythm
My ****** is chaotic
Our communion is christened
in a cry exhausted and ******.
The vulnerability is voided.

Sanguine sighs give way to
Languor in sated lust.
Sweat drops like dew
Upon my breathing bust.
The distance develops once more.

We are expired prime
with nothing left but ribs,
a derelict butchery.
I gave myself 30 more seconds
to count every line in your hands
before I left
but it would never be enough time
for you have so many wrinkles
from pinky promises
and crossed fingers.
I will remember
your slumbering corpse
as nothing but idyllic
and ignore the temperament
the early morning would imbue you with,
cross and out of sorts.
You will become a year to me.
I will remember the landmarks
but no longer the husk of your laugh
or the salt of your sweat
or the look in your eye
while you roil in the midst
of hysterical laughter.
You would never
come down from your pedestal
to find me.  
I studied this man
as though he were art
and not history,
blissfully unaware
the course was pre-requisite
to heartache.

Walks by when it is raining
And I don’t say a word to them.
And a ghost left his laundry
Where it shouldn’t be again.
The world wants to be my lover
When I only wanted a friend.
And everybody wants to be real
But they can only manage to pretend.

On a sticky counter somewhere,
two friends speak
chewing the fat
and spitting the meat.
They'd like to **** girls,
but they'd rather **** dreams.
They tell me so through
whiskey-stained teeth
And I laugh because
It's just a Tuesday to me.
Yes, I've been a dream
and yeah, I've been a tease.
I can tell they want somethin'
But they're getting nothing from me.

The ***** addict has change it's face,
but not it's disease.
It is me.
It is your mother.
It is you.
"It is not."
It is.
And it is infinite.
For so long as people
are burdened by the illusion,
so they seek to disperse the fog.
What they seek is not distortion,
but clarity.
What they seek is not fantasy,
but reality.
A new reality
that works for them.
Where they don't work for it.
Where they don't participate
as a rusted cog
spinning in perpetual circles
to power a machine
that lights a projection
of what ought to be,
and what ought not to be
for all the the world to watch
on hamster wheels.
But  the ***** addict knows risk.
That each time could be
the last time.
But this world has only
two types of people.
Participants.
And non-cooperatives.
There is not room for both.
The ***** addict is offered
a consolation package
of pharmaceutical bonbons
but given the same soap opera
each time.
So they fade into the black
I know it is no cure,
because they are not sick.
It is not addiction,
that they seek to fulfill.
It is peace.
And the current reality
does not allow for peace.
And I just wonder to myself,
if maybe
they are not wrong.

Two strangers
desperately throwing coins
in a fountain
from empty wallets
to wish the other
peace and solace
as I check the schedule
for a train that never comes
after a morning of
trying to go back to sleep
to savor a few moments
of a dream I had
about a person I met
who had a smile that
made me think of
clean sheets
and the smell of
butterscotch
and bourbon
and I hear a whistle
down the tracks
at the station
and I can't help
but think of
that one time
I made plans
that fell through
and I had to
mechanically
change out of
a cocktail dress
that I left on the floor
with the other laundry
I can't stand to look at
but can't stand to do
and that I sat at
the bottom of
the shower
but could not
be angry
with anyone
but myself
And I frantically
check the schedule again
and I don't know which train
is not coming
but I know it is mine
and I do not feel late
nor early for it
and a vendor
calls out to me his wares
and a child pulls her father's hand
and a *** jingles coins
in a styrofoam cup
and two lovers depart
on two separate trains
and a man chases one
he missed
and I beg for mercy
that too, never shows,
and I meet two strangers
and throw my last
quarter into the fountain
and I ask that
God saves us all.

my grandmother was born
a squalling baby
in the sun of the Ukraine,
her mother too young
and a father too violent.
she led her through the wheat fields
whose long tresses tangled
in her pale ankles
to a pond behind the farm
where she tried to drown her.
a passerby intervened
and raised my grandmother
with his wife up the hill
on their own.

she spent her life
not cursing the hands
that sought to destroy
when they ought to have held
but thanking the hands
that pulled her
from the freezing water
on a crisp morning
in the fields of the Ukraine
lungs still full of breath
and eyes full of trust

Calloused hands that give and take
Both to your detriment
That write and hold
Empty promises
I can’t tell whether
You’re grazing my cheek
Or wringing my neck.