I chase my dreams like I chase this
******* ******* cockroach.

the closer I get the more it resists
darts away
crawls into little spaces I didn’t even know
were there.

when finally obtained
I am left with a slimy gooey mess,
and this half dead thing
with a twitching leg.

my love for you is like an Ocean,
so vast & so deep.
there are fishes
at the bottom
with unrecognizable features
and names.

I have done nothing to earn
the coveted gaze
your self discipline
eventually
diverts.

Just two pools of green
in a mound of pale flesh.
Nothing more.

Yes. Look away
fool.
Look away.

my heart broke.
it bled,
seeped through my shirt,
got onto the floor.

so much mopping.

they told me today
i has a canadian accent.
i’m not from canada.
you are.

wine (red)
bread (rye)
butter (salted)
darkness (night)

evening (pleasant)
humidity (snug)
chirping (hopeful cricket bug)

a sheeplish jaywalker
followed confidently by three others.*

I swim through people:
laps in the waves of arms

doggypaddle through
people and their backpacks
their breifcases, dufflebags
hockey sticks, saxophones, babies

mohawks, fauxhawks
pleas for change, professions of Christ.

offerings of pretzels and
poorly aged hotdogs
cheap sunglasses, perfume

not one, but two delirious people
drift to sleep on my shoulder.

I swim on.

I step on a grain-sized shard of crystal.

I spend a minute removing it
with my fingernails;
my thumb wipes away the red streak
forming on my sole.

the vase evades me memory... yet.
The fragments still draw blood.

you told me what was right
and you told me
what was
wrong: the right
way to say artisinal cheese;
the style of my hair;

the number of apps
on my smart phone;

milleneals; spelling;

capitalization; and
grammar.

how can I thank you
enough.

Ode
to the Red Line.
Thine gentle deceleration
doth end in fervent lurch.
I fall.

I ate a snickers bar in the rain and suddenly it is November 2nd 1998 and I am sneaking Halloween candy out of the freezer in the garage near the can of rags where the cat used to sleep. Homemade Halloween costumes. The damp air and the huge brown maple leaves covered in water, falling off the trees, layering the roads, clogging up the sewer drains. Were we happier, then. Four of us, in a house on a hill. What was that life. How am I to know? I was eight.

the Tree dons the frocks of autumn;
greets hollow absence of warmth
with gentle gestures of orange;
slipping softly to sleep
soundlessly swaying.

muted light: damp, cold.
a quiet submission.
good night, Tree.

good night.

I rise and fall
but thru it all
you, alone, are there:

Wishing dreams;
swishing gleams
of hope,
sometimes despair.

I can't describe
the vibes
of joy and life
you bring to me:

I see,
I run,
I chase,
I hope

so very desp'rately.

I miss your smile so desp'rately;
I miss your eyes unbearably.
Your voice was just so dear to me.
oh what I am to do.

the spark of joy I long to be.
an understanding, realistically;
time marches on and ages me.
oh what am I to do.

a dog barks from above
behind a barred window on the 5th floor.

seagulls cree and crow in the feathered
air as I walk past your apartment.
grey clouds are gentle but dull.

a penny shines from a sidewalk crusted
with old gum, leaves, and trash.

my nose runs.
do I follow.

I do not run for the train.
it will not come early.

I smile at ordinary objects
that remind me of you
with a melancholy smugness.

a violet morning glory electrified by
7am autumn sunshine
beckons memories of a blue one
from a gardened Brooklyn rooftop:

we picked the seeds
with a late-morning laziness;
I felt your bare back
and then stroked your hair.