The best kind of kiss
Is one that has been exchanged
a thousand times between eyes,
before the lips have even met.

I see two fire trucks pass each other
going opposite directions.
As I’m trying to think of a clever metaphor
for poor planning
I remind myself that at least one family
is standing in a thigh high pile of fine ash
that was their home
just an hour ago.
Maybe two families.
These thoughts and others haunt me when I’m pulled from my duck footed sidewalk reverie
by a lottery ticket stuck in the riff-raff that separates
Gateway Ave from the parking lot of the Nervous Hospital.
It is laid bare like a mugging victim;
crumpled up and inches from the gutter.
That was someone’s dream
just a day ago.
Think I’ll cross the street-
give that homeless vet a dollar.
It’s my last one.
My house has fleas, but
it ain’t on fire.

conquered cities 
reduced to dirt, then
sown with salt so nothing grows. ever. 
assaulted senses bring fevered dreams of
caeser's dying breath escaping when I exhale. 

fate breathes as well; 

a single, ragged, pep-o-mint tickle on my neck 
so I know she's there... 
just behind me. 

I'm finding it difficult 
to keep the salt from my wound- 
to keep the sea from my door- 
to keep the plank from my eye- 
to keep off the moors at night 
  when the moon is blind to my indiscretions.