It's the continual
opening of the
eyes that disappoints,
not that sleep brings peace,
but it's the momentary
reprieve from life's
clenched fist, and
it's ruthless apathy.

Life is a toss of
the coin,
a roll of the dice.
Often, it's snake eyes.
As a kid, I always
thought that everything
would be alright.
Now I see the
randomness of
it all.

I'm always trying to
get back to Eden.
Sometimes, the
dreamer in me
forgets the futility.
The banishment is
forever.

~
taking sides
picking flowers
dead and buried
on the surface line

counting hostages
trading stamps
extended infinitely
at right angles

cozy spaces
married couples
perpendicular
legs and mingled stria
one over the other

It's all conjugated
hyperbola
a tourist trap
with zero interest
for a year
~

polyethylene that bunched
around her thighs holding in
the ***** that pooled as
a riptide. She cried. But none
came as she soiled, to hold her
and dry the oiled dew that fell
from morning till noon.

She wore
her hair short
as the boys. She didn't like
the look. Even then she dreamed of
looking like a girl. No ribbons or bows –
just wash and go.

She wore
her welts underneath
the second-hand pants
with a belt. None to see
the scars that bleed.

She wore
her name on plastic
pinned to her navy jumper. She bowed
her head in shame as the kids taunted
her again and again. Thin as the pencil
she carried. But she couldn’t erase
the secrets she buried.

She wore
a gown of snow white
lace. And chased a dream
of green lawns and picket
fences, white knights. But
lost her senses.

She wore
black velvet
at his funeral. First ever
the voices stood still. Now
his torment lay in a box that
covered the stain. But the pain
billowed in the air –
from then on
it’s what she'd wear.

Listening to Leopold’s symphony
for two minutes,
I was bored.
My mind wondered.
I recalled the dramatic first chords
of Wolfgang’s symphony 41
how it awakened me
how I was hooked by his energy and zest.

Even though Leopold taught his son,
the fame of the impulsive and creative Amadeus spread
as he wrote and played
and captured the attention of the world.

I wonder what poor Leopold thought of his own work
in contrast to his prolific son
a son who seemingly created great music
from nothing
who freed himself from tired conventions.

A creator makes something from nothing
and I wonder if being lost in nothingness
as we poets sometimes are,
if letting go of the familiar
makes it easier to create.