You cried for a Sunday dress:
I confess, I was tempted -
Strongly so - to give in, and let you
Have it, let you go buy it.
But your crying became
Such an argument against
Your frilly cause that I
Found myself dragging you
Away from another store.
I expected this when you
Were young - when you knew nothing
Of manipulation or greed or
An acidic need to punish me
For some old wound or another -
Something you hate but
Have forgotten. No more now,
Girl, let's go home. You can
Date some bad boy tomorrow.
That'll show me.

It was quiet last night when
We handled it, Bo and me.
Jenny had risen late with a gun
And finally out and shot her
No good husband. We knew it was
Coming, Bo and me, (He was always running
Late with some glitter or make-up stain
On the white shirts she ironed for him
Every morning.)  like one of those
Summer storms that rumble
And shake and then arrive,
Sprinkle a moment and slip away
To intimidate some other town.
She was on her porch crying,
That once-used (overused) rifle clasped
In her slack grip. We knew she couldn't do it -
Couldn't pull the trigger twice in one day,
But she didn't know.
So we handled it, Bo and me. We
Reasoned that terrible gun away,
Reasoned that unspeakable emotion away,
The way we always have out here.
(With the town so far out and all.)
We dabbed her tears up with leftover
Lunch napkins and laid her down to sleep
(In my sister's bed, she's bloodstained the
Sheets.) and wait, and there she is now, officer.
Laying down.
Waiting.
(By the way, do you know what
Gets out bloodstains?)

When I took my words to
The permission man, he was
Less than enthused. “No, no,”
He said, “these won’t do. They’re
Robotic and archaic - and this one’s
Overused.” “Well pardon me, sir,
But all I have are these. You see,
My pen is a keyboard, and I have
Backspaced all the previous drafts.”
But he just frowned and turned away
And told me to return some other day.

Humming after a shower, the counter-
Melody rises from the TV screen.
My dripping eyes slide to the flowers
On page six of a magazine.

You used to smell like lilacs and
Mint - when you brushed your teeth.
In the cooling autumn, your summer
Scents are diligently haunting me.

A hundred years ago, or so,
You promised: "I won't let you go,"
But then one of us was bound to float
Away, someday.

A field of lilacs all in bloom
Are as charming as an empty room -
Without a bride, without a groom,
And slowly fading.

Folding the sad old news away,
I lay it on a tray and settle down.
How many strong men and pretty
Girls are up there where you hang around?

Chances are, it's multitudes,
Trillions more than crawl the earth,
And you don't need any sort of test
To tell me what each one is worth.

How many dances do you see
With women I could never be?
Does each, with a hand white like a lily,
Ask for your touch?

And how many girls do you deny
With passionate emerald eyes like mine?
How many are drunk on feral wine?
Probably none.

But then again, I won't begrudge
You the benefits of a resting place.
If you are where I think you are,
You bear immortal, eternal grace.

And it's loneliness, like a bad
Priest preaching the gospel wrong,
That sneaks into my throat tonight
And forces out a song.

A hundred years ago, or so -
You took my passionate emerald glow,
But how on earth could you ever know?
I cry when I see lilacs alone.

Ten seconds of tense
Perception remain to a dead man
When his head's been hacked
Off at the neck. I wonder,
Does he see (as he rolls away
From) his body, does he ponder the
Strangeness? Does he think
"That's me!" or does he not
Recognize those brainless parts:
Torso and legs, jittering arms suddenly
Without identity? More realistically,
Probably, he tries to scream
Without a throat, all thoughts of life
And death and hope choked out by
Ten seconds of tense pain.
It's difficult to not yet be dead
And wish to be alive again.

Dragon Boy is on stage again,
Roaring and crooning. His
Claws clutch, scratch and scrape
A hoard of glistening emotions.
His slick-sharp canines gleam
Between tight stretched lips;
Choppy, halting motions sway
His guitar-pent hips with the rhythm.
Leather wings beating and straining
Against the heavy wood stage -
He's gonna fly away at this rate.
He wrenches open iron jaws and
Suppressed fire screams from his
Throat, scorching his tongue,
Licking and charring the mic.
He'll take his usual tribute: untried,
Untested ears ringing in needy delight.
Then ache to his ancient diamond bones,
Slither fatly from an unruly stage,
And scuffle, sated, home.

Oh, my (yes) love,
The (hello) sun rising
In the tiniest square above
Sleepy us
Is (good morning) lovely;
Greeting your (kiss me) cheeks
In my (always) arms.

Your (just now) eyes
Were perfect lit in
Early yellow shine.
The (let me show you) sun is fine
On your (I need you) face.
In my holding place
I will fold and lock
Away this (one dawn) moment,
This (I love you dawning on me) trace.

Your (maybe?) hands quest
On my (definitely!) skin.
You take (closer?) breaths
To draw (yes, please) me in,
And my (here I am) sigh will
Fall on your (there you are) ears
Oh most always, my (yes!) love.