Tonight,
my sweet boy
left.

My baby boy.

Helped his birth.
Kissed every inch
of his growth.
Teached him
every taste and texture and smell.
His hand in my throat
to articulate every sound.
Made him giggle
the very first time.

My baby boy.

All the stories,
all the words.
'You are my intelligence',
he wrote once,
age five.

My sweet boy.

He left.
As he should,
to live with his mother.

I have stayed for him.

Now,
for whom
would I stay?

There is nothing
left for me
to wish for.

Maybe
he will think of me
and smile.

[14/07/14]

The hair on my back
is all but gone,
my claws and fangs retracted,
they'll be no more late nights for me
& thank God,
they were killing my wardrobe,
let alone the locals.

The dude wore
a desert-cammie boonie,
cut-off cargos
& chain-smoked Camels.
He was a walking billboard, too.
On his right calve,
an inked rattler
lay coiling,
buzzing,
"Don't Tread On Me"
& on his left
was etched
the *******,
spewing,
"**** Iraq!"

God, I loved him.

with quiet mischief;
on the brink of sanity
sleeps insanity