since becoming housed here since this year
july first two thousand and seventeen,
   tubby more precise where
with thee missus, amidst bucolic environs,
   (one could don underwear

Schwenksville, Pennsylvania  
   trees abundant with leaves of grass spare
zip cone: one nine four seven three,
   this resident doth not find queer

disproportionate amount of time,
   he spends never to overhear
the mostly soundproof walls
   inside apartment b44 assigned midyear,

one bedroom living social space
   gives ample opportunity to assess linear
ratcheting asper elderly folks inch along
   chronological space/time continuum
   fragile as jasperware  

many experience diminution
   of vital sensory organs, and oft time cannot hear
even without television blasting away,
   no doubt harboring anticipatory anxiey sans,

   grim reaper's unannounced visit they fear
their non verbal body language
   (when aye espy and stride-rite past,
   an old lady or man riding shot gun

   securely strapped in wheel chair,
   shuffling back where buffalo used to roam,
   or trudging to common
   all purpose gathering place)

   speaks volumes analogous to a frightened deer
when caught blindsided
   within bright lights of an automobile 'ere
unsure which way to go, and dashing out in the thick
   of evening rush hour traffic,

   lacking notion, the figurative coast not clear
subsequently doe ting bucks killed, where birds of prey
   thence loftily circle gracefully  
   gliding within upper atmospheric air

upon scrutinizing what doth appear
as a hollowed out existence induces me to de clear
to maximize utilizing each precious moment 'ere
before each major metaphorical cog and gear
frankly zaps, this dude looks like a lady,

   cuz ah ma longish bedraggled
   hydrogen peroxide tinted hair
me haint give a rats ***
   what rumor mongers relish, and behind me back jeer

Since old people lack for purposefulness tis unlike to leer
that one day (fast as snap of fingers),
   lack of being ambulatory t'will be near
and upon limitation in physical functionality,
   aye aim to app pear
motivated to partake of mental exercises
   just sitting on me rear.

Blue Fever

Remembering that,
in some preserved chamber of my sanity,
is your name.

Scarred into dying birch.
Etched in some warped bench.

Call me, sometime.
know me as the sometimes you once held under a warm sky.

I’m in bed, feet wrapped in blankets and my sides are cramped up.
There’s a slight chill,
your touch lingers.

and it burns.

Hand me another drink.

something drowning in rocks,
a crystal blue, like the sea you swim in.

sinking, submerged in you.
I want to swim again,

but , to be this blue,
I cannot imagine I’d want to swim in my own sorrows.

Recall the past
Refill the glass
Relive his lust
Regret his touch
Return to life
Remember strife
Regain your loss
Retrain your thoughts
Release all stress
Redeem all left

Reveal the fear...

Recall the past
Refill the glass
Remember life
Regret all strife
Regain your drink
Realize; rethink...

Recall the past
Spill out the glass
Think of his lust
Hold back his touch
Make most of life
Be rid of strife
Though full of loss
Think happy thoughts
Always battle the stress
But have some hope left

And no longer hold fear

i swore i’d stop writing about you
three poems ago. i swore i’d stop
hurting myself but i’m bleeding again.
i swore i’d move on and not look back
but i almost called you last night.
i never swore i’d delete your number.

where did you go?
what drove you away from
late nights smoking in my room?
you’d always play my guitar.
but only knew the beginnings
to most songs; i still
tried to sing along.

i’ve been drinking again and
it’s not your fault. *** washes
away the scars you left and
keeps me from thinking
about all the flaws you
could have been running from.

i’m hanging up this line for good.

Pink Hotel

and behind some bitter, white picket fence
she sat
actually, she stalled.

Tapped her feet on the pavement, cuddled the curb in her ripped dress.
She wore pink in her hair,
little slivers of an innocent, chapped lip.

a dying pink.

The fence creaked with the interrupting wind.
and she stood, danced across the street.

cracked hands gripping frigid door handles,
come on in.

Torn garments, wisps of pink flying from her head,
she felt pretty in pink,
third grade, mother-just-bought-a-new-bow pretty,
innocent, dad-bought-me-glittery-shoes pretty.

Painless pretty.
Sane pretty.

No more
he-just-wants-to-see-me-bare pretty,
he-gives-me-lots-of-drinks pretty,

Worthless pretty.
Lost pretty.

Pink matter that drips onto a glass floor,
everyone can see through it,
through her.

What is it, woman?
she gave her hand to a solo cup,
So alone.
Pink drink, it’s good for you,
good to me.

To the third floor,
and lay down.

do you like the pink?


He always said I looked good with pink.



-C.M Aldecoa