Through silken waters
My gondola glides—
And the bridge... it sighs

                   Bryan Ferry


Oh for Transcendence to sit on my face
Refreshing my vision with her pure grace.
For that bright vista I’d gladly go blind
Beholding her glory: my daily grind.
I’ll talk to her forests in feline tongues,
Mouth-to-mouth lip service, heart, soul and lungs.
Tropical therapy; her countryside
Where medicinal landscapes open wide…
Then poling my gondola into port
On the waterway of love’s last resort.

When I consider how my **** is flushed,
   Ere half my days on this sad seat and wide,
   And that foul stench that smells like something died
Filled me with disgust, and high ideals crushed
To wipe therewith my *******, and present
   My true account, lest bathroom-users chide;
   “Doth God review the toilet-paper side?”
I grimly ask. The vent-fan, to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
   Either tissue or a new roll. Who best
   Clean their smeared ***, their slate is clean. To think
Is one thing, nature’s urgent call to heed
   Is quite another; Milton said it best:
   They also serve who only sit and stink.”

Woman, thy nastiness to me
Is like old Nikes on the floor
Where sweat and mildew disagree
And force me to the nearest door
A stench I can't ignore.

Your heart weighs less than styrofoam,
Thy stinking feet, thy scowling face,
Belong in some state nursing home . . .
Free me up some breathing space,
You mean-hair clipped-face gnome.

Lo, in yon dark recliner-chair
How meatloaf-like I see thee slump,
Upon your wide immobile ****,
Ah! Harpie of the greasy hair
Unholy Frump!

The problem you have is you've nothing to say.
These MFA promptings are good for a yawn..
So scribble some **** and then call it a day
Since most of your readers have long since moved on.

Love the ocean more
than a dark bar
on a Friday night.

For there are plenty
of fish in the sea,
yet nobody is here for you.

Love the ocean more
than a summer night’s air,
for only one
can leave you breathless.

Love the ocean more
then the stars,
because one’s a mystery,
without ever
having to leave home.

Love the ocean,
because it’s telling you
you’re human.

How does it feel,
to know the secrets
of an entire city?

I mean, you can see
everything.

The handshake
for a sold deal,
a new cooperation,
a million jobs created,
another million destroyed.

How does it feel,
to see a ***** street rat,
a plastic bag of sugarcane,
vermin taking their pick
of Chinatown’s lovely leftovers?

How does it feel,
to see children
turning into fathers?

To have them grow,
hoping, praying,
that one day they’ll
be as tall as you?

That the children
will fly among the stars,
angels cursed to play tag,
for just a little bit longer.

How does it feel,
to know that one day,
your favorite will slam
his apartment door
closed for the last time,
bags packed into boxes,
driving into a tunnel,
your line of sight gone,
never to return?

How does it feel,
to know that he might
love the ocean more?

Under a blanket of deadlines,
of exams proctored by a machine,
eye movements consistent
with a learner’s lie,
I found solace tonight.

I decided not to give a ****.

My computer remained unopened,
a calendar a forgotten application,
not a thought given
to the glare of a grade book.

My bed was warm,
the cloth of sheets and PJs
wrapping around my body like a hug,
hiding me from the ghosts,
shed from the television screen.
Ghosts that wiped my tears
after the hours of repeated drama.

While my sheets slept,
I opened a page.
No, not a page full of fact,
the monotonous monster
which is studying,
but a separate world.

I ceased to exist,
become one with a novel,
falling deeper,
deeper.

I won’t even remind myself
that tomorrow, I’ll have to work.

Hey Mommy?

When I type bat instead of cat, do the letters get mad at me?

Is it a vacation, a retirement to the land far away,
full of words I’ll never get to know,
or did I send them away to crumble into pixels?

Is that forgotten apology chopped up
into little pieces in the back of the computer,
a plastic box under the harddrive
that Daddy gets to clean out
when he refills the printer ink?

I want to read the book filled with all the lost letters,
the one where my fourth-grade book report
comes after the job application you were never qualified for,
but just before the neighbor’s college essay,
deleted so his own Mommy could help him.

Hey Mommy?

Can I ever check on them?

I hope they turn into a book about superpowers.

I’d be sad if these keys turned into nothing more
than a scrapped poem or a forgotten apology.

Hey Mommy?

I miss the forgotten letters.

Do you think they ever miss me?

I hope every day
brings you as much joy
as you felt riding down
that Florida highway.

I hope you can drive
with the windows down,
sunroof open,
a convertible as safe
as your recurring fairytale.

I hope the wind
blows through your hair,
the humidity feeling
like a warm hug
from the clouds.

I hope the music is loud,
and you know every word.

I hope you’re present.