I fell in love with your poetry
just a grey haired Aphrodite
imperfect face artifacts of age

we head to the all night diner
full of drag queens and communists
to steal a few words lost in smoke

amid the buzz we grab lines and
put them back like Salvador Dali,
Dylan Thomas and Charles Bukowski.

I didn't set out to confess my
broken self to you. My shrink
said write about my suffering
as catharsis. I put my soul on
pages and pages and just kept
vomiting my pain. Forgive me.
The only ending to it was my
head in an oven full of death.

Dying at your own hand left
  broken hearts behind. Maybe
  that was your intent? It might
  have been a desperate resignation
  from the pains all our lives inflict.
  Maybe one more day we'd have met.

Why do we obsess on your death?
Wear mother's furs and die in a car
painless, breathing her dead breath
as your own in the closed garage.
You painted your suffering in such
splendid colors and signed it AS.

lose your dress
forget duress
just say yes
I'll confess
let's bless
our mess.

Wrapped in her dead mother's fur coat inside her Buick
in a closed garage with a glass of ***** for courage she
smoked a final cigarette and floored it and just died,
a final act in her play. She died with this poem in mind.
I had to write it for the dead girl called Anne who had
such difficulty living her role on this ******* stage.

Wrapped in her dead mother's fur coat inside her Buick
in a closed garage with a glass of ***** for courage she
smoked a final cigarette and floored it and just died,
a final act in her play. She died with this poem in mind.
I had to write it for the dead girl called Anne who had
such difficulty living her role on this ******* stage.

Wrapped in her dead mother's fur coat inside her Buick
       in a closed garage with a glass of ***** for courage she
       smoked a final cigarette and floored it and just died,
       a final act in her play. She died with this poem in mind.
I had to write it for the dead girl called Anne who had
such difficulty living her role on this lonely stage.

Your beautiful corpse reminds me
of the kindest lovers I abandoned.
You're still Anne from death by gas.
Hair and makeup perfect after all.
Your poetry had you rowing out to sea
to die in saltwater ugly and shriveled.
You could never sacrifice your beauty
even for commitment to fierce suicide.

I speak to you from some dirt in a field.
I couldn't say where. We were soldiers in
deadly combat. We all left intact lives to
throw death's dice for some forgotten glory.
We died in piles and found our way to burial
as the months turned to years. Dead brothers
in arms in historic battlefields with plaques.
I miss your last kiss when you said come home.

New years eve and party toward midnight.
Our great escape to a new beginning we
promise it will be different this year.
We're born again. I'll love you better.
I'll love you more. I'll be who you want.
I'll love you like the night we were us.

Believe me, Child
there's always an answer
waiting for your question.
Just ask me at noontime.
In the shade of the big oak
while we drink iced tea
and I'm sober and free
from the demon who
haunts me at two
demanding *****
to set me loose
to die another day.

There are silent moments of calm
    when something disturbs a surface
    enough to wake doubt and fear and
    pounds our hearts and steals our air.

    Terrifying! Anxiety. I thought I
    had defeated you. I knew better.
    You're always floating about me.
    Catholic guilt without a reason.

The water is calm, motionless.
     Something disturbs the surface
     enough to wake doubt and fear and
     pound my heart and numb my face.

     Terrifying! Anxiety. I thought
     ****** had tamed your treason.
     You're always floating above me.
     Guilt with no anchor of reason.

The weight of it
makes me a statue
unable to move
know what's true
I love you but it
dies on the vine
guilt kills it all
dreams live in wine.
I float in rain
dance on the drops
lessens the pain
connects the dots.

Between the trenches of war among the
    shell holes and pieces of men strewn about
    there is a patch of grass untouched to
    remind us of good old days in pubs where
    we shared pints with one another and spoke
    of the excitement of war's engagement how
    we scatter the enemy and in a month plant
    our flag on a hill of their blood and bones.
    Men and horses dead on the barbed wire the
    smell becomes normal rats eat us in sleep.

Between the trenches of war among the
    shell holes and pieces of men strewn about
    there is a patch of grass untouched to
    remind us of good old days in pubs where
    we shared pints with one another and spoke
    of the excitement of war's engagement how
    we scatter the enemy and in a month plant
    our flag on a hill of their blood and bones.

Between the trenches of war among the
    shell holes and pieces of men strewn about
    there is a patch of grass untouched to
    remind us of good old days in pubs where
    we shared pints with one another and spoke
    of the excitement of war's engagement how
    we scatter the enemy and in a month plant
    our flag on a hill of their blood and bones.
    Men and horses dead on the barbed wire the
    smell becomes normal rats eat us in sleep.

some seek solace in their Bible
some look inside their poems
those desiring death's release
will take its flight no matter
I hope they find a perfect dark
where all is none. eternal sleep
no more panic in guts or fear
of the wicked clown in closets
or teachers who **** us and we
like it but shouldn't. but we do.

some seek solace in their Bible
some look inside their poems
those desiring death's release
will take its flight no matter
I hope they find a perfect dark
where all is none. eternal sleep
no more panic in guts or fear
of the wicked clown in closets
or teachers who **** us and we
like it but shouldn't. but we do.

some seek solace in their Bible
some search inside their poems
those desiring death's release
will take its flight no matter
I hope they find a perfect dark
where all is none. eternal sleep
no more panic attacks or fear
of the wicked clown in closets
or teachers who **** us and we
like it but shouldn't. but we do.

some seek solace in their Bible
some look inside their poems
those desiring death's release
will take its flight no matter
I hope they find a perfect dark
where all is none. eternal sleep
no more panic in guts or fear
of the wicked clown in closets
or teachers who **** us and we
like it but shouldn't. but we do.

I caught your demon
so beautiful in my dreams
I'll never wake again
prisoner of my slumber.

We met in a bar called Rugby's.
Our puzzles fit perfectly.
I was your perfect shadow
in your perfect mirror and
you seduced me but forgot
to silence the sirens on shore.

He was a cousin born with a brain tumor
they removed but left him most befuddled.
He came to visit in Charleston's edges where
we didn't have a **** thing we didn't provide.
I was the girl who worried about everything.
Petty Bette they called me but **** them all.
What if he falls off the porch and gets hurt?
Don't fret, child, give him a piece of string
and he'll trouble nobody. Amen. He spent the
rest of the day pondering that string like
it held the answers to the universe. I think
that string might be the boy's God almighty.
The lord works in mysterious ways I'm told.
When I die in my fog I'll ponder that string.

There's a poem in there if
   I can strip away the debris
   and polish it like silver
   and read it at a posh affair.
   I'll use a singsong baritone
   to give it gravity. It matters.

There's a poem in there if
   I can strip away the debris
   and polish it like silver
   and read it at a posh affair.
   I'll use a singsong baritone
   to give it gravity like Dylan.

I stumble upon something that
triggers something that starts
a poem. A phrase or a word that
touches me in a way I don't get.
There's no ignoring it. It jumps
on the page demanding attention.
It suckles on the pen until it
stands and storms ramparts.

I stumble upon something that
    triggers something that births
    a poem. A phrase or a word that
    touches me in ways I can't ignore.
    It suckles on the pen until it
    stands and storms the ramparts.

Thanks for birthing me!
   Without you I'd be a spot.
   The only thing I ask is
   reduce me to my essence.

   Rid me of peacock verbiage
   and self absorbing preening.
   I know I've suffered in
   ways known only to me.

Let me be rejected by
City Lights and Beats
quiet as a Xmas mouse
dead in morning sheets.

Thanks for birthing me!
   If not for you I'd be an ink spot.
   The only thing I ask is you
   reduce me to my essence.

   Rid me of ******* verbiage
   and self absorbing preening.
   We know you've suffered in
   ways known only to you.

   Show my unspoken words;
   The ugly truths of shame
   that will send me to hell.
   Expose the heinous me.

We are defined by many things in our lives.
  You're a good son. A great older brother.
  An eagle scout and crazy *** metal guitarist.
  A firebug and science nerd and my friend.

  I know cancer is devastating and destroys.
  Loved ones collateral damage of your despair.
  You can't control your cancer. Life or death.
  Your victory is remaining Michael.

We are defined by many things in our lives.
  You're a good son. A great older brother.
  An eagle scout and crazy *** metal guitarist.
  A firebug and science nerd and my friend.

  I know cancer is devastating and destroys.
  Loved ones are targets for despair's anger.
  You can't control your ending. Life or death.
  Your victory is remaining you. Michael.

My poetry starts with nicotine.
     After awhile I mixed in alcohol.
     Catholicism is a main ingredient.
     Puberty is a wicked mix of Absinthe.
     Next I add a father broken from war.
     My mom could be friend or betrayer.
     I had to maintain a delicate balance
     between being real or just amusing.
     Amusing is easy. Real is impossible
     yet here I am confessing once again.

My poetry starts with nicotine.
     After awhile I mixed in alcohol.
     Catholicism is a main ingredient.
     Puberty is a wicked mix of Absinthe.
     Next I add a father broken from war.
     My mom could be friend or betrayer.
     I had to maintain a delicate balance
     between being real or just amusing.
     Amusing is easy. Real is impossible
     yet here I am confessing my sins.

Oh Appalachia!
We live poor but are
richer for it. We scratch
a meager living in your
stubborn hills but would
not live anywhere else. You
hold our hearts and provide.
We love. We have babies. We are
welded here to family and friends
and dance in barns Saturday nights
to fiddles and banjos and moonshine.
Bury me on a mountain top in sunshine.

You can't rush a still's chemistry.
Mountain folks know all about
revenuers and they're reaching
for our wallets. Taxes is just a
word for robbery. Leave us to
ourselves. We scratch a living
from the rocky soil and barely
eat from day to day. We dance
to banjos and fiddles and love
in the hayloft to fill our needs.
Our mountains cradle our hearts.
Hardscrabble is our legacy.
We have hearts of coal
and love our mountain!

You can't rush a still's chemistry.
Mountain folks know all about
revenuers and they're reaching
for our wallets. Taxes is just a
word for robbery. Leave us to
ourselves. We scratch a living
from the rocky soil and barely
eat from day to day. We dance
to banjos and fiddles and love
in the hayloft to sow our seeds.
Our mountains cradle our hearts.
Hardscrabble is our legacy.
We have hearts of coal
and love our mountain!

It's a beauty of a red rose.
  It's a watercolor on a bed sheet
  petals bloom from his wound.
  She'd had it and found a gun
  and courage and anger enough
  to put him out of her misery.

I can't seem to relax.
  At night my bed's on fire.
  My brain is crawling with
  Armageddon spiders and
  society is choosing sides
  hate is everywhere and my
  friends are nowhere, man! I
  know better and I need sleep
  give me shelter in your arms
  or blindfold me on your wall.

I set it on fire and burned
it back into hell to sleep
another decade or two
you said something that
was really important.
I never heard you above
the screams and hatred
I'm on the outside again.
Armageddon.

I'm your portal to eternity
      take my hand and dance with me
      whirl and curtsy you will see
      how wonderful to be so free
      unadorned with puppet strings
      no more irksome gravity
      no appointments to obey
      no monthly bills to pay
      a thought takes you where
      ever you wish instantly.
      No need to fear death now.
      It's done with and forgotten,
      old debt paid with your blood.
      Take my hand and dance my Waltz.

I'm your portal to eternity
      take my hand and dance with me
      whirl and curtsy you will see
      how wonderful to be so free
      unadorned with puppet strings
      no more irksome gravity
      no appointments to obey
      no monthly bills left to pay
      no more Hail Marys to pray
      my soul found its home today.

I burned our love to the ground
    myself. I soaked it all in
    kerosene and lit the match
    and threw it at the very heart.

   There was cruelty, ugly words,
   petty slights. Sometimes there was love.
   We danced so hard at night in our cups
   we'd fall to the floors laughing.

   I let you go and fell apart but very
   slowly began to piece my parts back
   where they belonged. I heard
   music again; it never sounded right.

   Years have brought much love to my
   door. I've held many women close and
   played at love the best I could
   with my heart so out of tune.

Reduced in flames
an urn of cremains
no coffin necessary
no fake grave to bury.

I try drawing your memories fading.
   Your eyes aren't right. I can't taste
   you that destroyed my earnest vows
   with Lust's cruelest and rapid waste.

   I can't feel your warm young *******,
   ******* that grew so hard by my caress.
   I can't see us dancing naked in the dark.
   We drink we fight we wonder at the mess.

   I wish I'd kept the photos. I cremated us
   in an ashtray drunk so many years ago.
It all plays out eventually after all.
We all end up ashes in afterglow.

The disaster took me by surprise. I never
  saw it coming. Madness piled on madness like
  a quilt made of patches of blown up skin.
  So much debris in the air we lost breath
  and went blind and called for our lost loves.
  We slept snug beneath the quiet aftermath.

The disaster took me by surprise. I never
  saw it coming. Madness piled on madness like
  a quilt made of patches of burned up skin.
  So much debris in the air we lost breath
  and went blind and called for our lost loves.
  We slept snug beneath the quiet aftermath.

I thought we were In Love. We held on tight
  and filled our needs with pegs and holes and
  belief in romantic magic to rise above it all.
  We spent our allowance and I hitched a ride to
  Boston and betrayed Christ in a garden of Eden.
  I sold my soul for silver, my bones on a cross.

I've parchment skin
blue veins within
my brain goes wild
a mad sugar child
I see my life over
four leaf clover
deliver me to her
an old bed lover.