It could be the duchess
Or maybe the CEO
Or the media mogul
Who almost stole the show

Consider the brash *******
(He does look kind of shifty)
Then again there is the gambler
(Everyone calls him "Swifty")

Check out the carefree diplomat
With that fake smile but no charm
And then there's the airhead heiress
With tattoos adorning her arms

My money's on the senator
Always running, always winning
His wife seems kind of suspect too
With her endless mindless grinning

And then there is the debutante
Who flirted with the football star
And don't forget the pro golfer
Who spent so much time at the bar

But after all that guessing
Throughout the suspenseful show
Turns out the butler did it
...As if I didn't know!

what happens when you're a child
and your mother sits silent
in a room
staring at you
her mind dwelling
in some secret
unreachable place

even your name escapes her
                     _

what happens when
your father vanishes
in a haze of smoke
a sea of drink

a toppled monarch
in the kingdom
of your youth
      _

and what happens
when your heart breaks

the universe tilts
stars blink and fade
your heart shatters
like a miniature army
of glass soldiers...
broken, scattered everywhere
a  thousand    armless     heroes

Lately I've forgotten names
of friends I've known for years,
and sadnesses creep over me
with an unquiet suddenness
I cannot explain.
Some brief anguish slants
across my sunburned face
and all I welcome now
are days of endless rain.

A letter came for me
   the other day,
yet I can't bring myself
   to open it.
No fear accompanies
   my reluctance -
just a reel of cryptic film
running through my mind
of things gone wrong,
loved ones lost,
times misspent.

All I have now are memories
of fleeting smiles
and frightened eyes,
of unsure lips
whispering quiet lies.

So I find myself lying still
on a floor,
waiting for a ceiling to drop
and make me move once more.

and now we sing of whitney...
nothing can contain her she
takes the shape she fills
the space she moves
through ether
nothing can
stop her
beading
like quicksilver in constant
motion she flickers and a million
candles glow at her loveliness
nothing can blur her face so
perfect that angels hush to
behold her and when she sings "i
will always love you" only the
moon can hold that
magnificent voice
soaring beyond
the crest of
everest

a ceiling of stars can only
welcome this sparkling
laughing luminous
slip of a girl as she
ascends far from
earthly cares
up up up
she glitters in a swirl of
stardust

she is almost home

She plays the victim so often,
her small shaky voice
seems as tiny as she is,
those beautiful dark
   Russian eyes pleading
like rippling pools of fear...

And now she is here -
in this dark water -
no camera to record her fear,
no sound engineer
to capture her cries...
just a curious moon
spreading no light
as her slim form slips
almost imperceptibly
beneath the surface.

I wait in the cold current,
then surge forward,
grabbing her.

She's so fragile,
doll-like almost.
I can barely make out
her perfect features
in this troubled seascape.

I hold her firmly,
her face just above the wave.
We struggle in the darkness,
no ship's light,
no miracle lifeboat,
no compass, no guide...

I hold her tightly,
our breathing labored.
I hear her whispered prayers
like soft billowing epiphanies
carrying us
quietly   gently    safely
back to shore.

Sometimes in dreams
he would sense a stray bullet
whizzing by his head

but there was nothing visible
in that moment

everything translucent as air

In the dreams there would be
a strange sound of violin bows
swiftly sawing through strings
a nagging shrieking stabbing sound
- the strings from "******" -
bouncing off the shower walls

he would wake up
   screaming in the darkness
not sure where he was
his eyes glancing down
at his  hand
the index finger
perfectly formed to pull
an invisible trigger

My baby's born
a blank page

at first, no words graze
his pale bloated belly

fresh from a nap
he giggles mindlessly
as computer keys
tickle him rudely
their dark impressions clumped
just above his knotted navel

he will not mind
as I fold him neatly into thirds
slip him into
a number ten envelope
drop him in a mailbox
en route to an editor
whose judgment will not be clouded
by flesh and blood
or
pride and joy