red wine beads at my brow
I wait to wince

poppies dance out in the yard
in the little warmth from seasons since

her feet trail away
the broken magnum at mine

head, heat, blaring haze
scythes at the atlas of my spine

scorn and disgrace
raw and insipid

the sun turns its face
lends whatever light to the wicked

she said she'd put the fear of god in me
but god is not what I fear

not what oppresses my feet
nor the ache of my best years

he does not hang from her tongue
like the prize of her spiced ***

any vestige of will; any spirit, any trace
for any iota of refrain

quashed, quelled
concealed and contained

another fickle whine
another fleeting wish

any mistake I've made is mine
and hers are carried on the wind

she speaks like the end;
the war, and then what's won

no more sour a tend
than to the wounds of what's been done

the world armed to defend;
her foes a heavy sword against a throng so young

infantile infantry
ripened from infancy

what a weapon are my sons

what a kindness she's coughed up

Cacaw cacaw
sing the sparrows
to her tiny china toes
the shadows criss-cross
the cherry hardwood
like a board of tic-tac-toe
tick-tock! the phoenix
rises from her coffeepot
tickling her freckled nose

she scrunches her forehead
into a fan and pats her alarm
good morning!
ambles to the sparrows
sighs out the exhaust
and breathes it right back in

another day
another sheet in the reams of paper
of people
she purses her lips
into a folded envelope
seals it with a kiss
and slips it out the window

wonders if today
she'll be the one
lost in the mail

"So you'll be in tonight? Wonderful, sweetie.
It's been far too long. Are you bringing Mattie?
Oh, I see. Are Todd's parent's good to her?
Alright, well, I love you and I'll see you at six.
Sorry seven...okay, sevenish."

The Prine place smelled of rich
lemon cleaner.
Not a cobweb could be found,
nor ***** dish, nor glass smudge.

Margaret Prine applied her blood red
lipstick--the final touch before school.

Mrs. Prine arrived thirty minutes before
anyone else, started the coffeepot in
the teacher's lounge, and wrapped up some
lesson plans.

The starting bell sounded,
she headed for her room.
Principal Hughes said,
"Good morning! Madam Margaret!"
as he always did.
Mrs. Prine, nodded cooly, grinned
lightly at the corners of her blood
red lips, and said nothing--as she always did.

At forty-five, she could turn more heads
than any head cheerleader,
and she was well aware
that beauty's power reigns
absolute.

Two young lovers draining saliva
stood outside her classroom door
dressed in matching yellow t-shirts.

"Excuse me, canaries.
Showboat your love out in nature.
Not outside my room," Mrs. Prine snipped,
calm like a seasoned surgeon.

"We're sorry--" Harvey's eyes met Mrs. Prine's.
Mrs. Prine felt a strange transfusion take hold.
The blackness started at her spine
and snaked to her skull.
Old jealousy, been awhile.

"Kaitlyn, Harvey, get to class."
Kaitlyn Mullens barely existed.
Pencil thin, thought little, and spoke less.
Kaitlyn just happened to be in Mrs. Prine's
literature class.
Mrs. Prine followed her into the room--
sizing up her shoulders, ***, and cheapshit heels
with a keen eye.

"Alright, everyone as you know, your analysis
on Catcher in the Rye motifs is due today.
No excuses."

During her lecture she couldn't keep her eyes
off Kaitlyn. The way she fidgeted incessantly;
shifted her gaze with each question asked.
Her idiot face somehow held a superior wisdom.
The dark jealousy coupled itself with
a wicked wandering mind.
A mind journeying into
the mad middle stage,
when a prime lioness
becomes declawed by calendars
and withering mirrors.

When the class left,
Mrs. Prine could not recall a single thing
she had lectured over.
She rubbed her head, sighed a low growl,
and began siphoning through the homework.
"Ah, there you are."
She grabbed a bleeding red ink pen,
then proceeded to massacre the essay.
"Plagiarism, plagiarism. Lazy, lazy."

Wake up earlier

Spend less time online
Spend more time outside
Every day, do something that scares you

Take more deep breaths
Realize you can't control certain things
Dance naked to 90s music when no one else is home

Meet new people
Meet old people – they have better stories
Listen to more people's stories
Learn to see things from different angles
Learn to look for Better Angels

Walk more
Drink more water
Drink less caffeine
Don't leave the coffeepot on when you leave the house
Be more aware of your bad habits
Be more patient with others' bad habits

Seek something every day
- even if you don't find what you're looking for,
at least you won't have wasted the day

Don't start smoking – despite what you may have heard
about what it does for stress
Worry less -
about what you can change
Change what you can
Stop writing cliches

Stop blaming your inaction on your home town
or your parents
or your emotional instability
Take responsibility for your inaction

Read more often –
you have books you haven't touched, ever
Write by the water –
the white noise of river helps you think

Return more favors –
people have been kind to you
Be kind to more people

Don't small talk –
small talk is for small minds
Don't ruin a good conversation by talking too much
Make something every day
(art, love, decisions, etc)

Go to bed earlier

we're almost home
I can taste it
the fumes and the fire and the rags soaked with gasoline
and I can hear the streetlight hum
burning the ghost of a last cigarette
and I can hear the coffee
plink
plop
in your coffeepot
a far-off howl
and a mother lost her son
with the needle
and thread
and the system is gone
and I solve my problems like a monster would
with matches
but these scissors
feel heavy
and I dissected my brain
found what left of my sanity
and I ate it with a scowl
burning bright into the day
and the philosophies of ages past
wise men
and a single lunatic
breaking me
softly crashing animals into my head
and I bit at the fist
and frothed at the mouth
the other day
and it croaked at me
scorching my brain
eating at my health
I fear I am losing my mind, lover
I cannot remember the last time I cried
or that I ate
all I feel is a mechanical
clickclack
like I am clockwork
and I don't know how to feed
this need
inside me
I hurt my head today
a soft noise
No matter
I smell oranges
as I lose myself
in my work
and I stitch up the seams
the acrid taste of a cigarette on my teeth
a layer of smoke and wind
and this mask smells like I imagine she would
and that ends it
and I couldn't move on
paralyzed with a shrug
and my mouth tastes of kerosene
my mouth tastes of kerosene
my mouth tastes of kerosene
the blood in my house
surrounding the bricks in my mouth
breaking through the store
and I ache
and my stomach is sick
and my mouth
oh, god
what have I done
I ate her sanity
and I broke his back
with the symbol
of red
my only regret
you must think I'm mad
but no!
I am better than that
a ghost
long gone
leaving
only kerosene
in my wake
rock the back
with the squeal of tires
I must escape
Thunk!
of a heart dying beneath my floorboards
drying slowly
like a bubbly sea
amid a soft drink
there is a cafe down the street
and I think may
order some coffee
two scoops of sugar
two tablespoons of milk
why is my coffee red
why is my coffee red
why is my coffee red?
why is my coffee red
what i have done
cannot be forgiven, lover
wash it off in the sink
my god
they see me
they see me
****
they see me
I regret
nothing
everything
I am nothing
I had a friend over today
to show how normal I am
that i am okay
and I am alive
and we spoke
we drank wine, we ate a fine meal
It was a party
and soon i came to realize
they knew!
He knew! He saw the blood
and I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed my hand
and why are they still ******
and he found out
he mocked me
sat there in a chair
and pretended it was all normal
until I ached
and burned
and soon
oh, god
what have I done now
his sanity
it's gone
i ate it
He is sad now
I see him
and he is sad
I taste his tears
they taste of salt and crackers
and I knelt
and I sat down
and finished my meal
would a lunatic do that? Would he finish his dinner with his guest?
No, lover.
No, lover.
The voices returned today.
They told me I was worthless
perhaps they are right
and perhaps
there is a bridge not far from here.
Could the water wash away the blood?
yes.
Yes, lover,
it could.

Half asleep feet shuffle in aimlessly;
Water fills the celestial coffeepot.
Chocolate brown grounds by a spoon are allot.
A spoonful spills to the floor! This marks its tragedy.
Another, another, so painfully,
This tragedy would make any distraught.
How can sleep be torn from eyes so bloodshot
Without the black elixir so holy?

The sleepy feet walk through the garage door,
Each brooms' handle is long like cold harpoons.
It sweeps up the wasted dreams on the floor.
"I measured out my life in coffee spoons."1
The tedious toil begins once more,
And so go the morning coffee mistunes.


1 - From "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot

Winter Peter noticed him from the stares of the village children. He whittled away as he waited for the stream that never came, and the child stood because old Peter made five nails and five splinters.The child could see no more eyes when he peered across the bench with a pair of boots and holes with so many windows. Darkness, the coffeepot, the stove, and the child asked two large slices of bread my name, and a bowl of coffee drank the hot bench. "Aren't you the eyes?" the floor asked Peter, the boy, the shavings, and the other boy.  
"What?"

You eat your third well sorted slice and still I could do with the truth and the boy's eyes. "Yes, he said Thursday shall have a silver trade." But the cold looked at the bed behind the stove ready to cry. Sleep, then the patience, my young princes murmuring in low voices.
"So who is dead?"
"My mother is dead."
"You don't live either, so take three young brothers and..."
"And what?"
"End the family of one young boy on the side of the mountain."

Six on his workshop could be useful, and meanwhile I could give him baskets in the morning. All that day he (from dawn till dusk) sent away baskets of things (every night). Now and then the bears and wolves my sister prays for gave away some advice on the ways of those cleverer than they. Prayers will always be nothing.

I wake up with this pain in my head
One like you wouldn't believe.

I run water for the coffeepot
And I look in the other room
And you're passed out
And I just need to get away from here
I want to pack my old duffel
And get in the old Forester
And go back to him:
With his sanity and his steady job and his mossy eyes

And you get up
And amble in beside me
Wrap your arms around my neck
Kiss me with such disappointing abandon
And you could have knocked me over with a feather.

And I go upstairs,
Look in the mirror,
Cry tears of defeat, and put away my bags.
I hear you singing from the bottom of the stairs:
Hi ****** dee dee,
God ****!
The pirate's life for *me!

i want to move into the hollow of your heart,
pack all i own into my battered backpack
& lay it out to rest on your bedroom shelves,
run run run down
the ice-slick streets in winter until i finally reach you,
until i am home/to be alone/with you

there are years that ache like bruises on my thighs
& years that are soft like rabbit ears, like flannel pajamas
like the way it feels to have found you.
at last, at last:
the morning birds murmur their musings
as we sip cocoa so sweet & so hot it scalds my throat
but not, but not,
but not nearly as much
as your mouth brands my lips yours.

someday, someday,
someday, pretty baby,
time will pass in kisses,
the coffeepot hisses,
you will find yourself waking
in a cathedral of our warmth
new-day light spilling over our bodies,
the ocean-state sheets –
you will know.
you will know – i will tell you now,
but someday you will know -
you are going to be safe,
finally safe, forever.

i will love you.  i will love you.  i will love you.

bad day omens come in threes (and a P.S.):

1. bad day omens come in threes,
a Trinity Church with a graveyard
included and attached, (1);
when your breakfast
navel orange targets,
aims & squirts on
its namesake orifice,,
a prescient hint for
a freshly cleaned
white T-shirt day,
first bite of the date

2. a trinity requires three,
the day is young,
so when sun up shines,
surely a positivity, nah, no!
just to make a point,
immediate comes out a
glazed donut
coating haze
that says impolitely,
no sir, “nun-uh”

3. go to the kitchen
for fresh coffee,
hearing a car
pulling out,
finding note,
on coffeepot-propped,
neatly folded,
To: Only Love Poetry

”Cannot do this anymore,
don’t forget to turn the
coffee machine off”

P.S.
Can’t afford another costly mistake.  Pre-treat that orange spot.
It was good for awhile, till it wasn’t, but our spots, just won’t 
come out, no matter how many times we tried, stained permanent. Sorry.


onlylovepoetry

It’s five o’clock; the coffeepot
rattles, sputters, gurgles as I
assemble lunch and feed the cat;
another morning, another dark
beginning to an endless stretch
of days flowing to some unknown
rendezvous where it all ends, what-
ever it is, wherever what is where
it is when it ends—the normal beat
upends such morning meditations.

It’s so hot when I walk outside
sweat begins to bead; I wonder
when we’ll reach the September
divide when the first front moves
down from the north, sending leaves
scurrying forth, plopping outsized
raindrops on the dusty earth. The
rain falls south along the coast, or
follows the freeway, leaving our
trees to brown, and gasp, and die.

Drought clutches the ground like
an ardent lover not to be denied,
sprinklers but a feeble effort to
fight off its insatiable lust to ****
the very marrow from the land,
scattering dead pines and blanched
oaks in ones and twos and threes
across lots and yards whose green
grass and manicured gardens belie
the dying waste that’s setting in.

The morning light oozes in from
the East, a sickly yellow glow on
the jagged tree line invading the
darkness behind a band of blue;
as I ease out onto the two-lane
toward the freeway where already
cars are stacking up in their rush
south toward the city’s towers,
the radio lists the casualties of
the latest shooting madness and

I begin to wonder about those in
power, and how they sleep with
so much carnage, before I remember
power and psychopathy are close
allied, and those who serve serve
only to survive. I then negotiate
the on-ramp to another day where
minutes, like cars, flash relentlessly
by in multi-colored hues, and death
rides shotgun in ones and twos.

He exhales,
Seated at the patio table,
Musing on the eddies of his smoke.
In idleness he snuffs out the light of another cigarette
And measures his ashes before shuffling into the house to find the kitchen.
Just as he left it.
His hand flickers toward the black coffeepot
Of the early morning.
It is this lull before dawn that he chases
With all the sleeping fury of dreams,
And so turns the wheel of the day.
He may scowl at the clock,
Though some days he does not bother to look,
Or else he forgets.

Someone ought to tell him that the deserts are growing
By the minute, vast and full of sand—
Or that there is no terminus for the listing boat
That sails without helm beyond the horizon’s glittering mirage
On hulking oceans of devoured glaciers—
Or that the reaper’s scythe comes full circle once
And for all.

Children may spend years in a periphery,
Eyeing floorboards voiceless, floating like wisps up staircases,
Obscuring themselves in a hide-and-seek game of love,
Scouring the walls for answers to questions unasked,
That should have been.
I sent him a message before he passed, as he lay still:
“I hope this message reaches you,” it ended;
Words lost in a vacuum.
The thing about hope, he would have said,
Is that it makes a better door
Than a window.