In all my years as professor of Paleontology at Ublique University, I never thought I'd have a bad day. My life was a happy one. I had a car that was payed for. A cold refrigerator, full of food. New & improved gadgets & gizmos. A wife who would rub my back on request. & it all changed when I turned 42.

It was the morning of August 12th when things changed. An orange & cool, slightly windy day. The sun had a warmth that started as soon as I woke up. No heat. Just warmth. I woke up to find nobody at my bedside.

"Bacon." I quietly whispered in excitement.

If Sharon woke up before me that meant breakfast. & that meant coffee. I could use some. The night before, we had a party celebrating my 42nd birthday. A special one I think. Making it to 40 is a feat. Surviving the next year is an accomplishment. But, driving gracefully past 41 into a mature 42 is... smooth.

I stretch & roll out of bed. Squeezing into my slippers I noticed the bedroom is messier than usual. A few things are missing out of my drawers & the rest of my room. The bathroom is missing a few things as well. Soap, washcloths, towels &...

Oh dear, lipstick!

There's a lipstick message on the mirror in elegant cursive. "Goodbye" is all it says & needs to say. Sharon's left & taken my heart & soul with her. & the bacon.
"Alright, time to think." I keep repeating in my head. I'm thinking, but only one thought comes to mind.

"Why?"

Sharon's gone. I get up from the bed. My heart drops to the floor. That's not her handwriting. We've been robbed & she's been taken for ransom.



I sit down for a minute.
No!

Not for ransom!

It's a sicker crime. They only want her. For their own sick, twisted reasons.

"****, what should I do?" the only thing rushing through my body.

Again. Stop it.

I run downstairs into the kitchen. Alright, i have a knife. I'm armed & dangerous. I run into the living room. My blood runs cold. They're still here. ****, ****, ****, ****, ****, ****.

I run back upstairs.

In a flash of white light the scenery changes.

I'm in a hospital.

"How did I get here?" I ask myself. My stomach hurts & my left arm & leg are wound in casts. There's a vibrant red lipstick stained kiss on my left foot with the words, "You knew all along" written in cursive along the bottom of the kiss. Before I can collect my thoughts, a sharp looking doctor walks in.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to run with scissors? Or rather, knives?" he asks.

She did & I musn't have listened. I had a hard time listening. Sharon! She almost slipped my mind.

"Doctor, I need to go home." I semi-ask.

He rebuttals with, "Nope, the wound in your stomach isn't life threatening, but we want to keep you here for a few days."

I bite my tongue ax logic kicks in.

"Okay." I say.

I'm going to escape.

I pull out the IV's in my arm & look for my clothes. Can't find them, so I settle for the guy's down the hall. They're a little loose on me, but the belt fits. The shoes however, do not. ****. How am I going to get past the guards?

Wait, there aren't guards in hospitals. Are there?

No.

Maybe.

No.

Definitely not.

I take the elevator down to the main floor & walk out the front door. It was easier than I thought to escape from a hospital.

I'm outside & no one is chasing me. I hail a cab & realize my wallet is back at the hospital. This whole thing is crazy, I know.

I arrive at home & pay the guy with some of Sharon's jewelry. Looking around, I realize the living room isn't trashed. & only Sharon's purse & shoes are missing downstairs. Maybe she wasn't taken for ransom.

Again, time to sit down & relax. Not relax, but think.

Last night. Something must have happened last night.

Okay, there was a party. It was a surprise party. Ron, Sue, Burgundi, Jon & a few people from the campus were there.

I'm not that guy who hates surprise parties. Or surprises for that matter. They're great. So, I remember walking in the door a spectacular Friday. All my students  wished me a happy birthday.

The house was dead dark when I walked in & then, KABOOM!

The place lit up. "Happy Birthday!" they all shouted & champagne is thrown my way. All was normal there. I talked to everyone. Had cake & opened my presents. My favorite was the pen/pencil combo.

Then I went outside to the backyard, lit a cigar & watched a silvery, grayish cat scurry along our wooden fence. Night had fallen & the moon was half full.

I can't believe I broke my leg, my arm & stabbed myself in the stomach. I walk back upstairs to change.

Wait.

There's no blood on the stairs. & who called 911?

It's quiet in the house. Too quiet. Someone's here. I'm three steps up the stairs, no point in turning around. The bedroom & office are safe. So are the closets. Under the bed as well.

Relax. Change clothes & relax. It's difficult getting into pants now, but I make it happen.

Back downstairs. The living room, kitchen & bathroom are safe. Okay. Either I don't bleed or something strange is going on. Maybe, Sharon came back & saw me.
But she couldn't be that heartless as to leave me in the hospital alone, could she? Oh no! Maybe she didn't come into the house. Maybe, she really has been kidnapped.

I'm staring at my hand. Noticing the deep & fine wrinkles along with my veins & cuticles. My palms look like satellite images of rivers & microscopic views of capillaries. There is a candy bar on the coffee table. I eat it & instantly feel better.

My head swings back & my body warms & tingles. I close my eyes & see my granpa showing me how to measure & cut wood to turn it into something useful. We're making forms for a concrete pathway from the house to the garden. A blooming garden with peas, onions, spinach & okra. I reach my hand to write my name in the wet concrete & a bee stings me. It hurts for a millisecond. Then the pain moves away. My granpa looks at me from in the garden. Then he hunches over to look at something in the ground. My arms goes numb as I walk towards him. I feel something pulling me back.

I look behind me & see myself unraveling. The threads of my shirt & cast are being unwound like thread from a spool. In a few steps, I'm naked. I keep walking as my granpa shouts my name. I see his mouth moving, but can't hear him. My body feels lighter with every step. I look at my bee wound & find that my hand is unraveling along with my arm & the rest of me. Layer by layer I'm being unwound. I'm down to my nervous system, brain & eyeballs when I open them & see my granpa's face. he's smiling. I'm down to my eyes when I start to look at what my granpa sees.

Time slows & my eyeballs unravel,
leaving me in complete & silent darkness.

people build
their homes

out of the age of
their tea kettle and
which plants they keep
on the windowsill

by whether or not
the cups and plates match
if the cupboards are
minimalist or overstuffed

from the color of the walls
and state of the floor

right down to what they
hang on the fridge
the scent they choose
for their dish soap

and the way the words
come out of their mouths

i am tired of tending
to other people’s homes
using their sponges
watering their dead plants
sweeping their floors
and smelling their dish soap

tired of listening to
my words crumbling
as fast as i can
get them out

and i want a home
with fresh flowers on
the counter at all times
something delicious
simmering on the stove
with hot tea every night
and cream line cappuccinos
every morning for breakfast

the plates don’t need to match
although i’d like them to
i know i’m not that type of person
and the mugs and washcloths don’t
need to be handmade but i’m sure
most of them will be anyway

with a goldfish
and succulents
both of which will live
long healthy lives

yellow walls and maybe a
sunny breakfast nook
with a crochet lace valence
over top the window

your hand
to hold
your chest to rest
my head on at night

and when the dishes rattle
it won’t be in frustration or
anger but in peels
of citrus and laughter

*i’m ready to build
a home of my own
and i want to build it
with you by my side

The color of death is not black, is not white.  
                                                        ­                        Not red, not gold.  
Think: ashen skin.  
                               Think: where did the blood go?  
                                                          ­                       Think: pale, so ******* pale.
Bruise again.  He’s going to bruise again.  
     Mottled red   and      purple   and      blue   and      green   and      yellow.
That’s what the body does after death.  Blood runs down
to the lowest bend of the body and bruises the skin.  

The rust of cerebrospinal fluid as it sloshes
                      back and forth
       in the bag hanging above the bed.  
                                                      My mother’s hands:
white knuckled and gripping down on washcloths
to prevent her from breaking the skin of her palms.
The constant hum of telemetry,
                                the soft whoosh of the ventilator.

The human body has roughly 7% of its weight in blood.
The human body has no ******* idea what to do when
there is too much or too little of really anything.
Think: blood vessel bursting.
                            Think: cells mutating.
                                                  Think: proned patient coding after intubation.

Bruised.  His hands were bruised from all the needle-sticks,
from his lack of platelets.  And a single transfusion only goes so long.
                                                           ­   Goes three weeks long.  
The hands on the belly, laid so gently, so carefully are
covered in makeup.  The hair is parted wrong with a cowlick.
I know how they created that soft smile on his closed mouth.
                                                                         I’ve read the books.
                                            I’ve heard the talks from morticians.  
They’ve made my grandfather tan, but
I know what’s underneath the foundation:
                                                                                  grey.

I know why God is there
When nights blow cool wind
Onto the stringy hair of paupers
And on streetlights along purple roads.

When eyes are dimly lit
By the moonlight’s grace
Under a sky full of magnetic tears,
There is God, and he’s there
To deal out soap bars
And washcloths
To ***** cheeks
So that, for once, dust can go
Back to dust
Without leaving behind bodies
For wolves to feed on.

I know why God is there
When the hungry lie down to die,
When the restless beg for sleep,
When murderers beg for forgiveness,
When beggars dip their hands
Into pools of holy water
On sidewalks of sleepless cities.

I know why God is there,
And the reason is at the end of a long rope
Hidden somewhere deep underground,
Dangling above the fountains of prayers.

I remember so much that I wish I could forget.  

This is a poem about Psalm 23 choked out through tears.  
This is a poem about astro vans and
                                      tractor lawn mowers and
                                      driveway car washes and
                                      small garden spaces and
                                      digger wasps and
                                      three wolves and a moon.  

This is about the Backstreet Boys and
                              Def Leppard and
                              Kenny Chesney.  
“Dreams” by The Cranberries.

About waterparks and
            swim lessons and
            the smell of chlorine.  
Fresh cut grass.  Bonfire smoke permeating through the house.  

Grey diamond tiles on white linoleum.  
                                                                Hands clenched down on washcloths.

Muddled.  It’s all so muddled.  Stuck beneath
                                                           brain­ matter and cerebrospinal fluid and
                                                              down, down, down beneath the lake.  
How can I dig it out while also digging it down deeper?  
I want to forget it all.  No memory, no pain, no ******* problem.  

Goldfish life: a pipedream.

You were better than any pills I could take to my my head stop pounding and my eyes a little heavier. You were better than homemade soup and backrubs and damp washcloths on my forehead. You were so much better than the chemicals, so I got addicted to you instead. But you have no warning label, and I must have overdosed, because people can't be medicine but you can die if they poison your bloodstream.

I slither across the tightrope between
"people person" and Socratically suicidal.
Nobody has ever translated their transcriptions
But I,
Somehow am allowed to bleed them into ink,
page after page waiting
to dry myself up and ring myself out.
We are nothing but ***** washcloths,
each emotion a bead of soiled
aquatic excrement.
Will I ever accept myself as a
rag?

I have a coffee machine
which spurts and groans
in the morning,
while I sputter and grunt
in wait
for the liquid that
dissipates
the clouds which surround
my brain.

It has a faulty handle,
and needs to be held just right.
I learnt after two stained washcloths,
and three fingers
which turned pink
on sight.

It also has a button,
which turned on sometimes
shoots sparks,
I feel the current,
(I can see the ****** thing!)
but do nothing,
will do nothing,
till it dies.

It has been months
with my machine,
but I like this routine,
of it and I,
I have learnt a lot about myself
about my discomfort with change,
about my unchanged need for comfort,
about the degree of my laziness
and about how I'm willing to
make things last a while,

I have a machine that teaches me lessons
all before I have my first cup of coffee,
I mean, what more could I ask in life?

disenfranchised
disaffected
hung out to dry.

vacancies for yellow jackets also available

alternately titled: eave'n roofs houses nidus

If ye dear reader find yourself
as an under appreciated
busy buddy buzzfeeding bee -
hive got just the solution.

When me and the misses
entered side door here
yesterday September 26th, 2021
where both of us live
within one bedroom unit
at Highland Manor Apartments,
we espied hexagon-shaped paper cells
constituting partially completed
reasonably priced
state of the art abode.

Nevertheless, these
myopic eyes of mine
identified when closeup
tiny sign advertising real estate
large enough to house me,
an average size bugaboo.

Yours truly itching to move
to cozier quarters
no matter facilities roofless
imposing long overdue necessity
to strip down trappings
to bare minimum.

Tricked out with state of the art wizardry
microscopic computer processing chips
adorn six identical geometric sides
indeed allowing, enabling and providing
global linkedin telecommunications
beamed in across
bajillion miles from deep space.

All kidding aside
Hymenoptera quite the builder
with innate abilities as their guide
neither prejudice, nor afflicted with pride.

Ever mindful of insects with diaphanous wings,
yours truly quite aware of pain regarding bee stings,
which commentary brings
me to recall the following incident when
quite so many years ago...

Mine eyes espied a glorious shade tree
on a recent brutally hazy,
hot and humid July summer day,
where below the gnarled roots
glazed occipital nerve did not see
yellow-jackets minding their own beeswax
when derriere i.e. did essay
until deux stingers re:
accessible bared skin
apiary members did flay
vulnerable hide bound
part of my right knee,

whereby toxin induced to feel
slightly queasy and appear ashen gray
yet possessed response
to stand up and immediately flee
as cohorts per hive stirred
with protruding stingers ready to lay
into another area of ripe human flesh
with consistency of brie
yet, no intent to be cheesy – nay
on the con tray or re:

only attempting to find good humor
to stave discomfort at bay
which quick thinking found me
summoning medicinal salve
to keep any potential swelling away
thus this mister mom trotted
into Belmont Hills lye bray r e
soaking damp washcloths
(I packed in plastic bag
to cool thyself) and pray

all the while mouthing expletives
more emphatic than oy vey
healing powers of self
would allow this chap to feel okay
enough until my then
thirteen-year-old youngest daughter
and tutor would sashay
out into the blistering heat
so we could be on our home bound way.

How can candy be a cane,
Why is crazy not insane,

Words are washcloths,
Verbs can scrub,
Adjectives will sometimes snub.

Prepos are so lost and found,
Adverbs increase sight and sound,
Interjections yay and yippee.
And or but my conjunctivity.

Exclamation, question mark, statement in a phrase.
Is grammar always complicated
Why is long life such a maze?

Eyes of a sky. So entwined
With worldly promise.
The absence. Of a god is like
A girl deprived of chocolate...
And eyes of god.
See Gabriel's gift. To the prophet.
Muhammed...


Of love. Battle Songs. And jaws
Of hardened granite..
Manic episodes. That make
Me want messianic status...
Capture the head of Janet.
Just to stop the yapping...
Funny if I'm a girl
Why you call me man. ******
*** Amanda Bynes played shes the man.
And mulan was the script of trans mishappened.
Thrown in a mislabeled basket.
Washed with miss matching fabrics
To stain the water.
Now my fathers cloth is
***** crayon. Spray on sealant
Matching shade of batshit....

Palette of a dancer. With a rat **** wig and talent matches
Like she came from insanity.
Who could of imagined this great
Manifested. Happiness would happen...
Like a planet of amateurs.
Who took for granted.
How God's plan was greater than imagined flaws.
Anxiety. And dry heaves.
In a weaved contour of detour.
To a place of committed insanity
Death and damage to my manhood.
Surgeon. Working. With imperfections. Managing
In the band saw....
Chop a ******* hand off.
Hold my throat at ransom
For cash candy. And a soft retreat to chuck berry's mansion.
Complex of cher. Celine dion.
And the killers.
Speak of jesus. My knees like freon
Keep me clean my cheeks breach my teeth.
And soon the village sees
I different me.
Intended and invented. Born of
Meaning. Caution but promised.
To be clean of tempered damages
And diagnosis ****** forensic.
**** it I'm just rambling.
Dont believe the plot.
The director or the camera men
The novels much better.
Jot my thoughts in pen
And saturate the smooth canvas
With the dancing ants
That manifest. Loss of sanity.
Like washcloths in the basket
Marked for bleach.
But reaching its arm into the washer
To clean its conscience.
Body stops. The heart collapses.
Revived. Brought back from
Jesus. God Angel's. ..