dim the lights
pour the wine
I’m ready now

spark the match
candles lit, sultry
my Tangerine
I think I found you

hot wax on skin
as the smoke billows
candles flicker, tender
my Tangerine

She was sleeping but wasn’t tired -
simply cozy and warm
and happy to be by his side.

There wasn’t anywhere to go, anyway.
Even if she fought through the rain
(and the wind - you don’t hear enough
about the wind these days, always fleeting)
we were, well, quarantined.

He was everywhere,
like dust on shelves,
like pop hits on the radio,
like fake news on television.

During trying times,
to be cozy and warm,
well fed and by his side
was more than enough.

Tepid rains fall on skin -
nurturing, loving, welcomed,
building nostalgic embers
behind closed eyes.

I miss your glassy amber gaze
as I do your touch,
once nurturing,
once loving,
once welcomed.

When the day sleeps,
do you still think of me?
When the moon rises,
can you see my face?
Is it my voice that so vividly
occupies your dreams?

I look to the stars for clarity
but the sable skies block
your glistening eyes.

See - you think you need things
to be happy, but you do not:
simply being is happiness.

As we age, we find our
beauty in the mundane,
the everyday, in every
gift of life from your
smile to your laugh
to your scent  
to your touch
to your kiss
to simply
every.
thing.
you.

I love her -
I let her have
the last bite of guacamole.

MY
FAVORITE
COLOR YOUR
WINE STAINED LIPS.

Hello, Autumn?
Where are you?
Where are you, Autumn?

I long for you:
your cold touch greets my skin;
your wispy auburn hair blows & tangles,
hiding the rose red of your wind-kissed cheeks.

My flannel uniform keeps me temperate;
My pumpkin spiced latte keeps me chic.
Your head, resting on my shoulder keeps me full.

Earlier and earlier the sun dips into the sea;
a chilling reminder that maybe Autumn,
sweet Autumn, wasn't meant to be.

There's a fire in my heart and
it builds behind my face until
there's nothing left to do
but cry.

Memories rust & tarnish as years
escape through my empty hands.
In the midst of death, life persists.

I am not a warrior. I am not a jester.
I am nothing more than flesh and bone.

I am my father's son, my brother's brother,
and I pray that in the midst of darkness,
light persists.

let’s **** to ‘blonde'
over and over again

one hour three minutes
twenty five seconds
until lips are chapped
until legs are chaffed
until love and lust
collide

an eighteen
wheeler jackknifes
across the barricade
small bits of me die
and we **** again​

Memory flashed like strobe
lights and illuminated paths of
tangled legs; only the moon
watched us weave intricate
patterns of impassioned sighs
and scattered black lace.

Shadows settle with the
musing silence of the
immediate past: two bodies
in love with childhood naivety,
the dash of what could be.
What could be?

Predawn whispers shatter
the fragile ivory walls of
my chest, unveiling a chasm
that is yearning to feel again.

I am not armed with a heart
unbreakable. Floating above
are the names of the lovers
that went wrong and with those
the questions of uncertainty.
Those feelings are dead and
those feelings are gone and
still my heart beats, searching
for the vulnerability of being
broken again.

Take my heart because
it still pumps, it still bleeds
and I am not yet dead;
our love is very much alive.

i am nothing more than
a series of substance-less
selfies and a never ending
stream of well timed
cute emojis

my eyes turn to hearts
when i feel sentimental
and my sly smirk lets you
know that i'm excited about
us without articulating a
single thought

my face turns purple it
grins and grows horns and
you know i want to *******
not once not twice but for an
extended period of time
days months years so i can
send you the boy-kisses-girl
or the ring or the crown
won't you be my queen

am i the woman in the red dress
who dances or just another con artist
where is substance behind the yellow
always smiling face and i have to
ask you have to ask we have to ask
SOS with a red background
silver revolver that only shoots one way
cheeks are blushing i am smiling what
the **** do we actually feel

Bring colors to my sky
as each spoken syllable
dances off your tongue
past my favorite set of lips.
Darling, you know those
are my favorite four letters.

Ideas of us are the catalyst
of hope, the beacon of light
that shines triumphantly
through the suffocating black
sky. Crests of waves tower over
shallow troughs revealing
the power of your high as
I prepare my veins and
feel your body with me.

Tonight I'll keep thoughts
of love and lust discreet
and stare oceans deeper
into your eyes.

Warm lips wait patiently on
the horizon as I watch the
sun disappear into the sea.
We stare at the same sky,
set ablaze. Our passion
like burning embers keeps us
close as we demand more
from this sunset. Soon,
I remind myself,
soon.

The stars exist atop the black,
blank canvas and we connect
the dots, joking, laughing as
our minds wrestle with the
mythical creatures we create.
We stare at the same sky;
we dream, I dream: the only
time I spend with you
is in my sleep.

Won't you promise me you'll
be there when my eyes open?
I crave your lips and everything,
you.

Bring your body and give it
as if it's a weekly allowance,
a favor you owe or do you,
perhaps, yearn for a place
back inside his heart?

What does it take to stay
warm on a cold night?
The smell of burning wood
or something more - your
knitted wool blanket that's not
just a piece of cloth?
It's soft touch became the
liaison between two young bodies
and let you truly feel.

Feel his gentle touch and
the warmth of his eyes.
Legs tangle and long sighs
ignite the room rendering
your knitted wool blanket
useless. Compassionate
whispers of half truths clutter
the mind as his head clears:
"Please, be the love that I am sure of."

I'd quench that thirst -
evening satiation throbs in
my head, in my heart, in my -
whenever you were thirsty.

I'd live without it -
no shortcomings of vices in
the smoke, in the liquor, in the -
unless only you instigate.

You keep on lying -
can you let me escape the
thoughts, feelings, desire?
- on that bed, those satin sheets.

Black lace and smoldering incense
cloud the hazy, lustful dreams
where the satisfied sighs, screams,
smiles were unforgettable.
I'm up in the sky and I can't
keep running away.

the timbers of

the shipwreck

keep my heart,

well, afloat.

It's a simple thing:
Not even to an animal
should you give your heart.
Do lovers connect as one?
Feel your love on my chest
where you used to rest your head,
a chilling realization
it was only childish fun.

Not even to an animal.

What does music feel like?
I want to feel it for myself
Is it the written or printed
signs representing vocal
or instrumental sound?
Vocal or instrumental sounds
combined in a way such
as to produce beauty of form,
harmony and expression of
emotion?

I can see lovers dancing
in windows. But I can't
feel them dancing
for myself.

Boy the mad man is mean
          ain't he, ha?
The mad man mad with
          unfair things, no?
******* the mad man
          gon' get hit, na.
******* the mad man
          man he's mad, huh?

I think you will like it
          the mad man.
He gets mad 'nd tell it
          how it is.
He howls at the moon
          crazy like wolves.
Snarls and grunts, the
          ripping of the flesh.
Flesh rots, smells, becomes
          like the mad man.
Old, cold, forgotten:
          crazy like wolves.
The mad man.

At first I hear snarls, "Nice
jeans, ******!" although I'm
sure they don't include any
punctuation when ragging
on my anorexic pants
as if my jeans have anything
to do with my sexuality as if
the color of skin had anything
to do with last week's mugging
as if Catholics didn't once
**** for religion.

My friend Frank asked how my
day was and it was fine: I
finally trimmed my finger
nails; he looked at me funny.

I don’t cut them frequently
but I cut them enough it’s
not like I’m some sort of freak.

Two flower gardens engulf
you in the pattern of the
fabric, trapped; the
vocal track of the song
slows down

- boom, thunder -

until the ******* seems
like the storm itself.

Old wood and brick walls made it
seem like the place called home
and we met a few strangers. She
wore a floral patterned dress and
me a combination of smoky greys.
The jukebox caused feet to dance
as musky bourbon casks ran dry.

The days blur together: fog
and moisture run off of the docks
with sunrise providing a flash
of hope that something will change.
But sunset rips change from
our callused hands that
don’t even blister anymore.

Algae green waves crash onto
the black rocks of the ocean,
the sea foam caps inviting my feet
to dance into the unknown depths
of the sea. A petite fishing boat
cuts through the fog and we meet
face-to-face.

Flowers blowing in the wind
give me a flash of hope something
will change. She offers a weak smile
and is gone as fast as she appeared.
Gone - it happens so quickly; the
wind picked up and my feet decided
to dance. Fall down, never get up again.

bebop, bebop
sway your hips
tap your foot
tap, tap, tap

Cold November Evening
Cambridge, MA
Scarf, Pea coat, Flannel
Hot mulled Cider

Leaves have turned.
Red, orange, yellow.
They clutter the ground.
Wipe your feet.

sing, sing it loud
dance with her
dance with him
one two three four

Body Heat Insulates
472 Massachusetts Ave
Skinny Jeans, Toms Classics
Chilled Brooklyn Lager

Lights on the stage.
Red, orange, yellow.
They warm the atmosphere.
Play one more song.

Don’t let this night end.

Well, I’m stuck on the roof and my ladder is broken.
I watch my footing so I don’t slip down the icy *****.
My worn out sneakers keep me relatively secure
but I could certainly use some bigger boots.
******* ones. With large golden buckles.
Black boots so big it’s impossible not to hear
me coming. And black goes with red so
give me a red suit, classy and stylish
but still quite comfortable.
Add a white belt, beard
white trimmed red hat,
and then I wouldn’t
be stuck next to
this *******
chimney.

There’s this constant ticking I can’t get out of my head.
A ticking that, when I think about it, it just gets louder.
It just gets stronger. Louder, stronger…faster.
An obsession of sorts, maybe a craving.
Yes, yes, that’s it, a craving – tick, tick, tick.
A nervous tick, a constant tick, quite frankly a distracting tick.
I don’t know where I found you, tick, but I can't get enough.


I was sitting in my car just the other day.
For a minute, my head went silent.
For a second, I was at peace.
But then you passed by and
my stomach turned, butterflies.
Then more of the same -
tick, tick, tick.

I was walking minding my own business by myself
when an old friend of mine walked up next to me
and handed me the screwdriver that he had borrowed
from the person that I had lent my screwdriver too –
such a strange time for my screwdriver to be returned
and my friend clearly saw the confusion on my face
so he offered a weak smile and told me that my screwdriver
may come in handy and once again he saw the confusion
on my face since my city is safe or so it says in the papers
why would I need my screwdriver on my walk by myself

I like that you like
raspberries and that your
cheeks get red on a cold
May night sitting by the fire
so warm and the wind so strong.
Lots of different temperatures
affecting my mood and my maturity.
You had that green
rain coat keeping you cozy
as I dreamt of my covers and of you.

Man in the subway
do you have a purpose
is it to make music
or to make others sing
the song of the subway as
the trains screech by

everyone
ignores you completely
throwing money proportionally
into your jar based
on their income and
more importantly
based on their morals.

Couldn’t we have gone to the zoo
just one more time, on another
lazy afternoon by ourselves

and couldn’t we stop by the
polar bear tank for a few minutes
longer than the seals because you knew
they were my favorite

couldn’t we take a picture,
couldn’t we upload them

I still see his strong paws
lifting him effortlessly out
of the manmade lake which
is supposed to make him feel
like he’s home.

I went to this funeral the other day
and had a blast, the black suits
contrasting the pale faces of those shocked
by death, meshing with the warm
red of crying eyes. Hot sun flashed
through the stained glass
illuminating the carefully chosen
mahogany bed where the lucky one
slept.  I cannot picture
a more beautiful scene.

And it only gets better! Family
coming together, joined with emotion,
seeing old friends and meeting new ones
The young and the old
both dressed in Sunday’s best
captures a timeless cycle.
What is there not to love?

My funeral is going to be
the best. Come one, come all –
everyone’s invited! The low hum
of the cellos creates an ominous
tone overpowering the occasional
sad sniff, thankfully.
Stop crying you pathetic things
and come laugh with me.