Thursday, September 20, 2012


i am a fissured pawn
but have no control
as every shrewd square becomes occupied
by an opposing fate or fraud.
each path leads to a cracked rear view
content with lovely nothingness.

there is nothing left for me here,
even when all masks have been lowered.

and where would resolve lie?
a symphony will digress only if commanded to do so.
yet it takes no composer to ensnare me on a whim,
to crescendo the scattered notes,
to put an end to it all with a double line
and not another glance back.

hard prayers hold no future for soft sin,
but at such times as these
at least a memorial is expected.

my head is barely above water,
there's no telling what's below.

i hold on to the one thing
keeping me from drowning,
my buoy in troubled waters,
but sometimes even that
doesn't seem like enough.

no more tears here, the sign says.
so i move over five inches and cry there instead.

i'm running fast as wildfire through my own mind games
but it doesn't matter.
no one cares enough to chase me.

still it seems the walls of morality
are closing in, but strategizing,
and i'm going back to prison.
i'd rather run from the law
than abandon my dreams.
run like wildfire.


Wednesday, September 19, 2012

so long, January

don't flatter yourself, January.

you promise a new year,
new beginnings
but it's more of the same old shit.
turmoil in the static.

you're not fulfilling my needs
and you know how i thrive on
immediate satisfaction.

so go fuck yourself, January,
or else find me a way to deal with
the sudden burst of nothingness you've handed me.
for you found me at a difficult time,
but for once it's not the fault of
a man or
a friend-in-passing or
some other convenient betrayal.

it's only me,
my fault,
all my doing
but it's been going on like this
since September,
so you can see how i was anticipating you
to somehow rescue me from this
ready-to-expire horror story
i'm creating.

i'm sad to say
you couldn't offer me anything more
than high hopes abandoned on window sills
by one who was too afraid to jump
for keeps.

the January thrill of snow and speed
were lures into a game called life
that i'm not sure i'm ready to be a part of yet,
so forgive me if i'm not
about my current situation.
for we both know i've never been the type
to be tied down
to anything,
least of all
what's expected of me.
my alter ago,
the side of me no one sees,
is way ahead of its time
with things you could never provide for me,

you toyed with me and now
i'm over it
and i'm over you
and the thirty-one days of
you offered,
so you'll again forgive me
for not mincing my words.

i'll move on to the next
who promises some kind of salute to love
and perhaps i'll find something
or something that will make me feel

so long, January,
you mother fucker.
next year
you'd better bring it.


Wednesday, September 12, 2012


i don't belong here and i am well-aware
of that but still you force it
down a swollen throat like
knives i can't hope to abate,
fighting the death of me. i don't want your pity
but i do want a chance in your muddy eyes
to be more than obligatory waste.


Monday, September 10, 2012

livin' to live is a peculiar thing

she hung boho ideas from her ears like misplaced string,
leftovers of fires started by the pretty boy in gold
who could promptly match her twisted baby blues
in a way that revolving-door sea never could.

he said, 'livin' to live is a peculiar thing
but what happens to livin' when we grow old?'
she flicked through her hung ideas, paying her dues,
trying all at once to do the most good.

she was more atune to the potential sting
of the boy's fires burning out, a premature fold
that would leave her floating in the free-fall blues
which come when her heart don't beat like it should.

then she let the ideas go and was left with the ring
of wanted waste, of stories never getting told.
the pretty boy moved on, needing new news;
he couldn't place his disdain, didn't think he ever would.

his fires went with him, flame to soot, and then
she was sure she'd not hang dreams of such a world again.


Friday, September 7, 2012

a man like him

i feel sorry for all the girls and also the boys
who grew up without a good father
because i have the absolute best one
and i am so sorry to them for that
i am sorry that my dad has been fantastic
i am sorry that he makes sure there is money in my pockets
when i don't have any
i am sorry that he came to my softball games
and that i always played poorly because i knew he was watching
i am so sorry that my father cried when i left him at the airport
to go live in France
and i am sorry that it made me not want to go
i am sorry i left you there daddy
i am very sorry that my dad never went to college
but he has worked harder than anyone i know, and better
i am so sorry that he paid for the majority of my college education
and i am also sorry that my father has been there
at my graduations and birthdays and triumphs and failures
i am not sorry that he has been spectacular to me
i am sorry though that you do not know him,
i am sorry if your fathers were not like mine
i am sure you deserve a man like him
in your lives
at some point


Sunday, September 2, 2012

melt their crowns

kings should melt their crowns
and offer you the profits,
your beauty is such.
one thousand slaves ought be at your
every beck and call
and the skies
ought timidly propose
with stars as diamonds,
skylight solitaires to adorn your fingers every day
for the rest of your life.

it would be a true travesty to learn
that you are not aware of the light
that burns within you,
a lantern aglow,
your good heart --
or that no one has ever told you so.

if not, heed this:
i think you are exquisite
and perhaps it's not fair
to raise you up on my pedestal
at world's display
while everyone else looks on, neglected,
but if you even knew of your magnificence
you would not scold me
for being rash and partial.

i'm ever grateful
that i found you among thieves
but caught you Robin Hood-ing instead;
and perhaps you're thought unholy
by vagabonds and liars --
oh, it can't happen here
in my distinct line of sight.

it's rather agonizing
to think at long last
how good you are.
it's painful, how your thoughts
are never with yourself.
all i can ever pray for the world
is that your spirit
into the millions
would be reason enough
to not ever go to war.

and were the world mine
you'd rule
after all other regimes
had done as i requested
and yielded to you,
making every effort to melt their crowns
in the process,
attempting to add some sort of afterthought
to someone already filled to the brim with worth.