New Jeans

In new jeans –

the sun burning

with spring warmth –

I stood

in the back alley,

and smiled 

at a garage

door

Sun Loves Rotation

Same knees,

my heart ekes,

out the gentlest

pop, like us 

so many years

ago,

long night,

and pretend,

worlds apart,

something to

hold on to,

the path away,

smiles profess,

and we wait,

eyes

melded safety,

my life inside

of another person,

I’ve

never loved

like this,

I never will

again,

ice shards left

on the pavement,

blue exhaust

a pale tracer

Woeful

It slowly withered on my lap,

sufficient life, called the gods,

we, with worried eyes and

hearts, saved our best effort

for last, and while the ringed

carrion slurped at its flesh.

our sopping wet derelict

cried out for its mother’s 

heat, and died over night in

a box, the final twenty-four

hours of a stray kitten, spent

as abducted, as afraid, as a

stranger, flying away now,

as dinner for forest vagrants

January

It’ll come to pass, that

someday she’ll get mad,

and on that occasion,

she’ll beseech me here,

cry out loud with a

a soft drawl, like silken

linen upon a dry finger,

but she’ll never know

how many years I cried,

each night I speak to her,

for our deaths those many

times, and her voice will

quiver, and I will shatter,

and the clock’ll stop, on

a day much like this one,

and we’ll imagine the time

we lost as a fever dream,

or time in jail, and renew

our bond, as mother and son,

and the bath water is too

cold today, my age, my eyes,

it should have never been,

like it was and like it is

Low Pressure

I hear the wind

blowing, inside

I am safe, full

and filled. moods

change with it.

somber becomes

a bomber. relax

becomes tyrant.

I hear it like I

can hear the

fighting. amble

from room to

window, hearing

bellicose rattling.

my fear in my

throat, contented

over the trees’

sturdy nature.

malcontented

over my weak

heart. I guess

they only loved

my idea, not me.

I will keep them

inside with

all of this wind,

and only let

them hurt me

when it blows

Bathory

I let it die, it
let itself die,
I tried to feed
it, but it bit
me. Over and
over again.

Now, at the
night’s light,
I hear it cry,
and it’s in my
heart, but it
bites.

I am
worried I
won’t ever
see it again,
except in
here, but
it bites.

It is woe
and I am
its son,
even if it
was milk,
it always
bites me.

I am sorry,
it is true,
but my
fingers and
blood are
proof, it
bites.

Please,
mother, I
was good,
my pain,
hot tears,
this blood
tainted, but
you bite.

Being Presence

How silly we are,

songs never end,

filament of flimsy

fils, swinging in

light-ed sun, faux

flashing pans, a

sound evermore,

death rattles to a

moon goddess, on

liquid grandeur,

stuft full of yarn,

sacred days lit

like tombstones

by fire on warm

summer nights

in the sun’s glory,

how silly we all

are here, when

nothing and no

one can recall

the past, we land

on our feet, only

to have them cut

In For a Penny

Spent the morning in silence,

dewy leaves glisten in the

yard’s warm embrace, a dog

attached to a man walk by,

they hesitate and gawk at

a passing bird, so much is

in a moment, it’s not the

cold, the bleak, the second

is sound, happiness is a bad

memory and a willingness

to create new time, even

though it’s all just illusion

Incurable Alley Cats

I remember the ashtray,

hard against the wall,

flung like fury and ire,

but I know what she

was doing, when she

cried at night, and at

the movies alone all

the time, philosophy

like a song of futile

Marxists, nihilism a

badge of honor for

the proletariat heart,

then the other one

died, then my other

one died, then the

new other died in

a careless act that

caused the fire to

burn bright, like

the cemetery at dawn,

tombstones like torches,

in the amber glow,

each sun a burning

fiery pit, each finger

printed with indelible

pandering, cloth and

smoke are our human

souls, rotating around

one another in succinct

waste, satellites waiting

in line, harbinging

what is next, that we

are next, the next one,

next to the one, whether

the careless one, or the

accidental one, our

smoke arises bright and

warm, our glare a new

lament for how we

were treated, so put

the pen down, and find

your one, then hold on,

for this one may be the…

I Move Among Them

Little pebbles dripping,

running window panes,

and I breathe in the lust

of drudgery as each pull

their path to the sill, still

I am, lump and frump,

while the grass grows

to the moon, and each

moment of solitude I

age eons waiting for a

final change, awakening

and finally awake, like

this place, nestled among

fields of corn, the safest

I have yet to feel since

birth long ago, when

no one was there and I

was left to wonder woe