Miscreant Muse

She has learned to live around her empty space inside, weaving ivy and dandelion chains into ornamental loveliness to place across its threshold. Woe to the strangers who mistake this ruse for terra firma and tumble like watch-laden rabbits into her abyss.

 

Uncomfortable with closeness, pathologically private, she will bounce the waylaid travelers back to daylight. They will be forever changed. They will form support groups, talk among themselves, seek illusion of recovery.

 

They will never understand her limitless lack – her funked-out feeling of disconnect -- in light of early rescue from the trash heap; in spite of being embraced by those who cared for her, long after she had gifted them with reasons to stop caring.

 

Betrayal is the style she has perfected over time. They may love her if they dare, but she will leave them, one by one, and she will leave them piquant poesy nearly never.

 

 

Spiracle 

Dear Mother

We were close once

before the harsh divide

before the ceaseless

sparring of our wills

 

I’ve been told

the first few years

can make or

break a child

 

I plucked

the morning glory

from your vine

and I remember

 

 

In The Company Of Women 

Edgar & Lenore Publishing House

  

She-Thing

Winds rage purposefully

causing blackened waves

to killer-crash against the boat

defying warnings of a storm

 

Tied to the mast

by jealous hands 

with angry fingers

the she-thing cannot move

 

Only her raven eyes

and sultry mouth

open and shut

as ocean foam meets rain

 

pounding the face

whose eyes had strayed

salting the lips

whose kiss betrayed

 

 

Edgar Allan Poet 

Science Of Love

Love is a science --

chemistry equations

glimpsed in dreams

and hallucinations.

My eyes fully fill

with minuscule numbers

and capital letters

on the fertile terrain

of your open face.

 

FEARLESS #75 

The Way Of The Wanderer

When rituals collapse,

vein-thin paths

no longer relevant

meet the open road.

In the breeze again

you dare not wonder

how you got here.

You just drive with

night on your tail

past hidden villages,

smoke signals,

the lure of exit signs.

 

Guerilla Pamphlets Volume 12

 

  

Predicament

We’re caught

in a silent region

pressed between 

episodes of 

The Twilight Zone

We’re lock-boxed

without a way 

to communicate --

vocal cords slashed,

fingers crushed,

glasses broken.

 

Guerilla Pamphlets Volume 20

  

Portrait Of An Aunt

Aunt Mary lives in a small midwestern town

where everyone knows everyone too well

but very few know her

and that’s the way she likes it

 

She’s fastidious and frugal to a fault

washing mustard jars and soup cans

before putting them away 

in her germfree cupboard

 

She boils up three eggs

and fools you into thinking

her egg salad is so filling

dessert would be superfluous

 

Aunt Mary loves quietly

from behind her faded apron 

No public flaunting of affection

but you know if you are favored

 

 

In The Company Of Women

Edgar & Lenore’s Publishing House