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
Wednesday, June 30, 2021
Science Of Love
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
No Fame Today
They gave it 15 minutes
of advanced calisthenics.
But hearts weren’t in it.
They moaned a bit,
worked hips in unison
until they grew bored.
The flame sputtered out,
extinguished by dampness.
She handed him a tissue.
His feet hit the floor.
Rust Belt Review #7
Note On Freezer Door
How many times can you tell yourself
all your mirrors lie
the dryer shrinks your underwear
the apology will come
things will turn round
the book will write itself?
Catch more sleep each night
Go easier on the ice cream
Stop waiting for Godot
Serenade yourself with song
Pump the music up loud
Dance, laugh, weep, remember
Then write it all down perfectly
in every imperfect detail
Here and Now
Quick Studies
We learn from pain. One size fits all.
Pain is like that. We suck it up.
We learn without tutorials.
FEARLESS #75
Monthly Inspection
The finger would not heal. The hand was beginning to panic. It had been seven days now, and the situation was going from horrid to hopeless. What had begun as a minor skin irritation had progressed to a full-blown festering sore impossible to hide with liquid makeup. And The I’m Okayers were due the next morning.
Last month The I’m Okayers had praised the hand for the first time -- remarking on its uniformity, its symmetrical perfection. The hand had bristled at the “p” word, fearing the wrath of The Perfect One who had been shriveled in dishwater only to rise again thanks to visualization techniques and Lubriderm. The Perfect One frowned on contenders.
Antibiotics might have helped the finger, but antibiotics were prescribed only to the hands proclaimed perfect three months running. The hand throbbed with increasing panic. It stayed up all night googling possible solutions. As the sun rose higher in the sky, the other fingers tried to shelter their middle offender who was gesturing wildly in a unique form of SOS.
The hand’s mate, determined to be judged perfect this time, had spent the month preparing delicacies to entice The I’m Okayers. Greenish with envy, it had been too busy chopping and dicing to notice anything amiss with its counterpart. On finally seeing the pus-oozing gesturing finger, it reacted instinctively. A flying fetid finger hit the first of The I’m Okayers to walk through the door. Somewhere The Perfect One smiled.
Rust Belt Review #7
Losing Faith or WTF
I used to believe
you saw everything --
that you peeled away
the layers of things
like onions
like birthday cakes
like love
FEARLESS #75
Like A Valentine
Bubbles from chilled champagne
and effervescent laughter
rising up from his depths
into the nape of her neck
as he licks salty sweat
and bites down
without breaking skin.
The marathon of touches
gentle, deliberate,
teasing, tingling.
Hips moving
in sacred rhythm
to synchronized beat.
Final collapse.
Deflated sighs
before the spooning
and into the arms
of Morpheus.
She wakes alone
in tangled sheets
like every other morning
in this empty house.
No body next to hers.
No champagne bucket
anywhere in sight.
No crystal glasses
on the bedside table.
No morning note
on the pillow.
It must have
been a dream,
another taunt
like others before.
He is never
coming home.
(He would if he could,
but he probably can’t.)
This much she knows
Animal sounds
escape her lips
as she claws
at the top sheet
with unbridled despair,
shaking it
as if to death.
She stops mid-snarl,
blinking her eyes
at the pink,
faded from red,
men’s briefs
she sees
in her left hand --
like a valentine.
They belong to him.
His magic briefs
he swears he will
keep forever.
She sits perfectly still
Clutching the pink.
Somewhere
between her racing heart
and silence,
between prayer and doubt,
fact and fiction,
war and peace
the smell of bacon frying
drifts up from the kitchen.
He is home.
NightWing Publications
Library Chic
He sits on library steps
black trench coat, pink crocs,
matted hair, unlined face,
mud-spattered ankles --
around 20, I’d say --
sipping coke from a bottle,
choirboy expression,
patience personified,
staring down time.
Rust Belt Review #7
Lazy Ear
The door is closing.
I have working feet.
My fingers move.
I could stop this.
Still and all,
the door is closing.
I know better
than to stand here
frozen in place,
my lazy ear
open to the slam.
Edgar Allan Poet
I Sent You A Poem
I sent you a poem today
after cutting it up
stanza by line by word.
Now you’ll have
something to do --
a puzzle to solve --
moving the pieces around,
restructuring history,
keeping the kinks out
of your finger joints
knotted -- locked
in place and time.
FEARLESS #68
Huh?
What is
with this
so much,
very much
business
about love
We love
or we
refrain
from loving
Simple
(very)
Combustus
Guitar Player
He’s tired of pretending
he’s any more than this,
tired of posturing
the meek aping the mighty,
telling her he’s dangerous,
warning her to back off.
He’s never shown her real.
She keeps listening anyway
to nothing more than white noise.
He plugs in his guitar.
Guerilla Pamphlets Volume 13
Goodness
Dostoevsky’s idiot child
huddles on the brink
of goodness, longing
for transformation
of butterfly proportions…
In S.A. Griffin’s Poetry Bomb
Gored
My devotion to you
must have angered the gods
Waving my red cape
in their faces
was not my brightest move
Fearless #73
Cold Threats To A Chatterbox Child
Telling family tales
outside of the family
could get you
locked up tight
with no letters
or visitors
even on weekends.
Seasons would pass
with no
birthday parties
or other proof
of recognition
that you drew breath.
You’d be no more
than a piece of
cobwebbed furniture
in a storage facility.
And if you protested,
if you wanted more
than they thought
you deserved,
if your brain
was too loud
and your thoughts
too bright,
if the meds
and high voltage
weren’t enough,
there was always
the icepick.
Rust Belt Review #7
Felled
Since she stopped answering the telephone
messages have been piling up daily
like dirty laundry, dishes in the sink,
bills on the piano, lumps in her throat,
like silver dollar pancakes he used to make,
movies in her head of his arms outstretched
as he brandoed stella and she fell down
laughing til she thought her lungs would burst
And right about now she wishes they would.
Gutter Eloquence #25
Finding My Voice
I had had an awful time
at another birthday party
for a neighborhood kid
wishing the whole time
i was home in my room
on my bed reading
The cake had been too sweet
and not even chocolate
There was no milk
only warm soda pop
high sugar rush
ending in headache
My mother came to pick me up
That’s why I had to be there
so she could come too
showing off her figure
in her new striped dress
fitted at the waist
We stood at the door
as I thanked the birthday girl
for the good time I hadn’t had.
My mother beamed with pride
at the memorized lines
she had fed me
I drew in my deepest breath
sensing the power of my words
but saying them anyway
fighting for my own voice
in what, up to this point,
had been my mother’s tune
In my sing-song clear child voice
born of icy resentment
i added to my thank you
for the birthday girl
But really at my mother
“I mind my manners, don’t I?
Calliope’s Closet
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