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 

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.

 Fastball connects without warning.

 

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.

 

 

 From …”and it happened under cover”

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