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
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
We learn from pain. One size fits all.
Pain is like that. We suck it up.
We learn without tutorials.
FEARLESS #75
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
I used to believe
you saw everything --
that you peeled away
the layers of things
like onions
like birthday cakes
like love
FEARLESS #75
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
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