Young people on old roads

Alix wipes her tears with the tea towel,

The one that’s seen better years. It was

Gifted as a Christmas present by the in-laws

And their ten-year anniversary had come and gone.


“Yea can’t stop workin’ just cuz someone dies yea know.”

Tough hands furiously dry the kitchy plates with

Ornate swirls etched around the edge. Lipstick

Shades mute when pressed together, a salty taste really is sour.

The view out the kitchen window offered needed comfort.


A pick up sputs across pot-hole dust roads, it grunts

Heavily as it works to keep up with demand, a foot on the pedal,

Like whips on the back of a Clydesdale, whose days in retired

Green pasture, were never to transpire.


John – a simple man- grips the wheel.

“When it’s intangible, people don’t understand it.

We say cousin Elsa died of a broken heart, because

It’s how we explain a sickness we can’t see, son.”


A well-read,

A well-spoken,

A well-beyond-his-vocation….


John came back from Princeton in the fall of ’79,

Left the middle of the third semester, back to

West Virginia in the colors of fall, it was not

Complete disenchantment to take over the farm after

Father passed. “Open fields and an open heart” he’d always say.


“Son, I want you to know some of the sickest people

have to work everyday, until they don’t.”


His son focused hard on the time on the dash,




“If your eyes stare long enough, the tears seem

to absorb back inside,” he thought as he swallowed

and didn’t dare take a breath.




‘Yea understand me?’ John pleaded, his voice wavering.


Nothing scares the shit out of you more than your father about to cry.




A spoken reply would have meant a certain detonation of tears,

It was the button to this time-bomb, to which explosion was his greatest fear.


Drones of wind past the pick up were the only breaths taken

Through each sunken pot-hole, their faces braver for town.


When it all catches up with you,

Withered looks of disappointment along with

Assumptions made on behalf

of your character.


The Royal Slut in porn

Star action

Slept with her clothes on,

The regular cold reaction.


Real man have no feeling,

They’re like a fish;

But both when hit — bleeding,

Still no one clarifies it.


Livers working the night shift

Leaves her listless on the couch

A wasted life

Dreams of funerals come unbeknownst.


He had to go out and do

What he thinks she did

When we try to balance out the queue

We only further de-scale it.

You’re not mine

The sound the machine makes

When all is  lost.

The hardline drone when the

Heart seizes to start it’s next


The glass that screams out as it

Hits the floor, crawling, pointed

Fingers, desperate to grasp for

The warmth of your hand.

And I don’t know if these tears

Climax for me or for you; yet just

As well, my stomach dips as low

As peat bogs go, and I’ll withstand the

Eerie chill that solitude grows. It’s good

We own no guns, cuz with passion

No one ever really knows.

That Time

That Time

A mouse could have breathed

On the other side of the house and

I would have woke up.

Lattes and sugar swirls keep

Us breathing this time of year.

Artificial life with artificial intelligence.

All these notes we digest and

Snort into our brains like cocaine

Don’t show up on the drug test

A week later.


Christmas songs sound anachronistic

As the one from Rudolph injects memories

About when I was small, in my pajamas, all

Cozy inside from the snow.

Christmas time is like edging for a child.

Anticipation is half the allure.

We all still try to get that same high when we

All still believed in magick.


I sip on my sugar infused latte and think

About the first white hair I plucked from

My head this morning. This head that is no

Longer youthful enough for tender kisses

By parental lips.


Stages of life leave us, like lovers

In the morning. We reach for them

Across the bed, only to feel cold sheets;

Evidence they are gone

And have been gone for some time.

Woman. Passive.

Woman. Passive.

Seem to hide away

The crumbs will stay on the counter

When they are away.

She’s over-moved

The feelings cough off


She’s cracked her heart up

Her yolks are bleeding

Into the next day.

He always gets his way.

The kitchens change, along with apartment names.

Winning aways stays the same

She’s inferior. Keeps comparing her beating essence

To his locked femininity.

Fingers tremble, there is no mending

When she self-ignores.

Is it better to breathe and leave

Yourself fallow this fall?

Uncomfortably they lay

In private rooms, where she

Convinces herself its gonna be okay.

It’s been old news, because,

Mythologies stay the same.

She needs a different seed

Just to see another way.

She’ll close the blinds, no one can

Read her mind, she’ll

Seem to hide away.




It followed you through seed and seed

Of gestation of mother to daughter,

Black magic,

The crows had planted it in wombs

Where like weeds, it grows merciless to

Generations like seasons.



A language learnt only to be put before aloof souls,

Black Plague,

Where upon reaching town

Skeletons sit in pews, praying

The lost lover, at last found.



Those who escaped the plague alive,

Only to carry around a worse demise


Ailed hearts break strands of capillaries

The curse is all that remains yours,

It pulses pain through and through veins,

But you wont let it go; no, not this time,

This heart ache is all that is mine.

The curse shows up in me, each life, each time.

Lover, Lunatic, Poet

Lover, Lunatic, Poet

The eccentricities that lay dormant

Quiet on the inside,

Until they’re lured out.

The insecurities that paint

Your face red,

Shamefully obvious.

These legs have cracks

In the foundations,

Built upon superficial ground.

Superfluity of armor,

A perfectly broken human,

Humiliatingly transparent.

They’re all looking at your

Perpetual weakness, cracking

And crumbling, bring your popcorn and

Watch this horror show.

I Should Really Blame Myself

The day we are born

Freedom is lost, in

Enclosed white asylum walls.

Is it good business, breeding babies?

And I wonder why it is,

That when my heart breaks;

When I no longer feel beautiful is

When the fragility of love is most evident?

Just when you think it is something


When we find out it is not,

Seek solace in  buying things,

(Because people are never truly bought)

Materials to make me new again.

Desirable. Loveable. And yes, Beautiful.

When the cold hard things can no longer

comfort me,

I’ll let my mind boil my heart

In the broken cavity of ribs,

Muscles, tissues, the breathing

Carcass, or so how it seems,

In the festering filth that breeds

Bad thoughts like fleas.

I’ll sit in my room, the throne of ‘false needs’

And wonder why I can’t seem to have anything.

Inevitability of Loss

Inevitability of Loss

Thoughts transpire to him

His body, unique to it’s own,

Olive skin, a voice to soothe lions.

Irreversal sensuosity,

He left kisses like tattoos,

Never to wash off.


I am Lady Macbeth,

Can’t undo what is done.

I’ll keep this blood ’till it crusts.

And I prematurely despair,

As I enrapture the beauty of a bird

Fluttering, happily with the mysterious energy

Gifted to us at birth,

Oblivious to it’s eventual,

Immanent, inescapable expiration.

A Death before my Own,

And then he flies away

Leaving me to wonder

If love, like life, is always fleeting.

The losses we consume,

And in turn consume us.

A heart, devoured, never to resume.