To the Departed… So It Begins.


Crawling into voices
Out of Awareness
Into pitiful light

As day meets the other and so. . .
Society wants me blind

Slowly, the poison
And juices up my skin

Bills and bliss tussle
In an epimorphic dance

There is no room for the grieving here.

The podium asks the same question
Every time the curtains rise;

You must be forgotten
We must walk over the dead.

I plaster a smile on
And let you haunt me instead.

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The Unlikely Orphan (Part II)



. . . And then she pondered
Over love,
And wondered what it was.
And you painted yellow
Canvases of a grandmother
You once knew.

She looks up to you.

But it’s right that you
May want to leave
What you think
Is probably true

You are right to wonder
What you might
Get into.

Too much.
Too tough.
Just a little way more than enough.

How do you love a person
Who’s never been loved?

Well I guess you’ve met. . .The Unlikely Orphan.

Whole. BUT, not whole enough.
Running out back-doors
Crawling out of skins
She can’t recognize.

Chaos, her only device.

Say hello to
This unlikely person.

The chinois strains
Out every last gallon of
Blood she drew
But it doesn’t pour down
As red as you.

Something’s different.

It’s the case of the unlikely person.

Here’s a mystery you don’t have to solve.
You’ve seen more than the ones seen all.
You can leave.
For you, I leave the front door open.

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I come back to you


I come back to you in laughter.
Those strange moments
When I can smile without a thought.
So human, and okay with it.

Then I think of you.

Involuntary. Unwilling. Scared.
Like a taunt you smoke into my veins
And threaten to take it all away.

I come back to you on days
Laced with sadness.
So heavy, my fingers can only bear to breathe into a point
And write these tears to your name.

On those days I claim you owe me.
And then the night curls into sobs.
Reluctant. Unprompted. Unthinking.
Shooting toward your absent
Figure walking guiltless in my closed room.

I come back to you In Love.
When I don’t know what or how to.
I choke. And gasp. And split helpless from within.

I come back to you in growth.
For every inch I try to move
You storm death into my skies.
The light fizzles into silence
And I scurry for My Cave to Nowhere.

When I don’t move.
You don’t.
When I don’t speak.
You don’t.
When I don’t try.
Your silence quiets me.
And then it begins to comfort me
That you’ll always be there.

So I stay transfixed.
The taunt of your voice
Breaks the music in my ears
But I stay transfixed.
The look in your eyes
Blinds the colors in my mind
But I stay transfixed.

I come back to you
In surrender.
Voluntary. Willing. Broken.
So desperate for your words,
That cruelty makes right of everything.
Your face Lives
And my heart bleeds
Into an ancient, unforgiving pain.

I come back to you in those moments
When I’ve fallen, all over again.

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I love the winters, so cold
They freeze these streaming layers
Into a numb.

It is in winter that I can think.
In these fogy mornings
Where I begin.

The air, crisp,
The sun, a blazing beam
And in between, is I:
Oozing hot and cold
From your pulse
So incorrectly read by me.

I reflect against the curve of your lips.
Hide under the shades of your lids.
And then I point a finger at you.

Look at me shinning through your skin.
Lover, where do I even begin
To heal.

Ask me for my strength
Then cup your hands
In offering,
I need you.

Like father
Like friend
Like lover
Like the winter I love so much.

Freeze over these aching layers
And calm me.
Or let me melt through, instead
And be born again, in Snow.

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Your Nonsensical . My Secret.

Like urgent Thoughts
Stomping on restless keys.
The blacks and whites
Go frantic in the rhythm.


Pride steps into its winning dance
Hiding behind
A party of faces
In the dark.


Tears.The ones we miss in the shadows.
Oiling the blacks and whites
Hopping in their frantic rhythm.

And paper cut outs.
And dust beneath the sun.
It kills to be the chosen one.

Sawdust eyes follow
Leather prayer.
So dead, the weight
Is simply passed on.

They say love isn’t real.
As they transfer their insecurities.
Then what is this we rumble.
And tumble.
And fumble in.

They hammer. Hammer.
Hammer at their ghosts.
Look. So high.
They drink these titles.
And like naked wounds.
They will always be sore.

As the Violone
Drugs its strings to a pull.

I say nothing?

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