Category: The Poetry.

Losing My Religion

Stop what you’re doing right now and take your left hand and hold your right hand the way you would hold a lover’s hand. Comfort it. Caress it. Examine all the cracks and wrinkles. Take notice of the crinkled skin around the knuckles and the lines that seem to smirk at you when you straighten each finger.  Are the fingernails dirty? Are the cuticles … Read More Losing My Religion

The Power of the Tiniest

Gravel that is frozen in place frees itself once ants, warmed by the long days of spring, push it free The lesson of spring is a lesson to us all.

Worn Wood

Chairs and stools nicked with time Finish chipped and stripped The tables and trunks from childhood that rest in the stories of growing old. Time splashes over them, pine and oak absorbing years of words. Anger Love Making Love Wood is like that. It remembers everything and becomes worn because of it.

Amelia Earhart

I was born twenty years to the day Amelia Earhart crashed her plane. 175,200 hours between our breaths 7,300 days separate our need for human touch. Her last. My first. She, a mystery with the exit of an entangled enigma, I, a simple hiccup in the flight of glorious time.

I’ll Take Good Care Of Your Heart

I will take such good care of your heart you won’t recognize it. Pumping strong,it will sing like the ringing of a glass as you circle the rim- your index finger dipped in Merlot. Between each beat, it will rest safely, before it reanimates- unfolding with the energy I will bleed into it. Shining like a golden clam holding a secret pearl, the luster will flicker, spreading outward, and … Read More I’ll Take Good Care Of Your Heart

River Leaves

As the mist from the river rises half way up the oak, he cups his right hand and skims it across the top, fingers propelling through leaves frozen on the surface. Fighting the ice crystals as they form, small sheets of puzzle pieces on his fingers, he remembers the trip made with friends in his youth, paddling canoes, wine bottles passed from side to … Read More River Leaves

On Winter’s Edge

Ashen snow falls heedlessly in  mid-December. Lightly gathering around the sidewalks edge, nebulous at their feet, two friends, old hearts with new minds, stand in the street lamps glow. Their fingers locked together like the hills and valleys of a mountainside. Seconds become deliberate as frost forms circles around their lips, and with an undivided glance, they open themselves, once more, to winter’s warmth.

Some things in life you never get tired of, and some things are just exhausting

Things I Am Exhausted By: Tuna fish casserole, Glen Beck, and pot holes. Cold hands, cold feet, and lack of sleep. Paper work, broken pens, and screaming dorks. Travis Tritt, hollowness, and olive pits. Bad gin, used shoes, and not enough sin. Wanting a cigarette and craving Fritos. Not having a cigarette, yet still craving Fritos. Things I Never Get Tired Of: Steely Dan, Danny Kaye, and stealing kisses. Dark chocolate, red … Read More Some things in life you never get tired of, and some things are just exhausting

I Remember Your Face

(A Reminiscence Of Young Love) I remember your face. You were the one whose eyes froze my hands from their usefulness with just a glance. You were the one whose ears like malformed snails, would lose my whispers in their curls until nothing of me was left but stale breath. The one whose nose would sniff the scent of fragrant young women and fill your … Read More I Remember Your Face

He Fell In Love

He fell in love for the 99th time since dawn. His eyes searching everywhere, for light, for smoke, for heat. As he  picks at his thumb a blueprint of women, ageless and careless, enter his sight,  and he grabs each one with his heartbeat. The hint of thigh, the wish of scent, all wrap around his skull like a cap he can never hang … Read More He Fell In Love

Mom, Dorothy Parker, and Me on an August Afternoon

I would watch you curled around your passion, sitting on our couch reading her line by line, bitter visions escaping through your eyes, too young to hear the words that felt like hot holy water on your tongue. You’d leave me on those days, and deep inside I was jealous of each volume stacked on the floor stair steps to your mind. When you weren’t … Read More Mom, Dorothy Parker, and Me on an August Afternoon

The Picture In Anna’s Basement

In Anna’s basement there is a picture of a woman sitting on a bridge, the stones watermarked by the rise and fall of time. Anna lifts her right hand, tiny fingers unfolding five questions kept secret like soft wrapped caramels warming in her pocket. She counts rooftops, full of splintered shingles. touching the glass and writing her name in dust. The large A is … Read More The Picture In Anna’s Basement

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