Thursday, November 20, 2008


A few taps of the backspace key
and I can make it disappear.
Right click, delete, confirm
But it isn’t a laptop
that ends this charade-
it’s me.
On Thursday there are sofas and bookshelves and dinette sets
old televisions, chairs and mattresses
furnishing the sidewalk.

Still, the walls keep inching closer
with each involuntary blink.
There’s no place for my expelled breath to go,
I just keep breathing it back in.

Restless and inaccessible I overcompensate.
It’s 6:00 by the time I get to walking -
back alleys and side streets
counting the cat calls and horn beeps.
My mind retreats finally leaving me
to think. I waste it.

Lets squeeze every last drop of fate
out of this sad little place
and see what happens
when the only things left to blame
for the state we’re in
are the decisions we make.

Hey, pick up the pace,
the thoughts that surface
to keep us from sleep
blur at 90 miles an hour
on the black lit Midnight Street.

Don’t let up the gas.
When the tempo slows
We have to face them.
We have to face them.

But it doesn’t have to be tonight.

Sunday, November 2, 2008


At fifteen
tragic circumstances unleashed
an unconscious monstrosity
on the world of men.
Intent on forgetting
That One Raw Night
Horas non numero nisi serenas
Even in the absence of light.

She changed then
became perhaps
what he had intended.
Dependably erratic in her escapades.
Finding human erasers
to erase what she couldn't face.

High school boys first.
Innocent badasses,
smoking in the fish market parking
lot, while she developed new charms
and then moved on.

Then sweet, nice virgins/potential priests
drug dealing lunatics
a skateboarder
some geeks
ones that made Promises
she couldn’t possibly let them keep.
They tore their own hearts up
confetti on New Year’s eve.
Each had a month or so before
her inevitable retreat.

Eventually she forgave
but the cycle was set.
Guys in bands
college physics TA’s
tattooed philosophers
and men who were never without
their cigarettes.

A dozen more
one for each season
of each descending year.
They meant nothing.

Still, she was looking for something.
Still forgetting that nothing.

Then - he is
Poetically Perfect
she is imPerfect.
And this time she is the nothing
for the first time since that night.

And she can’t forget
without Forgetting
that hope burned into flesh:
Horas non numero nisi serenas
Moments calculated in shadow.
Light in the absence of light.