Saturday, December 29, 2007

The front door protests my arrival.
The whole house sags and nearly bleeds
when ever I am home.
The walls lean inward.
The floors have hardened.

Someday I will climb up and sit upon
the roof and watch it crumble.
From beneath a dusty pile of cement
and drywall, I will rest my head and sleep.

Monday, December 24, 2007

The clothing scattered
about my room
searches for you.

Under the bed.
Behind the dresser.
In the closet.

Someday they will
give up on you.
We've thickened
in the fallen leaves
and earthy mud.

The footprints,
where you've stepped
so carefully,

are now just dusty fossils
that neither crumble
nor fade.

Sunday, December 23, 2007

The hypnotist's fog
burns halos in the night.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

A Life of Violence

I stab at everything with a tiny pacifier.
But the memories of you won't budge.

Monday, December 17, 2007

Image from Smokey Commute

Black smoke rises -
on cherry hill
a dark flame
envelops us.

Sunday, December 16, 2007

I hold you and blister.
Perhaps these wounds
will heal better
the second time around
A polk-a-dot dress
from a black
and white picture frame.
And just like that
you are gone.

Friday, December 14, 2007

Dear God

Still shredding your junk mail...

Monday, December 10, 2007

Nearly Gone

She is a garbage bag
stuffed with clothes
at the end of a hallway.
The pulse of winter
pumps sludge onto the roads
like a slobbering monster.

In the frenzied pace
of spinning tires
and shopping carts,

I find you snuggled among
a tangle of ribbon
and wrapping paper.

Thursday, December 6, 2007





Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Memory of a Lover

in the pale
crisp fountain
made of marble
and brick
a yellow bird
is getting lost
in the snow

Monday, December 3, 2007

Gust of wind -
mangled roadside
exit sign
My own cruelty
bleeds into a pool
at the seat of my chair.

Saturday, December 1, 2007

Depression is a vomit bag
that dwells in my chest.
Chunky and full of flavor.
If I could divide up my love
into slices of turkey, oh
how thick I would carve them.
The plantains are rotting.
We smile in that pale
yellow sort of way.