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.

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.

The hypnotist's fog
burns halos in the night.

A Life of Violence

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

Image from Smokey Commute

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

I hold you and blister.
Perhaps these wounds
will heal better
the second time around

A polk-a-dot dress
flows
unconfined
from a black
and white picture frame.
And just like that
you are gone.

Dear God

Still shredding your junk mail...

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.

Layers

Cold
hands
dry
rot
away.

Under
melting
skin
out
pours

the
lava
you
never
drank.

Memory of a Lover

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

Gust of wind -
mangled roadside
exit sign

My own cruelty
bleeds into a pool
at the seat of my chair.

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.