Silly blue tricycle
bends in the rain
where a girl has fallen.

Muddled screams
and washed away tears
follow a trail of blood.

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Silly blue tricycle
bends in the rain
and a girl falls.

Muddled screams
and tears awash
a trail of blood

Demolition

The kitchen collapses
into my heart
and sinks
like the heaviest of liquids
far beneath
the flooded
baseboards.

In the cellars
of this house
where I still
cannot forgive,
the darkness remains
vivid.

Poetry

I will decide today to view writing poetry as a way to learn. It is a way to learn through observation and participation. I am firm believer in the idea that one does not intrinsically know oneself. Just like you learn about the world by observing and participating with the world, we learn about ourselves by observing and interacting with our own thinking and behavior. Often times I will read a poem I have written and say, "Wow, I didn't know I felt that way."

I also believe that poetry is good practice in changing perspective. This is a skill to be develop for poetry's sake, but also for other aspects of my life - music, friendships, family, and even my research. A poem is something that creates its impression through interactions with its reader. The stuff of poems doesn't reside in the poem, nor in the person; but like all things good, it is neither here nor there.

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.

My Absence

I was recently injured in a sporting event, which required surgery, I and have not had the opportunity to visit anyone's site. Sorry

She plays hopscotch
over her sorrow.

Free Trade

A tree plants itself in my living room
dripping coffee from its roots.
Babies suckle for caffeine.
As the years go by they grow too big.
I watch them crawl away.

Unlevity

Cedar ballons plummet to the ground
and splinter.

Brandy and sex.
The warmth of her body
makes its way
across the sheets.

A capsule full of tenderness
sits on the counter.
We stare at each other,
quite unsure about it all.

American Sentences

For Fun, I'm boring out chunks of brain during the electrical storm.

If only you were as dead as a stinking pile of moldy leaves.

Geezus is the name of my savior, who I call daily for pity

The banister of family tradition spins and crashes to the floor.

Monotony

Pills in the morning
and then again
in the evening.

This thing,
it never ends.

This Mechnical Life

After years
of sharpening,
I sketch myself
a thin layer
of protection
with the pencil
shavings
that have fallen
from my brain.

I am dragged by the nostrils
into bed with a beautiful woman.

I wonder what it will be like
when the last remaining
rust of our iron love
has flaked away.

Happy

Not just
you in my arms
but you
in my arms.

Dodge Ball

A massive glob
of stupidity
comes tumbling
into our life.

We gather up
pieces of our intimacy
like lines of broken
shells washed
along the shore

Recovery

We lie in bed
like invasive-surgery patients,
holding hands
beneath the sheets.

Secrets

Her eyes
are covered
windows.

Birth Control

She crams her love
into a cardboard box
and sits upon it.

Look.

A wounded bird
is warming her eggs.

Envy ferments in a jar
full of broth and spice.
The last gulps of agony
to ease a worried mind.

Between puffs
of cigarette smoke,
she flat-irons regret
with the heaving rise
and fall of her chest.

Through the Windshield

The philosophy of disaster relief
beats like a heart against vacant homes.

Somewhere in the foreground
a pink tricycle stalls in the muck.

Heartache

A watch ticks
against my thigh.

In the shallow
pockets of my life
time goes by,

but no deeper.

Path

Lines of road
sketched up

and down
I walk

where my
eyes

are led
and then

my head
falls off

and rolls
away

where my mind
was going

in the first
place

Battle Prayers

With pesticide for armor
I march into the nest.

Sadness is beaten with a crutch
until it is molded and shaped
into perfection.

When the birds outside
explode,
their guts
become skin.

Their songs
the gurgling
of smooth muscle
contractions.

At the Carnival

A large cannon launches smileless bachelors
into the air as spectators with popcorn
ooh and ahh at the plummeting of youth.

Unrefridgerated

A carton of forgiveness
spoils on the counter

The suspense of murder.
I have killed her again
and again.

Exploratory Surgery

A man slowly pulls
internal organs
from out of his belly-button
and lays them on the table
to be examined.

Finding that he never
had a heart,
he dies with the
last gasp
of his lungs.