Wednesday, March 25, 2009

December 23, 2002

The calm of chaos,
its deafening silence tiptoes
welcoming me
with releasing
There is no dying
this time,
for you mother.

Go ahead, give into it, echoes my childish
subsistence, plunging
en route to its cuttingly saccharine

Cooking her holiday feast met
its end, my fiasco
never seemed so
A glistening potion, administered
to fill my fatherless
Mother’s holiday pleasures
by the smooth Hannukah gelt dampened
under the weight of no
medical insurance.

A death, so deep into its lonely grave, as
the sting of Miss Morphine lent
my corpse the sole decision


accepting a ride upon a weakly
lit haze
to the world of otherworldly
itches, unrushed
to any interruption.

Spirit and corpse intertwined, a moment
murdering this subdued pain.
Like a Vulture possessing candor, it caressed
my aches, without pardoning
my fears a clear chance
for parole.

Never Again

The nightlight of my dark cove, that plastic bulb illuminating

Barbie’s smile flickered

it’s last breath, many many nights ago…

Chalkboard inspired wallpaper,

and Mickey Mouse

covers beneath

mother’s green quilt, purple

plums and pink persimmons, a

quilted garden

like the sun above blazing heat,

moments found me lying
underneath its

Nineteen years later,

the colors bled through

the blistering sun and upon

your triple fighting heart, an

attack, your masculine fragileness


They always ask why I won’t let go.

Why must an unresponsive childhood lie

broken in the midst of time’s habitual


I answer

fathers, they always lie. Love refuses such ill thoughts.

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Pop's Little Girl

Little girl, don’t forget his
Close father’s hazel diamonds and lie
still, split seconds perpetuate aches,

Spun out for certainty, peanut butter and jelly
forever reigning
over you. Thunder’s tears
your not guilty plea
of sorrow,
to grow without due consideration.

Dorothy’s borrowed yet broken slippers.
Slipping, moments collapse
Little girl, he will never define

blemished, inevitably you will recoil
once again,
into thoughts neither
parting nor emerging.

little girl, he will replace
his lukewarm bareness,
someday. In cold death,
your only wish will
find you,