December 23, 2002

The calm of chaos,
its deafening silence tiptoes
welcoming me
with releasing
arms.
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
downfall.

Cooking her holiday feast met
its end, my fiasco
never seemed so
promising.
A glistening potion, administered
to fill my fatherless
emptiness.
Mother’s holiday pleasures
melted
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

of

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
peace.

Nineteen years later,

the colors bled through

the blistering sun and upon

your triple fighting heart, an

attack, your masculine fragileness

lost.

They always ask why I won’t let go.

Why must an unresponsive childhood lie

broken in the midst of time’s habitual

movement?

I answer

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

Pop's Little Girl

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

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

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


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,
well.