December 7, 1998

You don’t think I remember,

But I remember everything.

I remember breakfast—

It was served ice cold

And the taste was unbearable.

The aftertaste was worse.

The Inquiry

At the bus stop there’s a girl,

Blonde with red streaks;

She says a man at the stop

Asked if she dyed her hair

Kool-Aid…

I find it amusing that

I understand the question.

Love Scenario #15

Today we give someone a birthday—

Her very first, one of many.

Behold: This warm little love ball

Who has effectively stolen our hearts—

And your eyes, and my nose,

My hair, and your smile,

Both our colorful personalities,

Our hopes, our dreams. All of these—

They came from us, and here they are

In a divine little package, given by God.

Our little package, full of surprises

To emerge with each passing year.

We touch her hands and feel her heart;

We look into her eyes and see her soul.

I see you hold her and not let go—

This is what I’ve been longing for.

The Procession

Today I lay a dear friend to rest.

I proceed along Bardstown, dressed in black,

Toward the final resting place.

Along the way I glance out the window

And happen to spot you on the sidewalk

Accompanied by a group of unknowns.

I come to realize that you, like I,

Have chosen to don the funereal shade.

Did you know of my affairs?...

Of course not...but perhaps

You are attending your own procession,

Marching solemnly with other mourners.

Maybe we each have something to bury—

Perhaps we wish to bury each other

And lay our past to rest.

Awakening

What is this?—it appears

The sky can’t hold itself together.

The sun bleeds red; the

Clouds are on fire.

Inferno everywhere!

Cracks in the heavenly blue

Reveal the black of space;

Through this I see the planets

Aligning, the stars around them

Exploding and collapsing in a collective nova.

The moon absorbs the sun’s blood

Like a celestial gauze.

Back at home, I look up and

Could swear I see a flock of pigs

Soaring over the Ohio…

And no one sees this but me.

If one had, they would have supposed

That the world was ending.

But I know the truth:

I don’t love you anymore.

In Defense of the Superwoman

So what did she do?—

Did she take a wrecking ball

To your dreams?

Did she burn your fondest memories

And put her own in their place?

You must think she’s

A cuckoo bird

Who kicked your eggs

Out of the nest

While wearing nothing

But a trenchcoat and

Red stilettos.

She’s not so immodest as

You insist she is.

Have you even caught her naked?

Stripteasing and

Dry-humping for him

Atop her baby grand?

Or worse—

Sticking fragrant rose bouquets

In her forbidden regions?

No? But my, wouldn’t it be juicy!

Too bad for you, for a Superwoman knows

How to kiss the sky—

No need to fondle the dirt.

She can rise above it

And touch the sun.

Can you?...

Resilience

I see an abandoned rose;

Its stem is brown and thirsty

Yet its folded face maintains

Its vibrant rouge.

And so is my love for you—

Malnourished yet ever resilient.

April 29, 2008

In the hall, after class—

I confess my unfortunate sin

To a tattered priest in a down vest.

No prayer as penance,

But instead a dismissal:

“The love you seek is not free.”

These words, they sting my heart,

Tearing away its flesh

Like a slab of hot ice.

Disheartened am I; nevertheless

I accept my penance

And all its torturous ways.

Three years would pass, with

My hands bleeding from my love rosary

And my flayed heart festering.

Jitters

A mile, a mile, a mile a minute –

My thoughts race, rip and run
(Will you stop it

With the radio static already?!).

Wind whips in my face;

My heart begins to race.

The eyes lose their focus

And I become a zombie—

Undead and “about to die,” with

A headache to last a thousand years;

The warmest day turns bitter cold

Within the second. Then—

I come alive again

And I fall to the floor.

My mind comes rushing back

With solemn reflection.

A-I-R-E-N

Must you misspell it?

Must you, must you,

Mispronounce?

It’s really quite simple:

Five letters unchanged

For twenty-nine years.

Must you feel the need to

Crack it, stir it, mash it, and

Mix it with unnecessary flavors?

It wouldn’t taste right.

It was made authentic, with

A distinct flavor all its own.

Different, yes.

But never complicated.

Different rarely is, turns out.

Name the atmosphere, then

Tack “en” to the last letter—

Won’t take much…

The Thirty-Seven Cent Store

What will it be tonight?—
Coffee, muffins, tea...

Conversation?

Perhaps I’d like an apple or orange…

Or a shoulder to cry on.

I need something to keep me from the night.

At night…the city around me…

Slows down…becomes…silent.

It’s a slow, silent, lonely place.

The night is lonely.

The city is silent.

Silence and loneliness dance together.