Posts for June 27, 2021 (page 2)


For Rye

my cat is not so black as the Night Sky,
there is earthiness within him,
though since he made a ghost bird in my bed,
Lizzy has said     each
                              Star Needle hair on him is
the memory of something he’s killed
or that                  each
                              Moon Braid hair is
a secret, but what secrets could he wield? after
when there are no ghosts about the bed,
each sickled paw releases
the violence he’s clawed inside.



Enveloped in splendor, 

I am naught but achy hands and back,
Surrounded by friends.
Fullhearted and sore,
I would taste your smile for years.


Regarding Chance Gardener (A process poem)

I have a very nice name of my own,
no notion of what made me closet
myself. Little thought went into
the choice. Gardener came from
truth, knowing where, if anywhere,
I might find poems again. Then,
the ghosts of Chauncey and Eve
came calling and the name took root.

I walk slowly, carefully around
the grounds like Peter Sellers,
immersed in my senses like
Shirley MacLaine, being there.
Lending a hand to what grows,
then I like to watch what happens.


Rose-Tinted Daydream

Maybe this will be our life:
I’ll tend the flowers, learn the banjo,
bake the bread. We’ll dance for hours,

you’ll learn Italian, take up

sailing. We’ll make babies with chubby
cheeks and teach them

all the names of things, and how to bow

their heads in wonder when a hatchling
learns its wings. They’ll always sleep

sound, they’ll never cry, grow up to love

their fellow man while you and I age
like wise old trees, all laugh lines and kind

eyes, hearts so full they’ll glow

through our papery skin like sky
lanterns, and we’ll look across

the years at each other,

exchanging simple gratitudes
that melt into forever.



  sonorous sound smiths
  water-seeking wanderers
  marks melodious


So You Think You’re Hilarious: Where Everybody Knows Your Game

Alice is sick of Wonderland,
her shirt spells eat me.

Barbara does not want you to introduce yourself
as Ken even if that’s your name.

The truth is Charles is never in charge and he knows it,
and Daniel’s never seen the king of beasts up close
but he calls that room the library thank you very much.

Eileen will not come on with you and confesses
she doesn’t give a fiddle about what you think
of her in this dress.

Freddy doesn’t have a fun time
playing with cliche on the daily,
and George will not tell which way
they went and in addition is not your boy,

Helen doesn’t mind so much about having an inciting beauty,
but she’s not mad about you–you just met.

From across the bar Irene is already tellin you
good night (good night) but Jack will hit the road
whenever they damn well want, an Irish goodbye perhaps,
out the back.

Kate will not kiss you
unless you are intensely interesting and
make her laugh. And there’s Louie. Louie, whoa, no
he doesn’t have to go anywhere either. Good song though.

If the wind’s whispering to you Mary says please
see a psychiatrist or wait til the psychadelics dissapate.
In addition her sexual resume is none of your business,
but she will pray for you.

Nicholas is no saint, let me tell you, but if
you say it that way he might chuckle. And
put your name on a list.

Ophelia refuses to drive herself to the local brothel
anytime soon. Just joking, she might because
there’s no one here named Ophelia,

but there’s Oliver, buying another round. He will only twist
if there’s money or nudity involved. Peter’s big
on bluntness and just wants to lay it all on the table:
he is done with the dick jokes.

Queenie is not your little bee but she
just might sting if you don’t (you know) buzz off,

Rachel would be so very happy if you’d refrain from singing
the theme song to her tonight even if you’re the Rembrandts.
Even if she loves you.

The thing with Steve is yeah, he’s everybody’s guy, you can
count on Steve, Steve always comes through,
but sometimes he just doesn’t want to, man.

Thomas doubts there’s original thought in many heads,
but will listen to a lot if you buy him a shot.
He often makes blasphemous jokes about nails.

The poor unfortunate souls who go so far as to call Ursula
a sea witch lose all chance at input,

her partner Veronica says “Yes, of course Betty’s my bestie
and we’ll absolutely meet y’all for malts
when we live down the block from each other on freaking Mars.”

Willis doesn’t know what you’re talking about. Seriously.
He’s Generation Zoom and you are a hilarious weirdo of GenX.

Heads up, your ex is here. You knew that’d happen eventually,
concentrate your stamina on stoicism and keep sippin that bourbon.

Also, you know Your Mom’s coming through later, right?
Gotta say she’s very popular still though some say overused,
but I say you can’t kick a classic out of bed.

Yeah, it’s Zeus. Here this whole time.
By last call you really should know your attempt to make a pun in god’s name
will fall well short of Olympic trials, so instead
choose your ambrosia. Choose lightning in a bottle.



There’s beauty in the longing
of self-descriptive scrawlings
of what’s considered good writing
or poetry


roses (number 6)

today’s are New York roses
organized in a garden
Brooklyn, to be exact 
lovely and labeled
I investigate
like the ones in my town
they bloom then fade
the commonality of the flower
reminding me
so much is the same
despite the address
colors on colors, thorns and buds
meandering and opening themselves to the sunlight
exemplifying through expression and slight variances 
pedals which shine then wither 
a reminder of what might already have been 


Trying to fall asleep to the sound of fireworks

Trying to fall asleep

to the sound of fireworks

is as useless

as trying to forget

about you

and the way

your words

would take my breath away.

And I’ll never know why you stopped.


Are you laying in a hospital bed



Are you still alive?

Did you kill yourself?


It’s cruel to leave me wondering

and even justifying to myself

why you haven’t

gotten in touch with me.


The explanation I hate

is the one that’s most likely true:

you’re fine and well

and have just stopped writing me.


So every time

I see your profile pic

and the last unanswered messages

I sent you,

I feel deep resentment.


I wrote things that I know

made you feel

just as hot and bothered.


So, what?

Was I not worth an explanation

or a simple goodbye?

Do you enjoy playing

with other people’s feelings?

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised

in a society

where relationships are disposable.


Plot twist:

The one who was so afraid of being


became the ghoster.


Who do you think you are?

And, more importantly,

who do you think I am

that I deserve to be

treated this way?


I want to reach out to you,

try to re-open a door.

Yet, at the same time,

I’m not ready for whatever

bullshit excuse

or lame apology

you might attempt to offer me.


I miss you

and I’m so angry at you.

And I don’t know how to

balance those two things.

I want you back

but I also

want to make you

crawl across broken glass

to get back into my good graces.


I don’t know how to resolve this.

I don’t know how to cope

with the loss of you.

I don’t know how to let you back in.


In the words of Carly Simon,

why’d you have to be so good?

If you had been forgettable

or regrettable,

this would be so much easier.

Holding on

to the vain hope

of your return

is killing me.


So I will delete you

and all your false words

and try not to look back.


the offset

can a figment of the mind
be killed 

can a master of distrust 
be comforted

can the changing times
be savored

can the passing thoughts
be tamed

can an alliance
be the end

can the world
please just stay sane