untitled

Pumpkin face,
sewn into my smile,
must we part
by new moon,
or can we begin again
under sun’s cover?

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shedding skin

Hawk eyes survey a cobbled square, teeming with tamed shadows.
Café noir in manicured hands, harsh rays from a cumbersome sun
fall upon her cobra-skinned boots.  She shields indigo eyelids with
bejeweled twigs, blocking out  far-off orchards with all her might.
Expectant limbs howl out her name; their sickly offspring are her
birthmark.  Invisible to the passing eye, they have marked her for
life.

flickering in futility

Flickering in futility, eye light vanishes at last.
Lubricant long gone from musket’s length,
horror after horror has turned muscular men
into bawling boys.

Carmine comets, too numerous to count, rain
downwards until no consoling bullets remain.

An involuntary babysitter, bereft of his blanket,
tends a makeshift graveyard until buttress’ come.

Blessed Art Thou

A crimson tinted mouth smudges
comrade glasses beneath a buzz of
walking suits.  They talk only amongst
themselves, never to her.

Glittering gown masks avian limbs, a
former gazelle turned silent sidekick.
She is hopeless in her new-found role
and recites alphabetic antiphons, reaping
no harvest beside such diseased plantings,
yet brightly standing still, she will.

a multitude of fools

Twin La-Z-Boys, separated by 19 years, volley the
disputed property between threadbare arms for hours.
Disclosure of the writer’s identity fixed nothing in this
age of dismissals and definitions redefined; the querulous
costume that is worn fits all too well and the furious
gurgles that escape his misty lips are an
acute reminder that our nation is still
dependent on a multitude of fools.


forever edited

Decay of the visible is difficult enough but the
assassination of the unseen is a far greater crime.
Amazing transformations are taking place every day and
already, we have lost precious and valuable slivers of
energy that could have been used in an
alternate life.  The disintegration of our histories is a
puzzle that we may never be able to solve.
Symbolic objects pass through weathered hands, forever
edited for meaning by time’s ever-changing whims.

get with the program!

Advertisements plastered on your front door (again).  An
animal—possibly a cat or a female child—howls from outside; your
bonus for residing in a drab and dilapidated district.

Conifer trees lined up in rows like luckless soldiers wait for collection.  Which
gene programmed you for this existence?  In the
inglenook a solitary Christmas card is taped to the wall…a
shot of humanity from an old high school friend.
Spaghetti for dinner (again).