Splinter Hemorrhage

Red black drops grown from within; terraforming inky lines laced into keratin, a dueling pigment spearing the pink.   Stress substantiated, distress stretching out to tip of finger, rending capillaries rendering proof.   Waiting for the new to push out with clippers poised to shear away the evidence of my spiral manifest.  


  Upside going down, outer edge of the spiral,     Still some space to move before sides start to tighten.     If only the choice were mine to make, up to air     Or going down, sliding to where the spiral ends.          


I replaced your picture today, My Friend, A culling from the shelf, Amputating you from amongst The mementos and dusty bric-a-brac.     I couldn’t take it any longer, My Friend, Your smile in my line of sight, Taunting me daily with a Whiff of salt air and thirty years of whispered echoes.     … More Relinquish

I Should Buy a Bath Mat

If I fell In the shower and Landed on my head, Who would find me Naked, Pruned, And unconscious?   Or worse?   These are the thoughts you have, Living alone, When you fall In the shower and Land on your ass.   Luckily, It’s padded.      


She walks in with slight bite of lip, betrayal of boldness carefully cultivated, cover blown on sight.         Maybe it’s just the mead talking to me tonight, but my recent foray into the nonet sparked a renewed interest in poetry and form in my life.  Thus, a trip into the shadorma.  It … More Veneer

Father of Mine

Plath said hers had a Meinkampf look, A man in black With love of the rack and the screw, But Daddy, Daddy, I don’t know what to make of you.   I read her words at twenty, A dagger trailing red to the core And then put you away – Tried to scar the slice … More Father of Mine

Finding Bukowski

  I read Bukowski today, a poem for swingers, bookmarked and coffee-stained, living words I once knew by heart.   I read Bukowski today, slid him off a dusty shelf and trailed my fingertips along his side, spine cracked and stiffened, a lover neglected.   I read Bukowski today just after sunrise, with gritty eyes … More Finding Bukowski