Tuesday, August 26, 2014

indigo stalemate

indigo stalemate

 I want to fill your avatar
while making love to the
deep recesses of your want as we
sit in summer stickiness with
little relief as you try
cooling us off, sitting
next to me on the patio,
legs sprawed, vainly trying to
capture midnight breezes in your
sundress ignited by moonbeams that
bind to the salt of your skin in
places that make me
envious of proximity where

we pass a bottle of brewed
fermented grapes and
bottled, agitated motives of
transitory infused intimacy
too hot to transmit in air
too damp to receive, its thickness,
like the light woven fabric draped
enviously over you, now
heavy with your frustration,
too dense to transmute beyond
smiles and frosty relief of a
bottle shared, its coolness contrasting
what builds between us with each
bottle-pass and passing glance,
each glancing pass made passively
indulgence implicitly given
audience as we audaciously
deny each other the flavor of
satisfaction by succumbing first
when I decide to win this
indigo stalemate by losing
the game and myself

and on the next bottle pass,
take your wrist instead,
setting aside drunken pretense,
drawing you into me as you
protest by pulling me closer,
deeper, where not even moonlight
can escape and sound falls upon us
together, rooting us in
percussion, earthy rhythms,
supporting your lead vocals and
guttural gloats and when the
wine bottle falls away, not
shattering on impact, but
careening with a cavernous,
hollow, disquiet, you
scarcely notice while
embracing my fermented kiss
with your own, melding,

melting into midnight.

Sunday, August 17, 2014



“There is no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.” –John Ruskin 
in august
twenty-three years ago
I said “I do” to the wrong woman
for wrong reasons, charting course down a wrong pathway
where many other wrong things occurred
all of which lead me right
to august
skies, dropping tranquil rain
when the forecast called for sun, I am
grateful for bad guesses, wrong choices, leading me
inexplicably to someone I
never would’ve met if
I chose right.
** *

My first attempt at a Triquain Swirl form. Posted on Real Toads’ Sunday Mini-Challenge - Triquain

Tuesday, August 12, 2014


Image Source: Google


Wonder where you went;
cursive current that curved
deep inside my bend,
and you would rest your head,
and you would rest your head upon my chest.

I would drink you with moonbeams
and chase with paisley galaxies
in constellations that light my
lips on your skin,
vaporizing our firmament.

Wonder what we meant
to you when our cosmos
only encompassed just us two;
you could feel my intent,
you could feel my intent in our embrace

And your face
reflected our place in the night above,
beyond the thin blue line,
beyond the moon and sun, beyond
what’s seen with our naked eyes.

What was felt at the merge,
our sonic reverb
echoed through our shell.
We combined in a treble cleft;
intertwined till there’s nothing left.

Wonder where you went,
in the light of day when
they wondered where you’d been?
Was I mentioned then?
Was your intention then to dim our light?

Wonder what we meant
to you when daylight denies
what we held true,
as you curved away,
as you curved away beyond my pull

and I am left full
of wandering wonders
in your wake
as your scent dissipates,
as your scent dissipates from what was ours.

Sunday, August 03, 2014

unfinished spaces


unfinished spaces

boxes of memories, incomplete thoughts, unfinished sentences
portals into past lives, untended flames, outdated fashion
things I cannot bear to part with and I dare not open
echoes muted by cardboard and plastic bindings, displacing air
ill-used portion of my personal space, and yet
if I stare, they turn ashen, silhouetted forest fading in fog
Posted in Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads for Flash 55 Words.

Sunday, July 27, 2014

The Requested Silence

(Image Source: msnixinthemix.com)

The Requested Silence


“you stupid bitch! I told you
to shut the fuck up!”
followed by the sound of
fists colliding with flesh
muffled cries, begging for mercy,
and then the silence he demanded.




saturday morning cartoons with
pancakes instead of dry cereal

last night’s “unfortunate incident”
white-washed with the sweet taste

of maple syrup and a savory salt-lick
of bacon, fluffy eggs and as little
eye-contact as possible, this was

her way of apologizing to hubby
and kiddo for provoking Sweet Daddy
into becoming something he isn’t.




“get the fuck out then, slut! Don’t
nobody want your stupid ass, but me!”

purse goes from resting, to hurtling
across space-time at warp-speed, narrowly
missing her tear-stained face, colliding
with the wall, empting its contents
in a one-person ticker-tape
celebration of cruelty

as she drops to her knees, frantically
piecing her life together, Sweet Daddy
reloads, this time, chambering
a glass ashtray

“baby! Please! Don’t!” she sobs
he hesitates, her words hitting their mark
and he sets the ashtray down, knowing
that throwing objects at his object could
be objectively considered callous by his son
and that’s just something he wasn’t.




“it’s as much my fault as it is his,
just so you know. he’s just
stressed-out. I should’ve known
better than to press him about
the bills. He works so hard…”

“taxes are so damned high… The President’s
foreign policy is making our nation irrelevant and
I keep forgetting to make
Baby Boy pick up his toys”
“his boss won’t stop riding his ass, new guy
is fuckin everything up and then
he comes home to my
overcooked pot-roast, I just
should’ve watched it better”

“my eye doesn’t look that bad.
shit, you should’ve seen his knuckles!
you’re not getting the whole story;
he cried about it too! I promise you;
he has a kind soul and a gentle nature
this is not who he is all the time
that’s why we call him ‘Sweet Daddy’!”




words, phrases
clauses, causes,
sentences freefall,
cascading paragraphs
coalescing in essays of
black eye white lie excuses that
fail to tip the scales of reason and
accountability; she will suffer
the slings and arrows of his bruises
his knuckles will fashion her lies
his will, morphed into her fault
burdened by aggression
and violence she can’t
evade or stem
she will break
or else




and then the silence he demanded
suffocates with stagnant stench of sweat
and copper and iron, carpet soaked in
his crimson essence, seemingly lifeless body
remanded to ambulatory services or
wherever deadmen or mortally wounded
men who were already dead inside go

she had no plan; lacked even
the guile for hiding the kitchen knife,
dropping it where it performed its task
almost too well, running out the back door
into the elements, wearing only a nightgown
stained with both her, and now his blood

the cops collected her, eventually returning
her to her Baby Boy after hearing her story
and correlating it with the tale told by
the bruises on her face

when she returned, she cradled her son
on the couch in silence,
both in his requested silence, both
empty of tears, both wondering
where exactly did they screw up
in making Sweet Daddy into
something he wasn’t.

Saturday, July 19, 2014

this poem is a dream, a phantasm, and a note



this poem is a dream, a phantasm, and a note

this poem is a dream dreamt by a dreamer
this poem is a phantasm fantasy of fleeting
this poem is a wind-swept love note
she comes cloaked in grey, informal metaphor
responding to questions of why and how
with grins and shrugs of just because
darting from the grip of understanding
lingering only to flirt with possibility
this poem is a dream dreamt by a dreamer
she coalesces into familiar, coveted prize
her smile takes form, the red in her lips
incites me to steal her shade for myself, but
gripping her waist loosens our linked dominion
our embrace tightens, dissolving in morning sun
this poem is a phantasm fantasy of fleeting
leaving a wake of winding words
that form constellations and galaxies
I read and incalculably live lifetimes of lovers
smiling, I release her from our dance
she rises on our thermal current
this poem is a wind-swept love note

this poem is a flirty dream, darting from my grasp
this poem is a phantasm, evaporating on fingertips
this poem is a love note, rising to meet our lovers

This poem has been written for Sunday's Mini-Challenge: Boomerang Metaphors at imaginary garden with real toads.

This poem was also shared with my good friends at dVerse poets in honor of their weeklong celebration the site’s three year anniversary. As one of the first poetry communities I ever summoned the courage of contributing to, from the bottom of my heart, I thank you all for the encouragement, support, and most of all, our shared comradery and passion for poetry. Sorry I couldn’t participate in the festivities, but I’m honored to help clean-up the pub at the after-party.

Other dVerse poets have also participated in the after-party. Go here to read their well-crafted, inspiring poems.

Saturday, July 12, 2014

riding shotgun one late summer evening



riding shotgun one late summer evening

the moon, heavy and fleeting
ignites mist, uncloaking midnight
air, humid, heavy with expectation

fixated on reflected
freeway guidelines and the way home
moonbeams reflect with her focused intent

as sunlight reveals the moon
moonlight refracted through damp sky
an aura for this goddess driving us

oblivious to her place
in my celestial temple
the stars can only twinkle with envy

they cannot hope to reach her
as I cannot bottle her light
or reach out to steal the moon for her smile