Urgent Care Sunday afternoon

Without hope, broken dreams, it ain’t worth livin’, life ripped at the seams.

My paper bag sits with a bottle of cheap wine, no one cares Lord, but I am still Thine.

The Night of the Mantis

as summer ends and autumn begins, the prayer of the Night Mantis soars to heaven that it may be heard even amid the destruction.

he’s not coming home

nights too cold

I wait in the darkness, lying like the Maja

after our exchange of insults and barbed-wire words.

Only your shoulders face me

and I am surrounded by this suffocating silence.

My voice whispers to you in this night

and I don’t understand this silence pressing against me.

I rest alone, only confused.

I feel the warmth of your skin

near mine, this night.

Still, only the rays of the ascending moon

touch me with love on this one of many nights too cold..

wee hours

there is something stirringly surreal about embracing a new day at an early hour. screaming silence harmonizes with the rhythm of what sounds like hundreds of crickets chirping just beyond the bedroom walls. espresso rises, bubbly in the small caffettiera, encouraging movement with its aroma filling the dimly-lit kitchen. and the moon winks smilingly through the morning mist of clouds. from the emptiness of the suburbs, i realize, i am not alone.

whispers to moonlight

O, Sweet ray of moonlight!

You know that no single word means anything at this moment.

Leave our robes draped on the tile.  They have no use, after all.

A false caress hisses over each pore promising lies of affection.

Hand against skin grabs its fill – engulfs, possesses, more.

My eyes wide beg for your light as it bathes me in your fusion

and I remain suspended, broken, less.

Yet emotion is expected,

and so feigned,

in this numb emptiness of every moment in his indifference.

.

murder one

Why’d I lose it like this?

My sorry ass on this bench of steel,

damned days, tough nights, alone, too real.

That flash, I feel no pulse, no breath

how could I, your man, have caused your death?

Eyes focused, cracked cee-ment skies above,

I ‘fess this sin to you, my love.

Still I ain’t quite sorry for this sin,

your cancer, baby, was doin’ us in.

Will these bars of steel always be so cold and real?

empty rooms

He stopped at his open bedroom door.  Flung back  against the wall, the gaping threshold made the area seem immense, never-ending corners stretching across the old, wooden floorboards.  Corrugated cardboard boxes piled high in the corner of the room signaled the end of one lifetime or so it seemed.  One chapter, one long, arduous chapter was shriveling to an end.  He gave away most of the furniture, even his Aunt Millie’s Victorian cherry end table, ornately hand-carved in flowing flowers and vines.  And oh-so-many clothes!  Dashing linen suits, Italian butter-leather shoes, and his prized light gray, wide-brimmed Stetson that made him feel like a bit like a blend of Al Pacino and SuperFly!  Nothing seemed to hold the value, the fascination, the desire those things held for him in his past.  Now, very little mattered.  He listened to his whispered, rhythmic breathing.  He felt the empty space of his bedroom suffocate him.  A deep breath whisked inside his rising chest.  Tomorrow nothing would be the same.  As he turned to leave the room, a glimpse of himself as a child racing past the window flashed while tears rose in his eyes.  And as he walked from the room into the empty corridor, a haze materialized into a huddled form, old and still.  Again, it was he – where he might be in the not-so-distant future – fear gripped his breath, his heart faltered, his mind raced, projecting, imagining.  The emptiness of his bedroom radiated into his eyes, his throat, the pit of his stomach.  His mind searched among rapid-fire questions and potential answers popping like overblown bubbles in the wind.  His mind screamed.  His eyes widened their gaze.  A silent voice tore at his soul.  “How can I keep living and refill all my empty rooms?”