A Premonition and a Foretelling – A Poem

A Premonitions and a Foretelling – A Poem

Let’s stop
veil the moon in cheesecloth and
recite together English translations of
Latin novels.

There are marvelous apathetic pools
waiting patiently
for us
to dip our feet into
to mirror our calves in a rippling half-light
to quench the combustible peace
we so jealously
Under different circumstances
we may have been
rodeo clowns
but that world has passed us by
and we can now but
only remain
friends for an evening.

I ask you for the silver broach
that we
on the chest
of my dead cat in your father’s yard
and you had kept
from me ever since
claiming it to be
a matter of property rights.
You tell me you had a
that day
of our future together
a vision
of hundreds
of mermaids that were all washed ashore and
whose flesh rotted in the stagnant
that covered the beach.
There were orange waves swirling between their
once voluptuously tempting
sweeping their lifeless limbs
in an eerie macabre dance
and your head hung morbid and full of

Your breath betrays your smile.

Heedless our play under the stars changed
one night
when a child fell from the heavens
into your lap
and I asked you her name.
Guinevere you said
and I foretold how in similar fashion
she too would betray
her pious king
as I stroked her dark hair gently and
wept over our fate.

An operator explained to me that the
expanding gulf stream was responsible
for the static
on the line between us.
I can barely decipher your
lustful garbled declaration
of how you will always cherish
my charm
wisdom and wit
my sophisticated
with the cheeseclothed moon
lighting the thin skin of my back
and realizing
to my shame
that you never recognized that these were
only my defense.


A Day Late – A Poem


A Day Late

A day late
in the mind of a gymnasium
calisthenic training
the inevitable.

Frankincense burns at the altar
erected under a TV
showing recycled 24 hour news
and reassuring
no one in attendance.

Pistol dance
a furtive glance

supper’s on the table
but the boy’s out
playing in the streets under showers
rain colors fragmenting
wet asphalt spray
and I’m still writing
my letters.

Juice bar orgy heart
bar stools all empty and the
packing breath mints in his pockets
for ladies
with eyes polarizing

Upset there was a garbage can
joined by a chain to a cinder block
by the overpass
in the parking lot out back.
Spring broke

the smell of death was awful.

torn in flux – A Poem


torn in flux

dandelion dress
crash oblivion
summer painted toenails
a fresh breeze
screams easy and faint
blue run yellow road
gold lined grain stacked

oh be, be, be

torn in flux
pressed words
newly rested olive fantasy
reversed cream dusk
windowed open and

and in the distance

Buying a House – A Short Story

“So it is serious then?”

“Well, we bought a house.”

“Does it have a large lawn?”

“It does, yes.”

“Then that is serious. And fortuitous. Congratulations! I am sure the two of you will be very happy with long lives and whopping big children. Maybe they will all play basketball.”

“Thank you! But I am not sure about the basketball part. I am afraid we are both a little on the short end. And we like soccer better.”

“I would never have thought that. I mean, you I can see are, as you said, a bit on the small side. Though I would say petit would be a more suitable word. But him I vision a tall, masculine man with the grace of a cat. Like he was a lost child of Ginger Rodgers.”

“He is graceful. You have that right. But just not that tall. Actually, he pretty short.”

“A short, graceful man? You don’t say. Very peculiar.”

“And the back yard is large. The house, I mean. It has a large back yard.”

“And the front?”

“Quite small. Almost non-existent.”



“Well, there is something about a large back yard only. If I were to hazard a guess, I would say it would be perhaps a need to hide something.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I’m sorry, but yes. It is all very psychological. Who chose the house?”

“Well, we both did. But he found it.”

“Did he?”

“Yes, and he said I would love it.”

“Do you?”

“I did. But now I don’t know. What could he be hiding?”

“It is hard to tell. Maybe a past event. Perhaps a secret lover. Or it could be a behavior he wants to make sure is not found out. Not knowing him better, I cannot really say.”

“Oh, but it all sounds too awful no matter what it is. What a terrible position I have found myself in.”

“Yes, you might want to take care.”

“I will. I will. But I don’t know what to do. What would you suggest?”

“Well if it were me, I would make sure to keep him away from liquor. And monitor his computer use. Does he use his phone much?”

“All the time.”

“Yes, that would have to change too.”

“That all makes sense. Except the liquor. He never drinks.”


“No. He will not touch a drop. He is very astute and serious. And he says drinking causes him to bloat and have gas.”

“That does sound sensible on his part. If that is the case, I would have him start to drink. It could be the thing to open his defenses and start to root out all his hidden secrets.”

“Of course! What a brilliant plan. You are a genius, you know. I mean it. With how you style your hair and all. It is like you are George Orwell and Margaret Thatcher all in one.”

“You are too kind. Such a tender compliment as I respect both with the utmost of satisfaction.”

“What drink should I start with, do you think?”

“I would go with something light, subtle, and demanding. Not vodka. It is too brutal. Oh, I know! Tequila! Yes. Specifically margaritas. Those will tempt the demon from him.”

“I hope it is not too dastardly a demon. I don’t think my heart can take it.”

“Oh dear, I am sorry to say but dastardly or not your heart is not safe. Demons of any size feast on the human heart. I would rather it be a large demon to have my heart be devoured all at once, instead of slowly like those little shit ones will do.”


So this would be my second short story I have posted that is dialog only. They are fun and enjoyable to write. Sometimes I want to break in and add more narrative, or descriptions, but then I think it will spoil the story, so I keep myself in check. Hope you enjoyed and thank you for reading.

A Labyrinth of Want – A Poem


A Labyrinth of Want

How the sunlight from the dawn
rising low in the east
is trapped
in a web of trees
entwined branches
keeping the hollow secure in the
shadows of night.

Our desire is restless as we
retreat into each other
your blue fingers
on my chest
dancing over a red mark formed
in a childhood dream
and your touch
alights in me a white passion.

I seek to sip the love that drips
from your tongue
cover my crimes
in the recesses of your flesh
adhere faithfully
to your whispered
pleaded commissions.
Your breasts swell
blush indigo
and burn my lips.
Locks of your hair fall
across your face
as all of our facades break
bleed and blend into
a mist
a memory
that floats tentatively about us
and then fades into
the insane.

The sun arches higher and
pours out into the vale
brightening the fragrances of
morning blossoms
that were held tight in a
dark anticipation.
I speak voiceless from the depths
lost in a labyrinth of want
captivated and
to the seductive confines
of your thighs
my temporal longing of the eternal.

Red Bodices are Popular on Valentine’s Day – A Poem

Red Bodices are Popular on Valentine’s Day

She is outside following the duck
tracks in the snow.
A break in the ice might portend
an unhappy end.
“They like spring better, you know,”
she informs me.
“Who doesn’t,” I reply.

I am attracted to her imaginative
the simple way she can describe
dandelion nightmares
dancing in Columbia.
“They float along the African
Trade Wind
gathering in gutters and springing
from cracks in the sidewalks.”

It is a cold February.
A month I hate due to its singular nature.
But she is alive in boots and heavy
coat and I am infected
by the sheer amazement of her existence
and my own guilt ridden doubt.

“They say red bodices are popular
on Valentine’s Day.
That there is a spike in sales.
Do you believe that?
It is ridiculously clever
if true
though I don’t
put any faith in it.”

And as a man who has given up faith
I can only acquiesce to her

She picks up handfuls of snow
and tosses them
in the air.
And they flurry busily
all about
until they are blown away
as she is blown away
by a breeze
like dandelions
on an African Trade Wind.

I reach down into myself and
take stock at my own worthlessness.
Left alone and
pointlessly looking back
at duck tracks
in the snow.

When the World Ends – A Poem


When the World Ends

“Have you wondered where you would wake up
if the world ended tonight? Personally
I am unabashed in my preference,”
I say to my children over a game of cards
at our dining table.
Jupiter is clear and bright in their
eyes. Reflecting like a sonnet that
wilts while recited. They call my bluff
by raising my bet.
So I relate to them the true account
of Grimbald
as a warning.

“Grimbald was a cat”
I say to them as they listen rapt and restless
“who sold the last of his whiskers for rice
so he could continue to write
unimpeded his confession to the murder
of Maxwell
a laundry mat attendant
in a duel over Tillie
the laundry mat’s owner’s daughter. Ten paces they took
and then two pistols fired on one oddly cool August morning.
Romantically birds would have flown from the trees
after the shots
rang out
as a salute to poor Maxwell at the moment of his death
but there were no birds. Or anyone really. The only
witness to the tragic affair being
The Badger
who served as a stoic attendant
to ensure the correct policies were
adhered during the event.  After the loss of her true love
Tillie shaved off all her bourbon colored hair
and fashioning the locks into a rope
tied herself with it to a mosaic tile she found in the basement. She
drowned herself in the pool at her mother’s estate
in upper Vermont.
It is said her ghost still resides there
at the bottom. In an eternal lonely wetness
since no one will
swim there anymore out of a respectful fear. As for
Grimbald the cat
he was acquitted on the grounds of a broken heart. He immigrated
to South America
to  live reclusively in the Andes
managing a bee farm.”

After my telling this true account of which I came into the possession of
by hearsay, rumor and
by third hand information
and after many a grievously lost hand on my part
I ask the children again
where they would wake
when the world ends.
The middle child smiles with his winnings stacked and sparkling
off of his teeth
and says
“Somewhere under the stars.” Which makes me grin
and breathe easy for the evening.

Bohemian Masked Women – A Poem


Bohemian Masked Women

Bohemian masked
artfully prepare me
a BLT.
My diary is full
of illustrations.
No words.
Words get you in trouble
but drawings
are forever.
Like Mona Lisa.
Some of my drawings
are naughtier then
others but all are
equally bad.
And I am working on one when
Bad Moon Rising
starts playing on
the radio
and reminds me to turn
it off.
I ask what the
risks were to a pilot
from the Civil War
to a raucous man
sitting on the stool
next to me.
He’s wearing camouflage
and keeps staring
at my diary.
He said the only risks
were to the diamonds.
I am sure he is
in code.
Military jargon.
Like portion control.
But can’t be sure.
Maybe he was just
trying to
tell me to fuck off.
Goes around comes around.
Right on time
my BLT comes
with a glass of milk.
No chips.
But chips are
for diamonds.
And there are not
enough diamonds
in coal.
BLTs and milk are
a deadly
Or so I was told
by my father.
But he liked beer
so he was
a little biased.
Bohemian masked
take away my plate
and glass
when I finished.
There are three
of them
by the way.
And they are
all dressed in
blue jeans
and halter tops.
And masks
of course.

17 June Street – A Poem


17 June Street

17 June Street is where you dropped
me off in December
without a coat to keep me warm.
I walked the three blocks to Marcus’ house
who was drunkenly playing Edelweiss
on his accordion when I arrived.

“You are in
your head,”
Marcus said as I sipped a whiskey sour and we smoked
in his parlor.
“Things arranged
can be
I replied trying to sound confident
but could hear the words break weakly across
his tortoise shell carpet.
Marcus only took a sip and laughed.
“Optimism is not suited to you
my friend.”

And so
after we passed the day drinking
and discussing
the problems inherent with literary giants
and speculating on the birth date
of the antichrist
I borrowed a coat from him and
his protests and his offers to call a cab
I left
to walk for home.

The sun was still out as I departed
though low
and obscured.
Everything in the city
seemed to be out of position
and aligned on a certain tilt that made me
turn my head
to match it.
The streets were mostly empty yet were lined
in a particular
vibrant nature.

I cut through the park near home
and started to feel sober
as I made it to the playground
and laid down on the slide
to look at a sky
that had by then
turned dark during my walk.
I thought back to the times you would take the kids there.
Their screams and laughter rang out
noiselessly nearby me
from some frozen wonderland
just out of my reach.
Questions ran through my mind
about my missed opportunities
and turtles
and re-arranging a life.
There were no answers though
only the cold sound of the chains rattling
on the swings and on the flagless flag pole.

Unbalanced Nature of Love – A Poem

Unbalanced Nature of Love

I never counted the elm leaves as they fell
beneath winter.
The shuttered window still emits a ghoulish light.

Down along the coast the waves break
in uniform
spontaneity and
ever drawn to their milk-white laughter
I cautiously portion out
my breath.

Clouds part in a sky full of fruit blossoms.
The air rejoices.
Solitary days and nights are bound in the fragrant
of a Grecian Rose.

From where I sit
wretched restless patterns
of a world
wild and reckless
are written before me.
I see them in the long fields
and on the beaches
in the nearby woods
all colored in the bleached indifference
of a cold sun.
These patterns
condition my mind for hope.
For an ascent to unbound heights
never perched upon
yet always hinged
and tethered
to an eventual

I put my trust in the chill of a shallow wind.
How to me it personifies the
nature of love.
The smell of the tea steeping in my cup
impedes my vision
as I mark each day
for the next.