from my grandpa’s bed, we crawled through the night

capture the critters that crawl through the night

wrap your head in emotions that help guide us through the flight of fleeting thoughts that create a sight

the only thing left to do is fight

fight for one another

against the other

who write off our reactions to a dead relationship with my brother

he was your keeper before we trapped him and i never expected him to stay in his desk

it was too small

school house walls were confining

learning defined, how wrong his nurtured soul was raised

we tried to be nice

throwing rice as you walked by in sunday’s best

we knew the rest of the story would lead to a fall from glory

the second story

where i looked out and contemplated the impact of impulsive decisions

i backed away

turned the page

decided it was better not to engage

with the spindly spiders catching everything we forgot to chase

from bed, i miss your light

it’s not the skipping of rocks gliding and plopping into a lake too cold to swim in that brought me here

shivering with a vest i never wear

it’s yours

it’s not the drive through green thistle conifers hugging our travels that brought me here

gazing out the window past emotions filling the glove box

those are yours

it’s not the musty poof from the couch i drop on, sitting in a unlit room waiting for you to bring in our bags that brought me here

that’s your job

it’s not the shifting in a twin bed, creaking as i stir, wanting to spoon out the cure that brought me here

those nights are rehearsed

it’s not the sandwich lunches, served dinners, or bacon and eggs that brought me here

i usually eat alone

it’s not the late nights sitting with flames losing myself in sparks dancing on stick tip games that brought me here

you stoked the fire

it’s not you

grade school, high school too, claims

it’s me

i wanted to discuss my attire, shift in the seat, lie on your love seat, roll on our mattress, wake and sustain life to see you glow across the cylindrical container where humans first realized

everything is illuminated

from my porch, what do you want?

if you like this, can you tell me why? for those who enjoy my words, i see you. i give you voices and personalities from a single round picture – letting me know you’re there. our experience are different – our emotions the same. we share a common bond on this undulating plane; in our world created in this outer-space place, zeroes and ones translating a blank face, a virtual place, where we talk to ourselves. not a single voice, no, not alone, a series of our own beings spliced into other beating pieces to this glued and framed puzzle. are we that confined? blinded by the design our future holds?

yah, so i want to know why you choose to read my thoughts. i used to not say i care, in fact, i deceived us that i didn’t.

i do.

from the porch, drifting through your apartment

i saw the question lines on your face


symptoms of stranded times we can’t erase

or replace

travesties counted on a number line


disheveled and wet

a mess

coming home

walking in the door umbrella still erect slish slosh shoes mark where you’ve been plopping on a conditioned couch catching the moisture transfer from skin to clothes to cloth to a running nose joining the water logged face drops mixing with salt destined to put you to sleep

you sit

unrequited emotions



you struggle off your clinging coat

winter hat removed

leaving knotted hair chaos covering your wrinkled lines lingering with each whimper recognizing loss

it’s over

your eyes close

only to open with shivering arms clutching the only one you have left

you’ll stay here


for answers you understand

but can’t commit to

falling sideways you feel the weight

and fall asleep

from bed, i’ll be your waiting room

grab ahold of something more secure than me

lift yourself up and push beyond this pale blond destroyer dream

some things you can’t fix

as the clock ticks

and you can’t afford to waste any more reasons, or time

i’ll be fine, knowing who i am

you’re not the first

i’m a waiting room

uncomfortable and not maintained

inconsolable, temporary, fake fixtures and emotions feigned

a conduit

getting people from there to here and here to there, a rebound echo pulsating through muddy water thoughts in a washed out consciousness

that’s where i’m caught

i chose this


it’s an excuse

a position where i’m in control

get out? ha, then i’d have to think, deliver, expose, and shiver in sudden loses of uncontrollable impulses with lovers leaving for what would be another me if i were not he

it’s the easy way out

serving a single purpose

on second thought, come stay awhile

someday you’ll surface

and forget we ever met

from a chair, inhaling the last of your stare

drenched in her tears i stepped into the hallway shared by all the other fourth floor door dwellers stinking of fried chicken, body fetor, and incense

none of which were winning the odor war, an amalgamation of whiffs running wildly through our rooms

all but tuna

tuna sat in the corner waiting for the stench to reach its threshold

then, without hesitation, he’d zoom center stage through draft ways and air vents

nobody welcomed him

he wafted alone through bed sheets and hanging drapes, living in garbage bin tossed tin can creases

festering in mouth corners

absorbed in crumbly crusts left on plates for tomorrow’s cleaning

blasting our senses, giving way to other impressions

biding time

for the next unleashing

resting on your breathe

before the door shut, i turned around and took my final look

sorry for the last time

if i could click my heels i’d be back with her

the her before her, that’s right before you

for years i penetrated the aura swirling around

thinking i could make a new sound pound from the ground you stood on and around

i’ve learned

nothing’s wasted

if we walk away with something

it’s my turn

i’ll dry my shoulders

lift off your weight

make my way down the hall

it’s never too late

to inhale the sweet smell of something new

from a couch, home needs no explanation – the rest does

they ruined the peace sign

fingers used to pulsate potential when topsy-turvy times were captured by flash bulbs and plastered on newspapers and life magazine

it died with ‘deuces’

two fingers and a pouty face

signaling their leaving

they already left

or, we didn’t ask them to stay

never explained our common language, shared the significance of our actions

left alone

to figure it out

they’re their own journalists chronically what happens when norms and celebrations, culture and deliberation, past-times and bed-side manners are disregarded

the them are us

previously placed weight on symbols, cultural mores, and rites was bid a goodnight when without wings and mating flight we fight with duck faces

saying good luck as we ‘peace out’

peace is within

without, we are locked screens

no memory of four digit codes and your face won’t be recognized by the past and i can only hope the future doesn’t look like you, like this

it does, it’s now

i’m getting old


one thing i do know, i don’t want the past

romance is lost

it starts with a conversation

photos held

relevance, reverence and importance placed on people and places who genuinely display who we are

what are we?


where two fingers hold the key

we can use it together

let me tell you how