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 bed, which direction will we go?

you can’t see me

as the blood rushes to my head wondering why you just asked us to look further inside the blistering reality that tomorrow’s log books will show the names of every asshole who brandished a weapon that delivered a final silver shell to the temple of a reality that we lost control

there was only one choice

a solution to this poured over problem that plagues every tear drop collecting in chambers where the maids are in control we bow in service to every whim that’s diced up and trimmed for the next go around a sun that shines a bit brighter in our absence

the warming stops

our shivering hearts are store bought and no one kept the receipt

no returns

we can’t go back and release ourselves from travesties we ear marked to remember the drifting thoughts that led us to a doorway where ambushes were normalized and we lost sight of tomorrow’s parades

we would have marched

lock stepped and determined

if only we could see one another

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

from bleached white sheets, the answers are found in my glove box

slapping silly the sinister grin of a thin man wearing a stubbly faced chin

if he knocks three times i may let him in

that’s you, i remember, casting sin

hooks layered and stinking of gin

those bubbly brained bonobos chasing a fin through fresh water

where do the lies begin?

or ignorance

they rinsed their mouths

hands kept dirty


connected to the obvious

i tried to wake him up

to admit more guilt

he kept digging

a sewer drain coffin was being built

dimensions only he could fit

let him situate himself


rubbing polyester against pine

splinters find their way underneath dirty nails

close the container

wave goodbye

he wasn’t well kempt

unwilling to accept

fate finds a way

of placing the winning bet

from bed, straddling relationships

i tried to call

a history of numbers jumbled together

threes and sixes, twos and zeroes

when was the last time we spoke?

you were living in your mother’s house?

then you left for a new time zone, an area code i couldn’t figure out

geography, distance, roads and mountains to pass





grab an atlas

hold the weight of this relationship

and make the first move

so i can sense you wish and want me to be well

i once held our blood, blending a single type from the same source

locked fingers dripping

can we relinquish our start?

pick the winners

move on with measured distractions

galvanized by a series of friends and foes

or alone

let me know

i’ll dress for the occasion

all black

i wish you would have made contact

before lying down

from a hotel bed, the privilege to consider prestige


thoughts take up daylight clouding my vision and fading the only thing i have to hold onto

but she is lying

i know that

perfectly packaged material arrives everyday strategically shared to paint a picture.

i’m the emotional artist

get out of my studio and save the sales pitch for the finger fuck suit down the hall who sips steady shots of alcohol (he knows them all) and i can’t twist anymore with these images of time left open and the draft that came through only kept me in the know of what travesties you were trying to take back from the waking world reality we all live in

those were my words

the ones you carefully jotted in a notebook for everyone to see

those were my words

the ones i flung out before considering drenched in a tear filled raw exchange of exactly how i was feeling

i feel

you think

throw the fucking last years in with the kitchen sink

here it all comes

how do i get your attention to see the world isn’t planned and pleated, written and deleted

before presentation

my walk is my pitch

i will never switch to save my own face

i could care less what i look like

honesty is ugly

the roots dig deeper and i become immovable

there’s a breeze

i sway

you break

good bye