October is the month for praise;
the beauty before winter’s gray.
It blushes the clouds with pink,
and paints the leaves canary.
The air so crisp and busy,
still warm from summer’s memory.
The sun brush stroked in red
streaking through the trees,
before their abundance
is carried away.
October is the month for praise.
Before a somber dullness
takes over.
Turning the days into
unkind nights,
when every thought we have
is nostalgic
October is fall’s long
stem rose;
trying to right the
wrong of December’s chill,
and mother nature’s
stony stare.
The red rose rises up,
as if to make amends
for what will become
of the bees and ants,
and all of us who strive
to live harmoniously;
those condemned to ice
and Jack Frost’s
fixation with noses.
October is the month to praise,
so we offer up our apple
cider alleluias,
in the field of the great pumpkin,
and await winter’s bitter thud.
I hate small talk and how
it always leaves me
syllabically longing.
It’s tedious and exhausting.
It’s hard to get excited
about another conversation
attached to nothing.
I’d rather talk about rare books,
our literary gods,
elevator sex, Lexapro verses,
Wellbutrin,
the friendship between
Elizabeth Bishop
and Robert Lowell,
how sometimes in poetry
the pages weep,
the origins of the word
boeotian (I imagine it
stems from small talk),
how innocence can still thrive
underneath cynicism, and my
innate need to find trouble.
Conversation should be a Safari,
not a trip to the dentist.
It should be like champagne,
shaken and exploding
with bubbly decadence.
It shouldn’t make you feel bad
you haven’t died yet.
It should ravish you and leave you
feeling satiated, weeping
with ecstasy and profound knowledge.
So come sit beside me.
We can move the language
toward enlightenment and
starlight things that help
remind us why we are here.
Or we can beat our tongues
against monotony,
and discuss the weather.
If you choose the latter,
just know I am
dismembering you,
slowly and sadistically,
in my head
one syllable at a time.
My poetry always exposes
the imperfect fit of my skin,
with words that run off
with the seeds of pretext.
I’m left behind chasing
an existential crisis,
no fairy tales to quell
my anxieties
Choking on a parched narrative
thinking too much.
about thinking
Too much “who?” too much me
not enough “what can I do?”
My shoes moist
and full of warm blood
I take them off-revealing my blisters
Exhausted, I sit down
and breathe in despair’s air.
watching the newspaper,
and leaves long dead, fly by me.
The turmoil traffic,
thumb to nose, mocking me,
the dark taunting me
with Medusa’s stare.
Some fool shinning a light
(as if that could make a difference)
I sharpen my lyrical claws,
fist fighting my wit,
cursing stupid cliches
telling banality to f*** off.
Wondering if that’s
how written language will end.
with a “bee in your bonnet”
and impotent pen
Waiting…waiting…waiting
for words and their Judas betrayal
to find me,
so we can release our flaws,
like a dying hooker’s last confessional,
Perhaps, this time- words
and I will join in semantic fusion,
an authentic coupling, anointed
with a whispered touch,
fertile in rhythm and verse
stirring to stir..stirred to stir.
Birthing the poetic molecular structure.
the genetic code of the spirit
Wearing multiple faces, places,
memories, hearts, and loves.
Dressed with an imagination affluent in grief
Maybe this time our monologue of loneliness and self doubt will make the soul’s late late show.
He hides his coldness behind a mask of charm.
His true intentions only to disarm.
Lies escape his lips
That never tell.
He plays the game so well.
He is an obsession
A handsome vision
With one glance you’ll be smitten.
He’ll wrap you up tight in his contradictions.
Fanning the flames
Of your incineration.
Thank you for the invitation
But I really must decline.
Please don’t call.
My heart is not at home.
I just want to be left alone.
Sometimes the reason
Doesn’t match the rhyme.
My love for humanity has taken a ride.
Verbal exhaustion
Mental fatigue.
Disconnected.
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Everything I Never Told You 