There was a man who many years before had barred the doors and slumped among the corpses and broken things wailing, "Pity me! Pity me!"
Burning shameful memories one by one in this tiny winter fire, huddled, trying to get warm, and cleaning out the closet.
The holidays are all around, but nothing's in my heart.
There was a goth girl on skates who wouldn't hold onto her hate: She'd note the abuse and new purple bruise, and slam the bitch in the gate!
The world is calling, "See me! See!" A siren song? Or the voices of angels?
Listen to this quiet; breath its loving sounds. Sit there saying nothing, and feel its love surround.
"Romulan warbirds! Fly! against / You – Me - Gravity. / Their hovered Darkness / cuts – Infinity?" – James Tiberius Dickinson
We just tell little lies – red, white, and blue lies. It's better you don't know. You're happier this way. Trust us. Enjoy your freedom.
The party's over, the fun has stopped, and obligations throb. Yet vomitous relief, I know too well, is impossible.
For sale: ribbed condoms, never used.
No caffeine, no .... What was I saying?
I sink like a rock in pudding, slowly fade into this sweet vat of sleep.
Our menu includes "carpe diem," which is English for gripe of the day.
Eventually – turbid waters still, ruddy mud settles, and all is clear and quiet again.
Icy Christmas day: The solitary cowboy, shivers, drinks bitter coffee and remembrances beside the campfire, sucks both down to dregs.
Crispy fries shoved into eyes are hard to take, worse than snakes, unless they're softened, slathered, soggified like rum-soaked cake.
Freedom's just another word for ... VACATION! Bring on the fruity drinks!
Wind in the trees and songs of coyotes accompany the scribbling pen and toes digging into dry sand.
By new mansions in the mossy oaks, ancient gators wait in murky ponds below the searching cormorants.
Lost love: a lotus blossom, set loose upon the stream, slowly floats away to join the evening stars.
Each day I scratched her name in sand, grating those familiar ridges new. But today! I nothing wrote – soft breezes blew them all away.
A poem a day keeps the analyst away. Or gives him a publishable paper.