Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Poor Me (always working)

Ideas, yes, but working poems built on thoughts like these
often lead to revelations, meant to enlighten, not to please
(c'mon, dude, of course your sucking loneliness wants acknowledgement.
"not to please", ha! but still to churn, not to enter the establishment,
to help to realize the source of missing clatter
sifting through our poor brain, reflecting sleepless chatter
reflecting innocence but just the same
depth perceived from what I acknowledge is a shallow shame.
Poor me. They, everyone less fortunate than I, have got it all
and, now, poor me, I haven't -- or have I? -- yet collected attention -- here I am, after all --
that I, poor me, have to bear and bear and get nothing back
but words, attacks, seeming endless empty hangers on a rack.)

Tuesday, April 11, 2017


I sit in the shade at
a dark counter behind the glass,
eating my biscotti, sipping the dark, French roast,
drinking in the morning's entertainment.

Passersby are downtowners
some smoking on break or touring or both;
perhaps waiting for the play to begin
or to begin to play, to sit cross-legged
with the homeless sign and jar or not,
all on a phone or and/or purple hair, tight braids,
cornrows, shaved mohawk or just brushed straight up,
low-hanging jeans falling off or threatening,
maybe an office tie and skinny suit
just crawling about with the crew at noon.

Baseball hats cocked on sideways, always
more interesting than backwards, cover inquisitive minds,
bent on friends or girls or just bent to laugh and look -- like me.

Here come the tie-less, open collared suit -- pant or skirted --
point-shiny black shod or too-spiked-heels,
conference-necklaced laughs and wondering
I suppose, like me, where desire will lead tonight.

Sunday, April 2, 2017


He looks back at me
and reflects my order
to stop smiling and then,
not to stop because of him.