Blame the Gardener

He only blooms for me once or twice a year now.

His brilliant white petals reach out and just the tips brush my cheek.

We were planted in the same garden;
weeds grew and were plucked,
unsettling the earth between us,
amazingly allowing us both, at times,
to fly.

We flew together,
he to Mars and myself lost to the questionable Neptune.

We always come back to the same ground;
whose weeds they were, no longer matter.

This year he bloomed as I was dying, and his gentle presence reminded me of who I am,
and who I love.

Once again our seasons have fallen out of sync,
only catching each other for a moment,
Before or after birth.
Before or after death.

He flies all the time now,
from shore to shore
from woman to woman…

I am once again firmly planted,
purging my weeds, pruning my violet petals.

Still, between us there is love,
there is respect,
there is understanding.

There are no words for the connection beyond environment.

There is this comfort -
knowing that in our last autumn we will find our roots,
enclose each other in our withered leaves,
and shelter each other from the coming winter.


chasing water

raindrops run down the black top
chasing airplanes and teardrops.
I wanted to grow with you
but I always seem to be

someone not intended.


your hair seems to grow faster
whiter, thinner


I caught up in time
water running backward
laughter an arch in mind.

I think I’ll miss my heart the most.

as the birds start to fly around and around and into the ground.


For Awhile, He Was My Superman


no cape, no tights, but
an ego – banging air into a glass bottle.
verbose but hollow speech
puffing false authority,
and an emblazoned S on your chest-
I’d love to scratch the scar into it permanent.

more my brother than my lover,
two anti-heroes,
and I would have been more happy to
just talk to you all night in our underoos.

all the best cowboys have mommy issues,
looking for every fleshy inch of approval,
but we both know
it could have been better
-base, and not boring-
for a performance, and my
reaching for something inhumane;
could you see me in my invisibility?

I sent you off like a skipping child
who might grow up to conquer the villain,
but you lost this time,
your weakness pliable-
I’m almost sick of winning.

I’d love to feel enough
to deliver a left hook
to your begging jaw
in our crowd,
where we both demand attention
and get it.

but it is more likely
that you would give me a smart smack in the ass
and fly away

to catch someone who actually wants to be saved.



No. 51

It’s a dream, just a dream
I tell myself when I wake up

Cliff’s edge, moonlight
I stand naked on a ledge
a rising wind blows

So close to the edge
I watch, as parts break off
and tumble to the depths I cannot see

And I know I have two choices:

Step away, turn back to where I came
Fall forward, and one of two may happen

My wings will grow and I will soar
I will die on the ragged depths below

No choice really – the unknown beckons
and leaning forward,
I let go…

And I never know
what happens then.


Dirty Laundry

You’re everything I’ve ever
locked away

in to

and the truth is,
I can’t stand you-

you and that ugly
colored façade
that lurks
around the place.

Knew a man like you once.

Took me out for a drink
in a back alley bar
circa 1998
on a may-day evening.

He probably wanted more
just like you do,
though you’ve gotta give
a guy a little credit

for grabbing the moment
by the balls,
because in the end
the fucker had some.

One day, when all
this dirty laundry
gets aired
high enough

for all the people
down below
to feel the cotton
waving on their faces,

I pray that the bleach
is strong enough
to white out
the shit stains





Damp riddles the walls.

Earth is fighting her way in
and I’m powerless
against the divide

so I listened,
and heard her breathing
through porous lungs

as she tried to sing,
yet only vomited
in to the dark.

She’s an undead lover,
with distinct taste-
so I’m told.

A spider in the web.

I tried to talk to her once,
held out my hand
to receive thin fingers-

watched her green eyes
shrink back
into charcoal frowns

as she fell to her knees
claiming sanctuary
in the caverns


It’s Different This Time

It’s different this time.

Like coming home
to find it empty,

just footprints
etched into the dust
of the porch,
as tears fall softly
on my shoes.

The night
holds only (empty) hope now,
weaving incantations
into the dark; the dirt
where I say goodbye

to the ghosts that linger
in the heavy eaves-

silent, ever still.


Death Crawls…

The horror in my eyes
still haunted my dreams

the silence, still wrapped its hands
around my neck

and I thought I was stronger
than that.


That dagger still ripped through,
still twisted my rebelling guts

into crumpled soliloquies
that writhed in bitterness

where strange red ribbons
danced with the stained lace below.

I imagined how a gun would sing
to choirs suspended in the air

how the cracks in the windows
evoked vicious whispers-

how death was merely
the sleep I craved

between pills,
and closing doors.



I find myself floored
between wanting a drink
and wanting to die-

not that there’s much difference
between the two,
they exist within each other

and I know that a shot
would cure all of this;
this monotonous drone

of sunday morning lawn mowers,
kids swearing on the corner
on the way to my nine to five

and how the threat of world war three
would condense into singular prisms
I could stack in neat little piles

and hide away in the bottom drawer,
along with my twisting guts
shivering from the crave.

Melancholy doesn’t even twinkle
from the edge of my bottle,
I hate it more than its desire

to kill me, to rip my life
in half, one ice cube after another,
one extreme after the god damn next

…and I need you
more than I can say, or describe
in another pathetic poem

while the lines trickle
in strange cadences
towards the howl of a glass.

Green Eyed Wrath

I am the jealous kind.

I silently seethe
watching the bud of you wither within me,
the tendrils turning to rot
against the constriction of my chest

and at your very best
you were the worst in me,
preying on my creativity -
Well. Blame that on the Aquarius, you see

But the sad truth is in the slow descent,
the marching band with broken legs
who still make a noise
but refuse to move

past any forgiving point in time
where you would kiss the bruises
and tell me I was worth
a thousand more

that would shine in pretty purple shades,
like the flowers i tended,
cutting off the dead heads
and ripping those fragile petals to shreds, in pieces

And in the midst of night…
or was it 2pm on a saturday?
I laughed in the mist of cigarettes
and celebrated the death of the cliché.