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She can’t stand her. He’s
her ex, so don’t include them.
Can’t we go alone?
Deciding who to
take like negotiating
Mideast peace treaty.
He sent sensitive
documents to a stranger
thinking it was me.
A romantic name
for a seagull poop splashed walk
among spray and rocks.
Our waitress admits
the town has its share of ghosts.
We sleep with lights on.
No one waters them.
Tiny cells plead, but TV
seems more important.
An adult blankie.
To take one from its owner
will make grown men cry.
not sure what’s so fun
about a day when we’re all
afraid we’ll get punk’d
When I stay up late
my thoughts move oddly like lab
mice stunted by drugs.
Night winds roar like a
giant parent screaming “Go
to sleep!” without words.
Vegans, stay away,
lest your firm resolve melt from
tender smoked brisket.
Hunched and hobbling I
move as if years older, a
taste of what’s to come.
Haiku, like bonsai,
needs care and pruning. A mind
unfocused kills both.
haven’t found me yet
they lurk like dirty water
under dark bridges
Wan, pale, red-eyed, she’s
the poster wife of Wynette’s
song, “Stand By Your Man.”
While I throw pennies
into a coin jar, Bear Stearns
gets a big bailout.
When a righteous man
is caught with his pants down, it’s
likely he’ll get spanked.
posted to my Twitter account
I need sleep, but I * need to work but I need sleep * to work can’t think straight.
posted to my Twitter account
Project due and I * like the late adopter I * am, haven’t finished.
Heating system dust -
particles of previous
occupants’ lives, selves.
Left in Manhattan
cab. Friends’ numbers, pix of my
kids in strangers’ hands.
I am the dull one, struck
mute by accomplishment
what I do, nothing.
On a cluttered Queens
balcony he stands, watching
the complex decay.
‘Beware!’ Caesar was
told. Like teens in horror films
he didn’t listen.
J9 can’t sleep since
her mother died stays up and
writes heartache in tears.
Midnight ghosthunting
at a tragic landmark seems
like a cool idea
Longing to hug them,
I wait ’til they flutter near
like moths to my flame.
Bright lipstick fools them
into thinking I’m well. No
“How do you feel?”
After the illness
taste dulls on the tongue, food just
fuel to run this husk.
Dressing room mirror
replaced by funhouse looking
glass. Not me in there.
Disappointment like
a kidney punch makes it hard
to smile through the pain.
He had a dream but
his murder was our nightmare.
It’s time to wake up.
Cleaning is like con-
fession. You’re surprised by dirt
under the surface.
I stop posting in
the blogosphere. No one reads
me. Do I exist?
Some people like to
cook. Then there’s me who dreads that
thing called dinner hour.
Intention shines high
above like a star I see
and dream of reaching.
The more I write the
more I lose my hold on words
that speak without me.
I’ll Dramamine my
self into torpidity,
sleep through drink service.
If I could shoot my
eye out with that thing, I’d just
sit and watch TV.
If you had to pick,
what sense would you sacrifice?
Impossible choice.
My spare bedroom holds
many possibilities
under all that junk.
Soldiers wear helmets.
Women wear makeup, styled hair.
Our mode of defense.
The house of my heart
is white, clean, pure. No windows,
doors. No visitors.
It’s the guilty splurge,
potato chips for the mind.
You can’t watch just one.
TV’s “Fisherman
and His Wife” story for our
times. Unalloyed greed.
“She hurt my daughter,
so I wanted to hurt her.
Can’t you understand?“
Inertia roosting
inside me like a hen un-
willing to lay eggs.
Fever like a sun
burn - every surface blazing -
yet chilled to the core.