I donate clothes to thrift stores & pass pieces of me

on to someone else. Am I making less of myself?

I don’t know, but I wear two shades of bright dresses

in case someone compliments the top layer,

& I can gift it to them right off my chest.

If my bedroom’s a mess it’s because my heart’s

stamped on too many of my things, & I can’t decide

who should own the quilted throws of me. PSAs always say

that giving away prized possessions is a sign

for suicide but every time I’ve passed down my best

belongings, they’ve been material stand-ins for my soft

chirrups of misremember me if you want, but you could use this.

When I want to die, the wren in me searches for high places

& considers eating soap. I’ve lifted my bones to ledges

of buildings & turned back around. I’ve called my mother

& told her of the water, how all along my life

there’s been a river & a dive I’ve never followed down

& we’ve both agreed, alright, then. We’ll look somewhere else.

ringing ringing,

bell-less tones,

of the caller they intone,

brazen, glassy,

surface glister,

by the 'lectric

they do twistyer,

by the message you will know,

if to smile or sigh or moan,

so they ring on ,

no one's picking?

picking up that awful phone!

raging so, they run the street,

whining urgent, they retreat,

so to send the ve'cles aside,

as they demand as they do chide,

white and yellow, blue, or red,

blinding lights upob you shed,

taking urgency as noise rebounds,

shun their path, upon the ground.

raging sirens diaphragm, bell,

the disaster they do spell.

hear that scratchy vinyl spin

as the play in anlogue en-gin

and the needle, needless stay

when there's scratchless

digitals to play.

oh nostlagia you scratch on,

stumble, hiccup, stagger on

stumble , hiccup, stagger on

stumble, hiccup, staggee on.

oh we jumped back to the groove,

it was such a lucky move,

there's a bell, a horn of tin,

amplify the scratch within.

There once was an old man whose name was Dale

Hypocrite, liar, adulterous thief

soul blacker than black like the hounds of hell

Yes, he’s a giver, a giver of grief.

Dale is a person who doesn’t know love

He’s also a person who goes to church

He says he loves Jesus, Lord up above

says he has found him so call off the search

Everyone out there who dale doesn’t like

are a bitch and they’re trash going to hell

He missed his calling in Hitler’s Third Reich

Narcissist to the core, he is not well.

He came to a party I had at my house

My son turned three we had a water slide

Four hours late he arrived with his spouse

Neither would speak; eye contact they would hide

What he lacks in heart he makes up in nuts

he also brought his mistress- that takes guts.

It's cold outside

The chill has sealed the breeze in jars screwed tight

To the shadows the silhouettes doth abide

The lone palm tree is still on this night

And somewhere far away where wishes hide

Are the screaming ghosts of Christmas lights

It's cold outside

The devil chokes on heaven's sighs

he hates the joyful echos, cries of Christmas tide

And loves kids who cry on Santa's thighs

Somewhere far off where mangers reside

Are baby saviours on Godly highs

It's cold outside

Long lay the world in sin and error pinning

Then comes the wise men with gifts beside

So led by light of a star sweetly gleaming

And somewhere far away did God decide

Forever will there be nights spent caroling.

Open, trying to

find freshness,

she struggles--

even near the end--

to transform, feel,

fly.

some people call her a wild rose,

she just has a red right hand,

she goes to the joker,

but he's no space cowboy.

what will i do if she goes off,

takes the 'A' train?

I'll drown in my solitude.

she used to say, live and let die,

but it's a view to a kill,

and you only live twice,

and i ain't got anything but love,

for your eyes only.

the music goes round 'n' round,

that ol' black magic, sung by,

that sad-eyed lady of the lowlands.

if I ever lose my faith in you,

she'll find out.

I'm a pretender, and she knows it,

she sees me; a fool on a hill,

singing the blues in the night.

my vertigo increases,

'cause Mr. Tambourine man,

mixed things up ,

sitting on the pavment

I’m no good at poetry

I suck at writing verse

My sentences lack symmetry

And my stanzas? Even worse!

The words I choose don’t fit

And my vocabulary’s absurd

The rhythmic quality’s shit

And the meanings are all blurred

I wish that I could write

Something elegant and prosaic

Instead my poem’s a blight

Like a poorly done mosaic

Were I to channel the ghost

Of a Tennyson or Blake

My poetry would be host

To something spiritually awake

Alas! I have before me

Something bland, almost dead

Surely readers yearn to flee

Pull the covers up, hide in bed

I think that I shall put away

That awful prankster Muse

And from this point strive to allay

Her machinations to confuse

Rest assured, my dear reader

’Tis the last you’ll read from me…

Till that Muse (God, I need her!)

Whispers another monstrosity

An ethereal scene unfolds before me

As you slowly stroll in my direction.

Your delicate hands,

Brushing against the dusty wooden railing

As silence falls slowly around us,

Marred only by the splashing sound of the water beneath.

And as you stop before me,

The sun shines its vibrant hue

Onto that thick lustrous black hair

Making it look preternaturally glossy,

And highlights every nook and crevice

In that nonpareil countenance

That Nature had taken time and care

To mould from scratch.

I stare straight into your eyes,

Distracted only by the flecks of green

Swimming in those ocean-blue orbs;

And I wish

That I could penetrate deep into your soul

With my eyes alone,

So that I would be

So bare and vulnerable in front of you

That those unsaid words-

Unable to escape coherently from my mouth,

Would get deeply embedded into your core,

All on their own.

Because darling,

I long to sculpt these words,

Stringing them together slowly,

Carefully,

One by one,

Into a suitable

Declaration of my love for you.

But my fingers are so clumsy and clammy,

And they tremble so much

That the string loosens.

And the words -

They become too tangled

And get so misplaced

As they fall,

Piece by piece,

Like beads,

Separated from the link

That binds them together;

Distorting the feelings

That are stored

And pent up for long

In my heart.

And as you stare back at me,

With that unknown expression

I’ve come to think of, as hope,

I can do nothing but smile;

While the dusty wooden floor is littered,

With all the eloquent words

That slips from my grasp.