New Hooverville


Desperate search for roofs

Within this friendliest of towns

The old wolves pushed

Further out, into boxes

That have been painted

Over and over and over again

In dusty neighborhoods

Who threaten to pave

Their dirt roads

With yellow bricks

For the ones from

The other side of the rainbow

Or whoever is willing

To place a bid on life

Until only money

Can rent a space

In the city that is the model

Of passion and change


Looking Through Me


It’s too bad I can’t kiss his lips.

I’m not attracted to them.

But, if I were, he would reject me.

For my stories are buried deep

And they cannot be read easily

It is as if, I shouldn’t exist.

You see…

The problem with being buried deep

Under the frosty top, is that I see

The mist for what it truly is

He edits the mist.

He looks for countries caught

In eternal Octobers, Stories about

Leaves and lives, the constant state of fall

It is the arc of the descent he catches

Like holding on to a match for too long.

If I were to put my hand upon his chest

He would jerk away from

the coldness of my fingertips

I have stuffed my heat deep

Sometimes, I can’t even feel warm.

My tears aren’t made of kerosene

I’ve been to the ocean too many times

Fawn Earphones


A fawn ran into the road

Losing its stealth, naked

Stumbling over the yellow line

Hooves slipping on wet pavement.

I’m travelling inside a Zipcar

Hyundai Elantra Sedan

Named “Irene”

Controlling the accelerator with ease

Warp speed for a human

Even on the curves

Mixtape masterpiece,

very loud, Blasting

Thinking what a nice forest this is.

As light years of wilderness

Blur by me

The fawn and I

Miss each other by a split-second.

I stop, turn off the music

Roll down the window

Very, very quiet-like.

The forest sings to me

Wind, leaves, the movement of life

I look for the fawn

Trying to pick her out

Of ferns, firs, and moss

Off the road, but…..

“Irene” wants to keep going

Her engine and heater

A constant reminder of

What I control, as if I’ve lost control

Or lost the awareness

Of the world being something

I’m not driving through

But, an engine that hums through me.

I drive slower with the music off

That deer has a good taste in music

Rum Runner


At home, she sips sweet-flavored rum

Grinning with a separation in her teeth.

A fear is found in her haunting smile

That she really has nothing to do

And everything she does is all about nothing

Sweet rum can be mixed or drank straight

Easily licked off and forgotten, evaporated

Mixed with who knows what

Everything—she can get her hands on

Funny, how she acts with such desperation

While lapping up luxury—acting out with suffering

Lovers, all lovers, plus everyone

Come with at least one fault or two,

Allowing her within their shield-like auras

To let her explore, compliment, and brutalize.

That is why she shows her whitened teeth

Tucks her wrinkles behind her ears

Blaming, blaming, blaming, in between sips

Club Of Complications

Hl. Maria, 1518, Eiche bemalt, Westfalen Holy Mary, 1518, oak painted, Westphalia Aus der Serie "Madonna & Co" from the series "Madonna & Co."
Hl. Maria, 1518, Eiche bemalt, Westfalen
Aus der Serie “Madonna & Co”

The child is in her arms

And I understand

The smile on her face,

The concern in her brow,

How she is so careful with

The round, round head of her baby

Plastic car seat

Molded to fit a human being

I have seen her tears,

The ones mothers shed,

Those real ones.

I have witnessed her past tears,

The ones children use,

The fake ones.

She will use both.

She will experience both,

To raise her child

I have lost all my tears

Except the quiet ones who

Slip out a little yelp

When silence

Lifts its veil, so

I can see a face

I know too well.

That face is not necessarily mine

But, a conglomeration of

All faces I’ve know

Or thought I’ve known



My old lover’s

The baby’s

The food I offer her

Warms her belly

Seasoned, spiced, for life.

Her baby sniffs at the smell

Not ready to join

The club of complications

Taking tears into many directions.

Instead, real need

Forms, as a goofy smile

A raise of the eyebrows

A wrinkle of the forehead

Quickly she places a bottle

Full of formula into the mouth

Of those expressions.

We all recognize gifts.

There are times when I think

My palms are too heavy.

That they don’t belong

To my hands, weighed down

By the attempt to raise them.
I watch with interest

As her baby waves hands

Like feathers, air, free

I can remember when her hands

Performed the same movement

Did I hold them down?

When I was too busy trying

To relinquish the heaviness

Of the course life, a direction?

Ahhh, but it’s all light and movement

Weights, worlds, and smiles

While tears perform.

I eat solids now

Perhaps there is more

To gravity than apples falling

Orbiting moons, twirling galaxies

that seeps, deep

Through the fabric of skin.

And that painting, playing

Wondering, writing, crying

Is a continuous attempt

To raise our hands

Through the cloth, to….

Shake them about in a fury,

To see how weightless our hands

Become during the time

It takes to complete a few rotations

Around an insignificant sun.

That just happens to be

The brightest one any of us know

Spaceship Shops


This town is not mine.

Its sidewalks— as grey as they

Have ever been.

The evaporating rain—still the same.

But when I walk the streets

I peer into shops

As if they are spaceships

Newly landed—and I fear

Walking into one of them

Will make my money

Transport to specific coordinates

Set by the US Bank—For it is they who—

(The empire who struck first

Who keeps on striking)

Turned my simple walks with wine in hand

To expeditions of payment plans.

Tickets must be purchased online

So, that the spaceship shops know




Exactly what it is

That I don’t really need

And must not live without.

They assure me,

(the ensigns of the spaceship shops)

That the universe is ever expanding

At a faster and faster balloon mortgage rate

(They call it “greed matter” commonly known

as dolla’ dolla’ bill y’all)

And that there is no way

It can be slowed down…and

That my city can never be

A city like the city it once was

Even though their shops

Are patterned after the city that once was

Where I developed the first anti-matter attitude

And a dangerous dance called the warp core breach.

Which they all seem to have down

Better than me.

Because they can afford to do so.

This makes me think

I should have become an astronaut

A developer, or an alien

But no. I preferred to walk.