the guilty reek with noxious innocence

reveling in their shielding shame

while the dark one—the one with the chip—

serves as the convenient object of their disaffection

and their inability to fight clean and fair

fair: a word that is twistable, bendable

and unyieldingly rigid on the tongues of the guilty

or the innocent, or the object

a threat perceived and real and fantastical

expressing wounds impervious to healing

and the rotten distrust of self

Poetry: Birthday


Birthday candles being lit

We honored the day with bottles of wine,

Gifts, and never enough conversation.

It was his twenty-seventh, maybe her

Forty-fifth, or perhaps it was someone’s

Sixty-second. That would be the hardest,

Reminding us that life is too often

Measured in sixty-second increments.

I wonder why we measure it at all:

What does it matter what year it occurred

Or which day of the week the thing happened

Or how many minutes slipped our fingers?

Time is relentless only when you slip

Out of the moment and into your fear,

Only when you make life a statistic.



Poetry: Regrets



The tiny sparrow, defenseless against

The wind, a victim of her own choosing,

Sang loud and long in defiance of guilt

That flowed through her veins like rough opium.

Denial proved the case: regrets still hung

Around her quivering throat, her frail neck,

Garlands of bloodstained rubies with her prints

Brutally unmasked against the hard gleam.

I have learned from the timbre of her voice

To live in perpetual discomfort

With these useless emotions and accept

That my regrets will continue to play

The role of unwanted, unloved partner

As long as I hold on to human life.


Photo Credit: © Izanoza | Stock Free Images &Dreamstime Stock Photos

Poetry: Modern Existence


Old woman  looking at the sky with fear


Nothing like a tightly wound spring straining

To uncoil unpredictably without

Warning at inconvenient moments.

More like a top, spinning in defiance

Of old, tired men who claim to have proven

Perpetual motion ephemeral.

So, no, I will not earn any headlines

For random or deliberate killing;

No, I will not merit headlines at all.

I will be content to register years

In some database in a nowhere place

Where not a soul or program will witness

The terror that fuels my rite of passage:

The enduring fear of relaxation.