We stand
We trudge forward
By laughter
By understanding.



via Daily Prompt: Partner


My Sinuses Want to Kill Me

My sinuses want to kill me

(no, I’m not being melodramatic).

They’ve sent yellow tentacles

onward, upward,

toward the top of my head.

These tendrils wrap, encase,

constrict my skull

and force each thought

into a odd shape.

The tendrils creep onward, upward,

toward the top of my head,

between each volley of Sudafed

and I wait for reprieve

(no, I’m not being melodramatic).

Just me and my odd-shaped thoughts.



Walking in Winter, Part 3.

Don’t lie down,

the cold isn’t done with you

(not yet).

You will have to carry it,

even as the sun finds a way

through the sheets of white and grey.

You will have to carry it

after it slowly slithers,

in, out,

and through each layer.

Before you lie down,

remember that the cold isn’t done with you

(not yet).

It waits

under your blanket,

it waits

under your skin,

It’s by your bedside,


for morning to begin.








Walking in Winter, Part 2

Horizontal rain

Skips across the rooftops,

Below the grey sky,

Above the grey concrete,

And across the rooftops.

Wear three layers:

One for each tier.


each tier shakes

With each footfall.

Shattered, each tier falls

And rises and falls,

onto the grey concrete.




Walking in Winter

Cold cuts

Through your coat

Like a blunt machete

Pulling, stripping away

The cloying warmth

Of fashion and function.


Step outside,

Onto the grey concrete

And hard-packed wet cigarettes.

Listen to the wind:

“Prepare to meet your God!

He’s sitting on the corner

Wrapped in a blanket.”


Walk around the corner.

Feel the music of eight,

Nine, ten different bars

Fight for possession of your ears,

Life and love and sex and death and sex,

Fight for possession of your ears.

Listen, instead, to the wind:

“Prepare to meet your God!

She’s hunched over a fading phone,

Waiting for the bus.”


Walk past the bus stop.

Nearly home.

Everything hurts more when it’s cold

And sore feet turn blue.

Nearly home.

It’s raining now,

Beads of firmament

Clatter to the ground.

Nearly home.

Listen to the wind.

Its final howl:

“Prepare to meet your God!

Flickering on each screen,

Every screen.





It’s a bit cold.



Graham Greene, circa 1950.

Everything I want to say

has already been said

by the voices, clear and erudite,

of the living and the dead.


Their melodies crowd the airwaves

and their thoughts weigh down the shelves.

Oh, I wish they would be quiet,

I wish they’d keep it to themselves!


There’s no room on the shelf,

the stage,

the radio,

or screen.


has already been




I remain backstage

and think

“Oh, what might have been!
If  only I had happened upon

a fresh and empty scene!”

But, if the stage were empty,

how could I move ahead

without incessant prodding

from the living and the dead?