Monthly Archives: April 2014


Your white dress billows like a jellyfish
plume, tentacle limbs askew, buffeted
by the windy waves beneath the surface
of my gaze. If I stare you down too long
you’ll drown the both of us, disrupt the thin
tension of our infinite possible
futures: look back and I might go under;
ignore my eyes and I might dry out on
this lovely beach and die; gently rock your
lifeboat hips in my direction and I
might forgo all metaphors, lose myself
in the depths of a wet speculation,
imagine it all in reverse, your words
a faint seashell whisper in the morning.

Beach Blanket

Not so much sex on the beach as second
base on a sandy blanket, wet towel
barely concealing the rhythmic movements
of her hand on his manhood roughly ten
feet from where I’m tanning, reading, eating
a peanut butter sandwich. The girl on
her back, straps undone, t-shirt over her
face to protect it from the sun; the guy:
much older, pretending to massage her
shoulders, leaning over her, constantly
checking if the white-haired gentleman to
our left setting out his chair has any
clue what’s going on there, never looking
at me, or maybe knowing I don’t care.

The Prince of Eternia

For outside of Grayskull castle walls
Like a mouth the drawbridge hangs
Undead cavalry bent on darkest deed
Advance in nightfall amid the ghouls

With bang of shield and lance atop a
Steed so very limber rides the dread
Form of Skeletor his cross campaign
So foul to shake the boards of timber

Above the omen Blood moon wails
As horse and soldier clack the nails
Inside steadfast Adam unbowed sees
Pause of charge as governor leans he

Stoops to moat that circles tower to
Wash like shower clean his hands for
All to see then horde abandoned off
He flees as legion footfall storms yet

Unshook Eternal prince transforms
Before a rider reach his lonely tower
So swift he rises tall he roars by the
Power of Grayskull I have the power.


Rolled oats or miscellaneous other
possible cookie ingredients strewn
across the kitchen counter. Is “strewn” an
oats verb? I assume that there are proper
baking words one would use to describe the
sight of overexcited particles
of half-mixed batter splattered, scattered, or
whatevered. I’m not communicating
myself innately like the baked good I’m
making is able: one clear memory
for the sight of flour on the table; one
for the indelible smell from the hot
oven; another for the taste, homemade;
one for the love of someone feeding you.

A Date With Molly Ringwald

At first she resists my urge to be herself. I don’t
Know who you think I am those are just pictures
They’re not really me not me now y’know? Yeah
I say although I know they  wrote the parts for 

Her how those moments that I know are her a
Long time ago sure we were all different some
Of us changed maybe a little more I’m glad my
Own youth wasn’t captured on film. This place

Is so busy, she shifts in the chair set up beside
Crowded tables, the barista clacks a mug and
Gives somebody wifi. Now her eyes are out the
Window for a pause I breathe then she sees in

Marker my name on a hot chocolate whip cream
Lids off the cups, on hers colored lipstick and the
Words Sixteen Candles, she sees me look to look
Away only to look back, smile, stare, blink, grin

She takes a sip, it’s an excuse to think how she’s
Not sixteen anymore. She sips to look at me, her
Lips, her nose crinkles, her eyes twinkle amber
Energy at the thought I know that look it looks 

At first like disapproval I know she’s coy that’s
The appeal not that at however old she is now she
Reminds me of looking pretty in pink it’s that she
Was first of all the girls to look so pretty in pink

So grown up, all the girls before her knew she
Was a woman. She looks up, laughs it’s so weird
For a second there I felt nervous like I was in
High school like you wanted me to be a teenage

Version of me and I realized it’s just me that
Thinks that and she smiles, we each take a real
Sip now the talk is real and what I want is all in
Reach like we’re both sixteen, invincible, like

A soundtrack cues to tell you we are different
Now, no longer i
And we’re too wise to care I smile, stare look
Away, let the moment sink, look back, blink.

Conference Room

Go to sleep and dream three years of a tough
relationship, love the shoe string holding
your two tin cans together, until that
fateful dream day when a stranger arrives
to rob your house, kill your wife, and then die
in the escape, and you’re left to tell the
police the whole thing. Wake up to go pee.
Go to sleep and dream of another lifetime,
a hot tub scene with another lover
completely, devoted to each other
and to the steamy feelings bubbling up
from below the surface, take your love on
the road, a jungle cat in a circus
show, and you don’t know your lines, but that’s fine.

Dust Jacket

To match my dust hat, my dust shirt and tie,
my dust-shined shoes and dirty leather belt,
my dust felt-tipped pen and mustard yellow
notebook, my wood and clay wallet, my dust
socks and dust boxers, my rock monocle,
my grass-stained vest (my very best), my dust
undershirt, my dirt clod cufflinks, chain, and
pocket watch, my mud umbrella, my dust
walking cane with the hidden blade, my dust
cigarette case, my filthy handkerchief,
my dust coat and tails, my dust tux and pale
muck cummerbund, my toxic scotch snifter,
my unwashed, “No, in fact I can’t spare a
buck, mister,” grimace, back from the cleaners.