Almost 18

For most people, the world is
revealed like an onion, in bitter
layers translucent-thin, with tears.

But for you, life comes easy
as peeling a banana and slicing it
into coins arranged on a plate,

with peanut butter. Or watching
a rose bloom on time-lapsed film,
that is how you learn and grow

and live. You could be anything
in this world or anyone, and
they used to say the same of me.


*Written by me in August 2010, published August 2010 at



Poets Are People, Too*

They walk, and talk
to themselves when another
is absent. They eat and drink

too much, and piss
and shit their little poem turds
onto the porcelain page and

cannot resist a look-see
and an audience to tell.
Poets make love famously well

to others (show, don’t tell!)
because they practice so much
by themselves.


*Written by me on July 28, 2010 and previously posted at Bard of Liminga —


The Days

Thank God it’s Friday
is the only prayer I know.

Saturday and Sunday are sister snakes,
the product of sex times two,

One joyous and wild after so long,
the second slow and sad

Like premonition of parting,
the little death.

Monday is the country
of a poet’s ex-lover.

Poets Without Windows

I don’t think poets
do well without windows,

She said from her desk,
watching the world go by.

Here I am, on the street,
a pedestrian peering in

Though the old storefront
with just this pane of glass

Between us. Glass is not
a liquid, not exactly,

It’s an amorphous solid,
rigid in structure but arranged

With haphazard molecules
that let most of those persistent

Photons past without making
a scene, turn but a few away,

And trap within fewer still.
The light that passes through

Is how we see each other
almost as we truly are.

The light that is reflected
is how we see ourselves

Through the eyes of the other.
And the light the glass absorbs

Is the restless energy that warms
the space between us.

I watch until you look up
from your work, a quick glance

Toward the street that either
noticed or saw right through me

And sent me on my way
wondering about poets

Who do not do well
without windows.