A New England thaw held hostage.Colonial Ghosts folded into cold mistAnd bone-gray branches of maplesStill clutching their syrup. Frost-heaved roads—sap buckets hanging empty,Bare birches slow the season’s ache.Spring is barely an idea, hidden beyondCovered bridges just past the fog line. The sugaring moon is a coy tease,Like a cute barfly flashing her smileWhile her man…
Not everyone is blessed (or cursed) with an ear attuned to Geddy Lee’s singular wail. One of my ex-wives once told me she turned on the radio, heard what she thought was a dying cat, and only realized a few moments later that it was Rush. And yet, here I am—lifelong fan—proudly curating Muzzled Rush:…
Gifted with scars for which I never asked,Sometimes I feel like I’ve healed.Then they reopen—the licking starts anew.Things flow freely that were barely congealed. Do my stories differ so much from your own?Perhaps. Perhaps not.Maybe some of us are bornJust to idly let them clot.
The moon rises over Manhattan.Her fortified smile poured smoothlyIn a sea of faces, bitter and wry.Her syrupy voice, friendly and warm,Completed my cherry-topped night.The moon sets over Manhattan,And the sun stings my eyes.
Performative profundity falls flatWhen contradictory contentNames your true nature. Your talk belies your own talk—And small wonder why we balk.Your testimonial truthsAre wishy-washy and weak-spined.Surely you can’t believe we’re blindEnough to swallow that scripted sludge. Conviction’s more than catchphrase carouselsOr costume changes to match your mood.We weary watchers see the true script.Your fire fades under…
California love blooms again in Georgia soil.I planted them for her a long time ago—Poppies, little bursts of color for my SoCal girl,Rooted in red clay. She smiled at me that first time we met,Brightening and warming an already bright day.I stood there powerless, holding this fierce angel—Rooted in red clay. She smiled when she…
Charon sits, moored upon the shore,No lantern pierces the fog.A cold, penniless wake—Not even a ripple on the bog. The dark, still waters—Serene. Indifferent.They spare the destitute,But not the morally indigent. Ashes forgotten, sealed in the furnace,Closed to the skies.No breezes to catch, no currents to ride,No fields to fertilize.
The man on my birth certificate has died.But he was no man—A revenant at best,Chained to drinkAnd inhuman emotion.Hollow and bereft. He has died as he lived:Forgotten.
The saints of hustle descend upon the unfulfilled,And proselytize of their victims’ future fortuneIf only they’ll grit their teeth and grind…grind…grind… From the other side of their mouths they’ll remindTheir quarry that grit isn’t enough and suggestThey also create a clever new design…design…design… Monetize your hobbies and even your downtimeSuch that your rest isn’t for…