
Category: confections
Ha!! Me, too…
Poof* Take MY water

no demons may cross my cumberland gap
you can’t get from her desert south west to kentucky
the archway of plenary indulgence is not her path
demons choked on fear and comeuppance lose their way
oh ye of little faith
was there ever any doubt
Jesus was from Elyria
that Ostara was from Kentucky
and that Lazarus was from Newark, NJ
but he got stuck in traffic for 10 years
on the high roads of rt. 80
thank you for maple syrup
Do you think
Canadians feel like
they occupy
the spacious attic
of hell?
10 pm
fresh out of sin
headed for a sip
in a bergamot tearoom
I became distracted
my January boots
compelled
to follow memories
through puddles of patchouli oil
stalls peddling shiny baubles
half finished dissertations
and bohemian postulation
stopping abruptly
at Biagio’s Bistro
fine Italian cuisine
featuring a gourmet dessert cart
a self service bar for the regulars
despite having
no customers &
a candlelit patina
covering
a thousand nights
spent ruining tablecloths
lovingly destroying
illusions
your every word brilliant
eyes alight
that saccharine fucking
Andrea Bocelli CD playing
on maddening repeat
my laughter too loud
for the intimate room
we were certainly doomed
our conversations
were always the wildest sex
i smiled remembering
into the fezziwig glow
of the old window
warmed by the fact
they still haven’t dusted
when
my ears perked alive
as suddenly crept
haunted sounds of
a minstrel show
a hand
strumming a guitar
your voice
in half notes
amidst sodium lamp motes
drawing me toward
that ancient apartment building
where you
serenaded me
I began to
swiftly seek
certain
I would find you
if only the source of the sound
was located
before the melody ended
rounding the corner
I found myself all alone
with weary dumpsters & brownstones
breathing clouds of longing
hair damp
with the scent
of dead pine wreaths
& recollection
because
truth be told
i miss my friend
so true without you
there will never again be
music for me
on the perpetually wet streets
of Clifton
shock jock
there are times
i feel like the only person alive
who feels that
one Bukowski
was enough
men are
comfort
food
i suppose
i’m too happy
to be a poet this day
happy people tend to write
bloody awful poetry
however
i’m not drunk
i’m not high
i don’t need a spike
i like working in the city
i’m not heartbroken nor homeless
i’m not lonesome
i’m not horny
i’m not at war with god
politics
my childhood
or a neighboring country
i’m not married or divorcing
i rather love my imperfect children
this is a poem for my fellow writers
heavy bleeders of ink
succumbers to whim
dancers of vehemence and fury
freedom fighters of the fantastic
who dream in crusades
look how beautiful you are when you smile
you smell of lavender
newsprint and vanilla icing
all this
and i get to say
tomorrow is my birthday
rations
how fitting
the etymology of the word
rations
the 18th century French
derived from the Latin
ratio
as there has never been enough
of you
or France
to go around