Wednesday, June 19, 2019

On the Square

Covington square was a place of  social worship
People gathered there to integrate with the cityscape and each other
Being a part of the anthill social structure, giving relevance, weaving reality
Dressing up a nowhere existence with paper doll clothes and drag queen wigs

By the light of day, the square was measured, professional
The place where folks would pretend to be important, irreplaceable
By the night, the same people came to spin, coalesce, slink, shine
There are things that soften in the dark, masks off, skin showing

Twice during the down times, the square was off limits
But the energy of a place does not dissipate, it builds
Calling those that pretend and those that do not, to fight back 
And take what is due, the square needs life, we need the square

Monday, May 13, 2019


You drank cranberry juice like it was going out of style
I chewed Fruit Stripe gum and bitched how the flavor faded too fast
We were afraid of spiders and the dark, but more of spiders
The dark was only terrifying because it made us burn like sparklers

You grew into a beauty, too soft, too smart, too desired
I grew awkwardly,  like a sunflower, head too big, more weed than flower
We still said "hi" in the hallway, but your future was big screen, Technicolor
Mine faded like the stars in a New York City sky, destined for mediocrity

You were a beautiful young mother, long term plans shelved, hidden regret
I came out of the military strong, changed in ways that helped, harmed
We had no idea what the fates had in store but we still dreamed, moved forward
Time moves with liquid speed, not missing the cracks or crevices, flowing silently

You were standing at Grant and Green, your aura engaging, hair resplendent
I hadn’t seen you in twenty years, my god how the memories came flooding back
We sipped Cape Cods and talked about being afraid of spiders, but not the darkness
The darkness was the only place we could find each other again, burning and sparking

Monday, April 22, 2019


On the upstroke, the tick was louder, until the second hand got to the ten
On the downstroke, the tock slid like a water snake in the damp grass, greasy
It was this constant grinding and sliding that kept me from drowsing, dreaming
At the bells I would jump a little and thank the fates that I was still alive

When you are awake with fevered thoughts of the day to come, knowing your sun will collapse
It is impossible to close your eyes, red, gritty eyes, giving your last gold piece for a spoon
You dare not speak out, or scream, the sound would surely cause internal damage
And darkness is not as complete when you hear yourself bleating like a separated mother goat
The tick is a reminder of the sins that I committed without a second thought of collateral damage
The tock is a lovers hand caressing,  telling me to put in a good word when I meet the maker
I tell you this, there is no clock, and there is no lover, only darkness and a mind sick with despair
The only antidote is the opening of a door and treacherous needles of light, skating on ice too thin

Friday, April 19, 2019


In rapture I bathed, cautious bones, stone still…

Her breath caught and I thought it was irreverent, but sexy
Shameful, shameful
I should not look at things from the pinpoint of a pig’s eye
Delirious sweats and needs, oh needs
Heated, heated
My desire out of control, does she know of my leaky valve
Pumping, pumping