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Friday, September 28, 2018

He Got Lucky

He Got Lucky

Rolled a Vegas hard eight.
Cashed a lottery ticket.
Plucked a stray eyelash.
Pocketed his heads-up penny.
Pinched a quartered clover clean.
Stole a horseshoe for his door.
Toweled bird shit off his shoulder.
Keychain crafted a rabbit ankle.
Triumphantly tore his turkey bone.
Screwed his semi-conscious friend.

Wednesday, November 22, 2017


I never danced with Jesus,
But Michael pulled me to him,
And I curved into his back, twenty
Years of electrified instinct.
The butterscotch texture
Of his voice stole my senses,
And the slink of his hip under my hand
Was my one true sacrament.
He was chlorophyll to a teenage stalk
Of a girl, inspiration as sustenance.

He wasn’t supposed to be mortal.
That wasn’t part of the agreement when
I stood before his pedestal, willfully blind.
His life was worth more to me than my own,
And that November he gave it away.

There is nothing fair about faith.

Saturday, October 28, 2017

Winter carnivals

Each Italian town has a carnival,
just for winter, merry-go-rounds
with unlicensed Disney characters
or less than pristine Sistines
trimmed with molded plastic curtains.
I sat cross-legged on a bench, gelato
spoon clutched firmly in my glove,
as children in well-made coats toddled
headfirst toward a hilltop carousel.
In that moment, not going anywhere,
I had the unblemished freedom
of my own narration.

Wednesday, October 25, 2017

Falling leaf

Autumn's edges brim with motivation,
like the driest cappuccino foam,
ready for change. The urgency runs
thoughts in headlines, deadlines
of holidays and early nights looming.
Another year escaping and maybe
there are still some lines left on the list, but
the fire is warm and Bailey's swirls
decadently in coffee and the leaves
will wait til winter.

Friday, October 20, 2017


You pinch the cool, thin stem,
coax bubbles along your tongue,
and turn your leash to silent.
As light as a child's Christmas,
prosecco suspends time, skips
through sips of contradiction.
The driest drink, it evaporates
deliriously, an apparently innocuous
phantom flirtation.

Monday, October 2, 2017

Ten Bears in a Bed

Ten bears in a bed and one got a gun,
just enough room for American fun.
He growled and glowered "We will be fine."
"I protect mine," and then there were nine.
Mama Bear broke a plate and then there were eight:
she made room in Heaven and now they were seven.
"You'd best take your licks," the bear sneered, and then six.
They still could have thrived, but suddenly five.
One ran for the door, and then there were four.
He looked at his daughter, she could make more.
But she tried to flee, so then there were three.
He still wanted room, so he took it to two.
His own eyes in his son, he could not make it one.
But the boy played the hero.
And now it is zero.

Monday, September 11, 2017

When it works

The pleasure of owning a painting
is the tracing of strokes, the unique
knowledge of the path. Everyone
can look, but you control the touch.
When it works, love is the same.