You are life’s lightning rod,

solitary, secure,

intrinsically designed

to attract dangerous energy.

Luckily, I am innately grounded

as I would have to avoid you

at the very moment

electricity wants to strike.

She threads his promises

through the hole in her heart,

uses hope like a needle

to patch up loose seams.

When I die, weave my soul into the fur of a Schnauzer.

Hand me off to a master

who reveres wild spirits yet keeps a treat tucked away

to entice me to stay.

She paints awkward eyes

on rusted railway spikes,

plants them too deeply

in broken terra cotta pots,

waters them sporadically

with the dregs of stale beers,

waits in anxious anguish

for the blossoms of Paris.

A heart, stuffed like a backpack,

vital needs, unpredictable wants,

zippered compartments of

comfort and ecstasy,

worn nonchalantly with effortless grace

until the solace

burdens into dead weight.

She knits her poetry into shapeless hats,

hands them out to lost souls left in the cold.

One Friday in February

she was startled to discover

her works were considered

fashionably chic.

I have wrestled with demons,

taken batting practice with monsters,

even gone one on one with Satan himself.

My head is a veteran,

conditioned, ready.

My heart is a rookie,

in awe of the stars.

Dog feces, empty dented beer cans,

wadded food wrappers, cigarette butts,

and, rarely,

in a sublime moment of unexpected grace,

a solitary snapdragon

caught in resurrection.

She collects broken hearts in a mason jar

under the bed,

twists the lid off at midnight,

falls asleep to the white noise

of devastating sighs.

He rides the El like some vengeful Hemingway,

graffitti’s tags of novels

on the backs of plastic seats.

I was fired yesterday,

erratic punctuality,

victim of a guerilla writer

unaware of the scavenger hunt.