His name is Hank, God’s Secret Service,
Protector of the pathetically unblessed
The tragically sad
Huge seraphim wings tucked awkwardly away
Inside a black baggy bowling shirt
Embroidered with a cross
He smells like jalapenos
Has a voice like two a.m.
Frieda always leaves the next bar stool empty
A glass of Dewars and holy water
Ready to unwind
Copyright 2018
She lives on a cement island, surrounded by freight trains
Instead of the sea.
Writes requests for salvation on the back
Of her imagination
Stuffs them inside empty beer bottles
Tossed into open box cars
All while secretly knowing
The only rescue she might find
Is a trip in the ambulance
Headed back to dry land.
Copyright 2018
She lives like a ghost
Fourth floor above him
Mute, invisible
Sleeps with the moon.
He lives like a poet
Personal hell below her
Driven, impossible
Drinks ink from the night.
Words float between them
Written, unspoken,
Abundance of imagery
Coating the walls.
He puts out recycling
She ransacks the bin
Creating a kimono of prose
Sashed with haiku.
Copyright 2018
He lives in her wallet, face out of focus,
Single frame sliced from a photo booth strip.
They met in a library book
OF LOVE AND OTHER DEMONS
Garcia-Marquez
page 126
Hair electrified by lightning
Eyes on fire from dreams of volcanoes
Mouth sweetened on untold lies.
Men have lusted after and loved her.
She forgets each and every one
Obsessively pulling out the lone photo
Searching for the unknown man
The only one that she wants.
Copyright 2018
The hair on her head has unpredictable temper
The body of Lazarus, dead than arisen.
The color confuses insects
arouses thunder
seduces wind chimes
And when she combs it?
Oh my.
Electricity strangles the moon.
Copyright 2018
She unearthed the box near the curb
Buried beneath white trash bags
An old seat cushion
Woolen, electric blue,
The color of secrets
The size of a mother’s heart.
She filled it with mystery
The size of a hummingbird’s egg
Stuffed it with wonder
Scented by Babylon
Placed it dead center
Under her lonely platform bed
Voyaging on nightly visions
Distilled by the vapors
Of its contents.
Copyright 2018
She wears a scarf that snags whispers of lovers,
Sometimes a phrase, often one word,
Sounds and sighs woven into the weft.
She sits in the moonlight,
Unravels the mysteries,
Rolls them into diaphanous orbs
Embroidered with poetry, tied off with a tear.
Birds descend on them
At the first signof morning
But only she is aware
She feeds birds their song.
Copyright 2018
She dreams every night
The song of the sagauro
Arid, succulent,
Lyrics too sharp
The only green
In an infinity of sand.
Copyright 2018
She once had a lover
who bit deep into her heart,
A heart like a perfectly ripe apricot
Beating overtime on the vine.
Bit right through the flesh
the pulp, into the juice,
Never once stopping
Until teeth hit the stone.
Copyright 2018
She hangs her dying wish
On the hook in the hallway
Next to her car keys
And World Series Cubs cap.
She has a bad habit
Of losing the obvious
And wants to be prepared
When it’s finally time to leave.
Copyright 2018
