He painted over her eyes, thinking the portrait could no longer haunt him. Not understanding that the haunting of his heart was only in his gaze. He cut her out of the picture, forgetting that doubled the absence. At last he consigned the pieces to fire in hopes of leaving nothing. The smoke was not the source of tears, of gasping for breath around her eyes. 

They talked to me daily
Their normal, every day thoughts
I took refuge in my room
To escape their gunshots
With weapons drawn
Their words pierced my eardrums
Their screams were like battlecries
Demonstrating their pain and pride

Enduring every bullet,
Every grenade
I kept a box of batman band aids
In my pocket
My powerless voice shaking
“Stop it… Stop it…”

I know
It seems childish
But I was a child
And they are my parents
Now, as an adult,
I’ve inherited
Their words
Their weapons
I’ve multiple gunshot wounds
To my head
I have to protect others
From what I could’ve said

My words are better left unspoken
My words are keeping me dead
Sticks and stones break bones
Words as weapons break souls

birdsongs catalogued
dead language     sacred

voices that echo
hope

a terrible need 
arranging colors well 

in night more alive
than religion 

not so easy 
as looking at it

                                       Going to the Movies

Hiding in the dark with a bag of popcorn
no one can find me
perfect freedom
the antidote to boredom
the ever-ready vacation.

It’s like going to church
in the dark womb of the theatre.
I’m reverent in my attention,
schooled in a broader world.

A devotee since childhood,
I would skip the annual circus,
to sit close in the dark,
a boy’s arm around me
even then the juices flowing,
the saliva-driven urge to merge.

An alternate reality available
instantly
for the price of a movie ticket.

ctrl + alt + del
those last few lines
these keys have seen too many poems already
& yours is uninteresting.
restart & rethink
before you shut down.

We all have our own way
of disappearing in ourselves.
How we crave to be human,
to have toes that wiggle and skin that hangs
a centimeter further from our hips than we
would like.  The way we cling to feelings that
will always be fleeting and wed ourselves to
permanence like the woman standing before
the mirror on Monday morning will even
recognize herself come Friday. We imagine how to become
one with ourselves, with the earth, to eventually
succumb to the love of the Divine and match ourselves
perfectly with another human soul,
but that was a
wish for yesteryday, and
tomorrow knows nothing.

I haven’t visited Lexington Cemetery since my folks died,
a couple of months separating their deaths,
but this morning, as I prepared a rhubarb tart

from a cookbook in translation, Tante Heidi’s Swiss Kitchen,
I noticed Pop’s handwriting in German in the left margin
and Mom’s annotation in Italian on the right.

When I was little, the biggest argument I remember
was about discussing the meal too much at the table.
Would Mom be surprised at how we suppress our impatience

when our daughter walks us through details of a dish
she’s prepared? Or would she be annoyed
that we do for our children what we were unwilling to do for her?

Love it when I see a girl like her
Walk into the room
Who shares her magnificent slender shape
Exuding femininity in rose blushed cheeks
With dark hair cut short, black glasses or no.
The rush always hits me hard,
Just one moment I wonder
Could it really be her?

I remember her beauty so very well
Made me go blind unto the world
Especially in the photo of her in a flower bed,
Daffodils had nothing to say.

But it never really hit me
How caught up I was in the charm of her
Until I heard a voice just like hers
From an unexpected source
Speaking lighter fluid on the flame,
My pining for her,
An attraction that grew into
Attachments I hold so dear,
Being able to say that for the briefest of moments
Beyond the initial shock of identity
That I did love her with all of my heart.
But I know how radical that is.

To the giants who share my blood
And the way I used to think
Let this be the new voice of judgment.
Nothing is going to change this change
So you might as well accept
I love pink lipstick smiles
I love short skirt struts
High heels highly appreciated
If no one admits the appeal
Of a girl, beautiful
Challenging social norms
And being who she was meant to be.
Perhaps I should say hello
Again.

Because I’m in love with saying
I’m in love with her.
I don’t care what anybody else says
Because I am my own man
This was my romance and
Even as we have parted, I hope and pray
That she will be happy always,
For it is the least that she deserves.

In the midnight hour
Grows the perfect poppy, look
Smooth, subtle, its petals

Unfolding wisdom
We must not pluck flowers
A poppy picked shall die

Foresight abandoned
Cut, she cries opium tears
Withers for man’s greed

Find the path, witness
Worry not the time it blooms
But for whom