No Use

Is desire such an empty thing?

Each time a star falls

it is greeted with a wish

and there is no end to the greed.

I am a window without resolution,

a door impeded and without passage,

a slide that spirals down into infinity.

If I were nothing would you love me?

When I am called to action

I find myself a mitten instead of a boot.

Were I to crawl I might find my dignity,

the shards of an ego gone circumspect.

Why do you look at me that way?

I am not a plaything, a secret

willed into existence

by a disreputable muse.

You cannot strip me of my roots.

My curves have worn me down.

I am sparse, thin in inflation.

There is no use hiding my face

behind yours anymore,

no use at all.

Together our skeletons make a nest

but it is without warmth

that we lie frozen back to back

facing our respective walls.

I keep catching shrapnel.

The wars we carry inside of us

are so easily misplaced

and I am tired of being a mark.

Wordle #277


They turn their backs as I enter
faces joined, conversation piecemeal.
I think they mean to hurt me
and not wholly in the anatomical sense.
I fear only my bastard reflexes.
Though they do not recognize me
I understand them to be “human”.

I search for light behind the red door
in the patterns and paraphernalia
of their inarticulate chatter.
Sometimes the most we can
hope for is to be forgotten.
I brush the residue
of their horizontal gazes
from my psychic variables.

I wake up dead in a thicket of shadows.
Screeching and heaving I reload,
another file, another serum, another net to plait.
My heart is callused with frustration
and I think it means to hurt me.
I too am “human”
though I would like to refute that designation.


Once upon time,

Is the color dreams

Develop on ripening.

My world is concave,

No longer small

But steadily inverting.

I think I would look

Better if I were inside out

Then you’d see

How deep my convictions run.

Perfection is an illusion

Favored in hindsight.

All this wanting, all this looking

And still nothing achieved.

How does one fill a hole

That isn’t there?

I am paper, I absorb

The realities imposed on me,

The contradictions

The fallacies labored

And satisfied at the expense

Of my gravel-ridden soul.

I have no questions for you

Only accusations and even they

Are mostly self-inflicted.

Writing Prompt #120 and Wordle #131

Collage 4

Her vacant mouth balances,

Corners scorched, an amalgam

Of lies and proximity.

She wears masquerades

In the company of strangers

And in the absence of friends.

Hurled into the faces of others

Tears can feel like gravel,

In the heart of the holder

They are bricks and walls.

An angel cheated

By the enclosure of time.

Despite all her nothings

The clock still notices.

Days fall into place like a fence,

Like feathers in a raven’s cloak.

Everything to gain in her freedom,

Her tentacled hands clutch

At devastation, at keepsakes lost,

At the ingress of human trash.



Wordle #69

Week 69

Your sluggish sockets tiptoe

Across the flagstones.

Face-down, tongue wadded

At the cusp of speech.

Your chitin flakes,

Messages ill-intended seep

Into your heart’s binary call.

Cruelty breaches and sickens.

Your jaundiced ego

Shrivels on the stalk.

Emanations carmine and ash

Drip from the bubbling curdle

Of your untenanted smile.

The hours reveal days

And even the day are long

When all that proceeds

Them is humiliation.



Your fingers usurp

Each cicatrix

As soon as it is laid.

They must have hated

Themselves bitterly

To behave as they did.

It is hard to see the target

In the wreckage of war

And in the end we all have

A bulls-eye within our breast

So magnetic and insidious

That it would draw in

Even those arrows

Not specifically intended for us.


There is always

An audience for humiliation

They line up like teeth

Hoping to witness

A predicament more formidable 

Than their own.


The crowd thickens

A piece of cloth,

A tuft of hair,

A cheap locket

Whose significance

Is unscathable, pocketed.

Death is not a souvenir.


I can only drink

The superficial blood

The pain at your core

Is not for me to swallow.

I can claim to understand

But no one,

No matter how sympathetic,

Will ever live the reality

That you alone have defined.


Went for simple today



My heart, a collapsed halo,

Upon which your bony fingers

Still impatiently drum

An abacus plucking out

Invisible adversaries

For us each to overcome


This poem is fictional and also short. Lately my poems have all been woefully short. I am even more scattered-brained than usual which scarcely seems possible.