Diamonds are a dangerous commodity.
Topaz brickettes pave lost roads
for the unfortunate paths
of bewildered Dorothy's
(and misguided second-removed cousins).
The birthday cards
I send myself,
are never returned to sender;
they're forwarded to you.
Rubies are ominous and a crucial burden.
Red. A vibrant statement.
Look at me! I'm red!
Quite a pathetic gemstone.
(Dorothy - you need to re-dye your slippers).
The birthday cards you've sent me
are now forwarded back to you.
Diamonds and rubies
are dangerous commodities.
Quartz tickles my fancy.
Limestone abandons my will.
Emeralds? I visted that city; once.
The PO Box for my re-routed
birthday cards are registered there.
My second-removed cousin
tiles his palacial floors with them.
Diamonds, rubies and emeralds are
Sapphires are worthless crackerjacks.
Amethyst is a word that
(half the population of Idaho can't spell).
A Rock of Gibraltar. The man you needed.
The dupe you wanted.
The patsy who refrains from
visiting your morosed petting zoos.
The gemstone you suckle?
Who is it?
I'm not your diamond;
Hardly, am I your ruby;
Perchance, an emerald?
Quartz, limestone...a sapphire?
You orchestrate personal deaths
upon the metallic
bands around your rhenoid fingers.
A gemstone I'm not a part of.
Being there -
I was the part of your life
that was accidentally flung over
stuffed in moth-ridden closets.
I was the gemstone
that never glossed
your fancy fingers.
Understand, pumice doesn't sink!
I'll pop back into mischievious
blackened-hearts anytime I please -
and you will welcome me for
a sincerity that warrrants no appraisals.
my utmost truisms sparkle
like diamonds -
a dangerous and rare
As the bed sheets drape.
Fold in the sides - tuck the corners
For only then will my wrinkled thoughts be neatly made.
Begs the Imagist's pardon:
Forsake not my skin -
Complete my chaste nakedness
With threads of dappled spectra
Invalids weep when
soiled diapers suddenly
In spite of the battered off-chance -
from a despondent interruption;
I'm the exposed exception.
Coarse fingers bleed.
My wheelchair spokes
are hardly friendly.
I proudly bawl when no one
can see me bow my head
amongst the company of
with this solemn disease -
the embrassing stench of inhumanity
forces me to open a
newly glass-stained window.
I whisk swallowed past-killings
onto bent steel hangers.
Neatly there, they elegantly droop -
angled and uninteresting;
in a dank closet where
Leukemia, I personally, thank you.
Mid wives laugh at me.
Jesters poke a crooked finger, also.
and jacks are left behind.
I chuckle, too - with an
unbridled Lucille Ball lament.
Four spaded-aces and a forgotten spittoon;
the uninviting hospice where we
comfortably bed together
crocheting darned finales.
Don't tell anyone.
Blood bleeds beyond
frowned staled dales and
expiration is a personal moment.
Daddy and Mommy need to witness
the definition of
an unwarranted demise.
Open ended the
Grimm fairy tale concludes,
without a finely tuned
leashing the braille-exhausted
onto another muddied
A Montague. A Capulet.
‘Twas at a masquerade they met.
Two strangers caught each other's eyes
as strains of love began to rise.
Upon a courtyard balcony,
amidst the angst of family,
‘twas there the pair professed love's need -
though Kismet's kiss would intercede.
Alas, the banes of passion bleed -
resolving gest through tragedy.
The foils of fate singed hot as coals
yet death would reunite their souls.
Two hearts in heaven overflow -
One Juliet. One Romeo.
She feigns timidity
Cunningly knowing fools become
'Twas a fortnight fraught with tainted stars;
'Midst mournful tears salting Neptune's sea.
A withered lass swallows internal scars,
'Twixt purist passions removed from thee.
Thoust bravest beloved her soul kept dear;
A buccaneer's quest sculpting pirated pride:
"Seizing Zeus' crown 'neath Poseidon's bier;
A jewel I'll bequeath to thine waiting bride."
Lantern lights flicker past sheltered shores.
Naked thee writhes; nary a vow to don.
Rest not the rues grieved 'pon garish moors -
Whilst honored prayers of thou beau breathes non.
Replete in requiem; Thalassa exhales,
Thine darkened omens proclaimed by thee.
Dying the deaths of thoust betrothed prevails;
Whilst unheard novenas abandons she.
A fortnight chills and the stars grow dim;
Neptune's waters heal whilst God's fingers burn.
A comely maiden torches thy heart for him -
In hope thine's glow reflects lost love's return.
Ah, the glorious damned winter
and the inviting
gray chill in the air.
with a cluttered array
of pagan snow zombies -
as I obliterate pint-sized
failing to don halos
that could have easily been
brush stroked with
da Vinci's golden teardrops.
"I suggest you peruse Alighieri’s 'Inferno' –
it may, at least, promote heat - if not hope!"
Frost continues to cloud my spectacles -
thick and relentless
eagerly permeating the glass -
endeavoring to dance
a feverish Fantasia foxtrot
upon the skins of my pupils.
My heavy feet scuffle
past these endearing peasants.
forgotten Mt. Everest tombstones.
Disgraced outcasts of embarrassment -
smashed against a stark white canvas
hands cut off –
sticking out their parched tongues
begging for alms.
Click and count.
Their fragile bodies so much alive
their dark, hallowed eyes
(So be it)
They stealthily huddle alone -
(Hah! I’ve created my own personal oxymoron!)
These gruesome street urchin waifs -
Dumber than a sackful of hammers and
frostier than a Maine Christmas morn,
convulsing and shivering ‘neath lampposts
without snow shoes or socks,
bawling and boo-hooing...
“Clutching weather-worn copies
of James Hilton’s 'Lost Horizon'
and littering the virgin snow
with salty saline discharge –
igniting street corner bonfires
without the faintest hint of smoke."
Ah, the glorious damned winter
and that magnificent gray chill in the air.
My arctic thighs carry me home now
where I am safe.
Where I can slam my door
and shut my eyes.
My cavernous domicile
whereas I can privately converse
with Mr. Dickens and Mr. O’Neill
and read “A Christmas Carol”
or “The Iceman Cometh” -
without a snaggle-toothed interruption...
Listen to the haunting strains of L’Inverno
from Vivaldi’s “Le Quattro Staggioni”
and cackle wildly as I burn first editions
of Clement Clark Moore’s
most infamous penning -
pour myself a
tall glass of ice cubes -
devour a heaping bowl
of vichyssoise -
scarf down a fudgcicle
turn the air conditioner
I stand neck-high tall
within the quicksand
of my infirmities.
Green and gaunt,
I hesitantly genuflect.
Ravaged tendons and corpuscles
are barely breathing
within the vacant corridors
of a soiled carcass.
My ardor for vindication
has been abandoned.
I presently refrain from accepting
the consultation of
Readers of tealeaves and tarot cards
hurl my infractions towards
the apex of your divinity
and the nadir of my scrutiny.
I espy no Judas rope
(dangling from lofty boughs)
of unanswered novenas
sleep beneath my fingernails.
Scars flourish upon my skin -
agnate to larvae
and dried leaves.
The density of my marrow
turns moss covered and dank.
Choirs of starving nestlings
bear witness to my afflictions.
Swallowing the last notes
of a disenchanted requiem;
they slowly bind my wrists
with twigs of knotted reflections -
as Harper Lee's macaws
peck my cheeks and
the calculated feast ensues.
A murky blanket
of eventide quilts me
in fibers of remorse.
underneath my skin;
they herald my inhumanity
as I impishly smile.
Connect-the-dot cold sores,
(not found in children’s books)
entwine a raw endoscope probe -
my charted results.
are devoid of carnival mirrors
and inner deliberations.
of bun coed celebration minuet
within another's emptied psyche.
to my umbra are blocked.
All exits are closed.
So, into the woods I go,
and matchstick available.
Searching for answers
the starving nestlings
My heart is empty, Jeffrey.
I’m standing here transfixed
within the threshold
of a vacant bedroom.
The air is still
but the delicate scent
of your passing soul
invades my nostrils.
The aroma travels deep
inside the tunnels
of my abdominal cavity -
a dew-anointed meadow
a fuchsia sunrise.
Your mattress is scrubbed,
stripped and sunlit –
except for two eiderdown pillows.
I envision a perfect outline -
your fragile face
softly carved within
the creases of these satin cases.
I visually inhale the profile
of your splendor;
a modern day Shroud of Turin
resurrected and resplendent
through trickled specks
of semi-dried sweat.
“No more IV’s”…“right…”
“No more bedpans”…“exactly…”
“No more night sweats”…“yes, handsome…”
“Now give me a big hug, Jeffrey…Jeffrey…”
My hands tremble as I
reach from one photograph to the next.
The images I want to barter
with Faustus and friends -
ensuring me a pact
whereas I can live and breathe
inside these time honored pixels -
content in lonely frames
hanging upon clinical walls
in a half-emptied bedroom.
I grabbed a beaded satin pillow
to cushion the fall as
I slowly hyperventilated.
I breathe once more, Jeffrey,
but I’ll gag twice again,
as I remember our newly spoken language -
a private dialect we created last month
reminiscent of the movie
“The Lost Language of Cranes.”
Those three long weeks before
you suddenly became incoherent
Remember how we improvised?
(shaking and arms crossed) “OK…you’re cold – I’ll get you a blanket!"
(pointing to your mouth) “You’re thirsty…water or juice?"
(pointing to your mouth and shaking) “OK…I’ve got it…ice cream…pudding?"
(index fingers pointing upward and swaying) “I know… you wanna listen to music”
(index fingers pointing downward) “Please turn off the TV set”
(middle finger pointing upward) “OK…you want me to adjust your pillows?"
(both middle fingers pointing upward and shaking) “Alright…alright – I know!…If you
hear Celine Dion one more time on the radio you’re gonna kick your bedpan off the side of
(arms folded across your chest)…”Rest handsome, rest…”
It’s OK, Jeffrey...it's OK.
No more IV’s.
No more bedpans.
I have your pictures.
You're not sweating anymore.
I’m not choking...now.
TV’s turned off...
Ate the last of the ice cream
and the pudding...and...
And as I did -
I swallowed every part
of your triumphant,