little hairs on her knees,
always hard to shave, I suppose
the mascara smear
below her right eye
after she laughs
at a bad joke in the breakroom,
the fork she ate the pasta salad with,
now in the sink,
the splattered freckles
on deep-bronzed shoulders
I ignore these specifics
I maintain focus
on more important things
I make my deadlines,
I watch the news,
my kitchen is always clean,
I wear sunscreen,
I trim my beard accordingly,
I am always emotionally prepared
to evade sentimentality
wherever possible
Dorinda is always late,
her bun slightly left-of-center,
she should wear more green
and maroon to compliment
her hazel eyes, but she doesn't
I find satisfaction in work,
the constant rush,
standing just close enough to her
in the elevator every day,
up and down for five minutes
is enough
Dorinda always smells
like tangerines and vanilla
the quiet of shared space,
that is enough for intimacy
in our elevator
before the moaning of traffic,
before the smell of leftover curry
waiting for me at home,
clean silverware,
a well-kept bed
People who’ve been indoctrinated by public education
Think the fascists/Nazis were “far right”,
When it’s clear the national socialist platform
Was just that; nationalist and socialist.
These indoctrinated fools
Have an extremely narrow idea of the spectrum
That ranges from total government on the Left
To zero government on the Right.
Saying the left of center fascists are right wing
Is like only seeing red to yellow on the color spectrum
Somehow ignorant, willfully or not,
Of all that lies to the right of green.
(11/12/25)
There was a woman I knew a long time ago,
I still can’t remember her name.
She maintained a slightly blurry focus,
Left of center, out of frame.
But I do recall she was a vixen in bed,
So, I’ll just called her, Dushka.
She had porcelain fingers; her tips were acrylic.
I repaired her transmission. She taught me Cyrillic.
I hovered above her most urgent desire.
She needed a fix. I became her supplier.
But her addictive passion slowly slackened with time.
She went looking after greener pastures than mine
THIS SPACE RESERVED FOR
SOVIET SOCIALIST UTOPIAS
Lost in confusion,
distracted by tomorrow
anxiety his lover
—memory undreamed
(Dreamsleep: July, 2021)
Oh, pencil pusher,
your meager ambitions are few
Looking across the human prairie
what do you office see?
Your cubicle is left of center,
on the low rung of the corporate ladder
Middle management is not your destiny,
mornings are your richest coffee coronations
You revel in the small talk
carried to your cubicle by the gossip pigeons
Such a downcast view
you have of society
Two week vacations are your highest aspirations
Such a broad, bustling view
you have beset in front of you
But business chatter never interest
your backwater occupational view
Sitting in your cluttered, square chateau,
you envy not the frenzied activity
of the driven few
Those who fight to swim upstream,
unlike you ... just single tasking
and fluorescent basking
Being a cubicle fly,
curious buzzes always catches your eye
What’s the latest sordid affair
fumigating the office air,
this intrigues you mightily
Who made the fateful, fireable mistake
that cost the company a bundle,
this is your lure cast over the carpet lake
A quaint view from a cubicle,
with your clock ticking,
until it’s time for the next lunch break
The Three Keys
Y’know, the one we placed under a rock
just for an emergency
hidden away to protect us
from our own insecurity,
Yah, that one! Well,
she found it. Then, one day,
when she felt all was in readiness
she opened the door
to my heart.
Y’know, the one we place way up high
over the door jamb just to the left of center,
Yah, that one!! Well they found it.
Tried to figure out how best to use it.
Kept their secret to themselves
not knowing they held the key
to my life.
Y’know, the one we only thought existed
in dreams of unimaginable circumstances,
Yah, that one! They uncovered it,
dug it from the ashes of sleepless nights,
protected it, held it, hugged it smooth,
restored the glow of its meaning,
the truth of its existence.
Returned to me the key
to my soul.
7/6/2016
submitted to – Any Poem Written in July 2016 – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Laura Loo
i am left of center in life's enigma,
but in politics i am more in the write.
letters and words mix to cause confusion,
think carefully now.....am I right?
Hint at the irony, I'm trying to be bright,
With a letter that stands for individual might...
I love her
she's with him,
as she kisses him
who does she see?
She may see two,
maybe sometimes me,
I always knew
there was three,
can't love two...
just left of center
inside right triangle,
I am one,
a number in this triangle
blowing out my unlit candle...
Sometime she loves me
as she embraces him.
How did this begin?
Can love ever be?
Will this carnival ever end?
I want to be first
a one and only love,
no matter what I do,
I remain at number two,
a star beneath the moon...
The Diamond Split
A Jeweler once let me watch his work.
He set the stone in a vise grip place and then.
He took no aim or warning just hit the thing a good sharp whack
and then he showed me how it split off to the side not in the center
like he had wanted.
HE blamed it then on me for being there to watch him.
The moral of this story poem is the love inside of me.
The hatred of the lost love has caused a rent in me.
My damaged heart still loves ewe but not perfectly.
It is not the fault of ewe for ewe are perfect every day.
The diamond split a little to the left of center place.
The heart eye have was good enough when eye was very young.
To find my purple flower in the yard and then the place.
The place eye stay inside of me when ewe come to me eye go.
Please take this unperfectness and make it work for love.
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