Expressive Domain

The Man in the Moon Has No Hands

I walk in socks
unwilling to wake
the sleeping
as I pass the window
showing multiple images
of myself,
distorted and untouchable,
in the blackened night.

It is easy
to slide quietly
between the pains
of glass
and into that darkness
where my regrets
leave an untouchable
mark.

I can stay in the shadows
as long as the moon
is on my side
and keeps
his hands
to himself.

Pancakes Served For Supper

Stop
your blubbering.

The fact that I have been
up since six
running ragged,
worn and shredded,
asked to solve
yet another person’s
urgent trauma,
is apparently not
a concern of yours
as you drop your demands
onto my overflowing stack.

But you caught me
at the end of my Jonah day,
exhausted, crabby,
and downright
drowned
and no amount
of sweetly sticky
gooey compliments
will help me
swallow that.

GPS

A languid dude
tells absolute location
with attitude
in lounge wear;
pain and just living
co-exist
in his world.

It is hard to locate
the energy he needs
to find her,
so he sleeps.

No place for dreams.

Only blackness needed,
so necessary to heal
the anguish
he leaves
on his pillow
where love and betrayal
crossed lines.

Inferior Exploitation of Viable Skills

B movies provide a necessary function,
a deviation from the norm,
gathering us on the couch
friends, chips, beer and bravado
all shouting obscenities
as we stuff our faces
belly laughing in agreement,
but viewer, B ware.

Plot lines twist to obscurity
in a random fashion
that is as necessary and expected
as giant alien rabbits
who devour small railways
while racing through Boston
on a mission to save the world
from white collar criminals
wearing breast popping armor.

This opportunity for upchucking
pent-up constructive criticism
is needed when we can’t complain
about the asinine policies at work
or the stupidity of leaching exes.

Just B sure
you have the stomach for it.

Pitch Perfect

The first bonfire
was probably just a cook-fire
gone terribly awry
that left the hillside
charred and black
as the fire-stokers ran
screaming at high pitch,
pointing blame
and throwing sand.

So I can’t blame you
as we heat up the night,
our arguments hot with pain
as we hurl insult upon insult,
our darkened truths
thrown into the light.

I just want to gather
every bit of what we had
and toss it to the fire.

Bring marshmallows.