what can you do
with a broken heart
but sit and listen to mendellsohn

and wonder about why
they didn’t love you anymore
or why they can sit three feet
away from you on the porch
you used to canoodle on
and see you are
crying and not say
anything.

who the **** am i
anymore
that i actually write poems
to you

My uncles are good men.
They can run businesses and
fix air conditioners, but they
lack a certain compassion.

For example:
My uncle-the small one
is angry about a problem
only encountered in this
land we call free.
He had to tell 100 people
not to shop at a certain
store because he is a
spoiled little brat.

Suddenly my brain starts
to drift into the other things
I could tell 100 people.
I could tell them I love them.
I could tell them there's a sale
on at the mall, but why do you
have to tell 100 people that
they shouldn't buy anything
here because you have
Napoleon's problem.

His mother is dying in the back room.
Tell 100 people about all the things
she did in 82 years. Tell them
she should be sainted for all
the injustices she faced so you
could tell 100 people how little
beauty you see in the world.

You're my favorite
Libra, and always
will be.
Anytime I hear that
song about peaceful,
easy feelings I will
think of you.
Anytime I feel like
no one else knows
what in the world
is going on and
think about how
you're the only
daisy on earth
who sees everything
for exactly what it is
I will miss you.
But most importantly
anytime my blood is
pumping and your
blood is pumping
I will love
your curly head
with all the blonde
in mine.

Imagine my shock when
a delicate little red bird
flew almost hesitantly
into the bay window of
my mother's house and
childhood home.
Shock isn't the word.
Because I knew the bird
had broken its neck.
It's inevitable.

Nothing ever deserves
to die alone, so I went
outside and looked for it.
Squalling, that if you didn't
know any better,
would sound like a rousing
bird refrain.

The remarkable thing
about a bird's song is that
as humans we cannot tell
what they are singing, but it
sounds heavenly
regardless of whether
or not it just broke its neck
on a window.

With a belly full of bran
and home on my mind
I look to my left.
The contents of his notebook
and the scribbles tell me
this man is sad.

Probably the saddest
I've ever seen, and that's
saying a lot coming
from me.

I want to shake him!
I want to tell him that I am
in this voluntary prison
because someone succeeded
where he failed, but hopefully
these failures will be a success.

He can't see this now.
He won't take his hand down
from his eyes long enough
for me to look at him.

To see that all is not lost
quite yet.
To see that Scarlett O'Hara
was right when she said
"tomorrow is another day"
after the love of her life
walked out on her without
giving a ****.
Tomorrow's tomorrow is
just a day after that.
And a day after that.
They're just days.

I want to smile at him.
Look at me!
I have life.
You have life.
We all have a little life.

I play a game with my
beast of a dog.
I say, "Squirrell!"
and she bolts down
the perfectly landscaped
avenue of trees after
the soot colored
critter.

It's tail electrified in
the socket of fear scuttles
up the nearest tree
except this morning
it got slowed down
and my killing machine
clamped down and
before I could beat
the poor animal out
of her locked jaw,
it crumpled to the
ground broken in a
way so inhumane,
the sight of the blood
curdled my stomach
like a glass of cool milk.

None of this is true, mind.

I'm a spineless poet.
Because instead of
saying what I mean about
not being able to save you-
about all your blood-
about those merciless
and invisible jaws
of death clenched around
your throat making a
mess of all things.

One day I'll stop writing in metaphors.

I'll never forget her as long as
there are motorcycles.
When I pass one I offer a quick
prayer to the Harley gods
hoping she stayed with her new
beau, and divorced the sorry
SOB who prayed, yes, preyed
over her helpless body and
foggy mind.

She is sick! Leave her be!
You only hear about that kind
of nightmare on the scrambled
90's ****.

(She has ways to **** him, though,
she told me so herself.)

Swear to my higher power,
sure as Dizzy is the
Queen of the Road,
she'll have a way.
She always finds a way.