on a good day
the ice is cutting your feet
but it looks like you're -
walking a seabed of roses
and red bells
shivering in silver molasses
and your far away eyes
seek oblivion and
mercy...
but you can't think
of anything
to dream.

on a bad day, you can't smoke scotch
so you drink it. you burn matchsticks
and croon lunacy with thick lips wishing
and rude plumes of an ash life.
you can hardly bark, but your bite's slipping
and the fruit is straw and dung
but the sugar,  black
in the white
flesh.

she sat like old smoke on the back of an elephant in the room.
like a dead wreath, breathing a pure circle
of hell. she broke a tambourine over the head
of a homeless man made of diamonds.
she broke his hardness with a constant sigh of sorrows
and chose to do violence upon her last smile
clutching the bitter rings in a porcelain
tub. brassy lion's paw
resting too heavy now on a cracked linoleum
floor.

with her eyes
open.

you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction or
distress.
they dress well, eat
well, sleep well.
they are contented with
their family
life.
they have moments of
grief
but all in all
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.
and when they die
it is an easy
death, usually in their
sleep.
you may not believe
it
but such people do
exist.
but I am not one of
them.
oh no, I am not one
of them,
I am not even near
to being
one of
them
but they are
there
and I am
here.

Do we ride the rolling crest of towering waves
Or do we save ourselves the tears?
I say: Give me a sturdy raft
And I will ride.
Give me an anchor
For the windstill days
In between.