there was a wishing well
on the boardwalk. a fountain

spewing yellow and blue water.
I reached into the pool

grabbing change.

crossed the street
and spread the wet
green change across the bar

and got a beer.

2 a.m.

just in time for the turtle races.

so I rushed across the street
to get money for beer
and to bet on the race.

she was kneeling
in front of the wishing well.

she told me her name was Destiny.

the green-dyed water
dripping from her clenched fingers.


DESPERATE LOVE was the turtle
we picked. a 40 to one shot.

Destiny and me
spread the wet change
across the bar,
placed our bet...


...right after the fight
the cops arrested Destiny. the green

dye. she never washed it off
her hands, her arms.

Desperate Love came in first.
I took the winnings and bailed
Destiny out of the county jail.

it was love at first sight.

...meanwhile,

we're back at the wishing well...

I want to cry
But instead I write poems
And sob through them

That first night
When I lost him
I went to my backyard
Looked up at the stars
Picked one and decided
That was my dog Sandy

On my hands and knees
I cried to it hours
Outside in the cold
Asking why he left me
To face this world
Alone

I told him
How id never forgive him
But please come back
I miss you so much
It's all I ask

I made sure he knew
That I was sorry I didn't walk him that day
That I wish he would be there on my bed
Lying next to me
That I miss his bad breath
And even his high-pitched barks

My mom comes to get me
Also in tears
"What can I do?"
She asks
"Bring him back"
I answer

And now
Whenever I miss him
I pick a star
And using my mind
I talk to him again
Knowing that he doesn't actually hear me
But still taking comfort in it

the world (a razor) hums with
laughter not mine—
crooked smiles cutting corners
of too-loud air (a trembling thing)

hands betray me (marionette strings)
dangling in this cracked parade
where faces blur into shadows
all teeth and no eyes—

and I (a statue) stuck to the cement
of this fear-wracked moment
watch with doe-eyes (wide and glass)
every step (a thunderclap)
a storm pounding the small sky within

sky breaks
and falls like shards,
my breath a shattered hymn
(please no) — tomorrow, I’ll stay
tucked in the soft (silent) cocoon of here.

no steps. no looks. no cruel
laughter to chase me into
the screaming world—

home, the only place
where walls hold me steady,
their silence a shield,
a quiet so deep
it forgets the world.

I don’t want to remember,
this last month of November.
Gouge it from my eyes,
carve it off my lips,
scrub it from my soul.
You see,
the moon rests high,
while the tides pulled low
and waiting for that change
merely hardens the soft blow.

My cat’s timing is
impeccable.
I’ve been slothful
with writing lately,
and the cats play
the antagonist.
I sit in my
favorite chair and
put some Vivaldi on.  
I’m determined to write.

As soon as I pick up
my notebook and pen,
the black one with
the white spot on
her neck jumps on  
my lap and bites at
the moving ink pen.

Her sister chases
imaginary bugs on
the coffee table, and
knocks over a slim
glass of water.
She runs away.

The newest edition to
my cat family is a
large tiger stripped
female that is
currently trying to
avoid the puddle, while
she bats at the
leaves of the fig tree.

I bet Bukowski
didn't have to
deal with this ****.
On second thought,
he probably did.