facebook made me a murderer

i just killed a fleshy little bit inside;
each tap and click the pounding of nails
into heart’s squirming surface.
flashing past albums with names like:
bachelorette 5, smooch smooch 11, makes me want to vomit.
a churning of industry
pooping pin-up profile pics made to sell eggos,
the sweet airy delight of wasted mornings passing by
the oldest transmission known to man,
mouth to mouth, turning wall to wall,
and something that could kill us all:
a disease spreading,
infiltrating the network
of what-not’s, doo-dads and so & so’s.
dismantling the matrices,
lines and angles we clearly crowd around
to create virtual images deflecting worn reality,
the virtual leading our hearts eye
toward annihilation at the vertex
of this strung out interweb thingy.
cypher’s space destroyed
by cyber space droids
redirecting the unimagined self

la serena

sarah may have said
love is watching someone die
what of piecemeal destruction?
a limb sliced from shoulder's blade,
groaning glass, metal and rocks;
nevermore relaxing in traffic's gentle swing,
i would wave goodbye to those bygone days
but i'd feel rude, i passed pre-k and know
not to flaunt what others don't have

ten years after

she tells me
and now i know:
it wasn't what i thought,
[more cliche please!]
no commitment,
all the moments i felt to be buildings
crumble to earth in a mad array of ideas once made concrete,
a future we might walk towards
on sunny cold autumn mornings,
the changing of the leaves reflecting the changing of our faces;
the years had flown by with the ease of butterfly wings
looping, then folding, eloping with the air around it
carrying matter and bodies
over lands across the sea,
then the rhyme scheme enters
speaking words called you and me,
and i hate the smooth transition.
in the this landscape of ever changing hues
have you heard the news?

modern love and warfare

a play of plexi-glass eyes,
surprise! none left but us chickens
home to roost,
the coops lie still
witching the hours
till dawn with dreams
of dust and dew
and colonels that parade irony
across festival red and white
windows. what eats what
the bacteria in our gut
might have something to say about it
if our throats weren't clogged
by the passage of the artificial

playing penance

two cents lost
down the drain
with oxidized beer
and hearty leftovers
from yesterfears.
the limit of a hand’s reach
to touch a heart, a smile inside
to turn that frown upside down.
ride the arc to swing
bones into being
structural support.
indistinct movements
light the way years
change bodies, renewing
a bow to myself
honoring the time.
it takes seven cycles to complete
the sequence, cyphering
seams of the fabric
we thread our way through


i could smell it on him.
the salt of sweat, the frustration
of homeless seamen.
no ports open for adventure
river ways run dry,
the girls legs are closed.
so they get wasted
in bars,
on sheets,
joining their comrades
in seafaring heaven.
they rush from their birthing places
sights set on far shores
most don't make it,
that's the thing with seamen,
always coming, so rarely arriving;
a debt of calamities along the way.
tales of their travel
reach my nostrils,
i push open the door revealing:
a hidden frame,
a bush of hair,
all those sheets in the wind,
and on his bed,
leaving much space
for imagination's play,
all the reasons why
his sea dawg eyes
seem especially weighted down
by gravity today.
he's coming, he tells me,
in just a minute....
returning to smells of eggs and mushrooms
i leave wishes shaped like fishes
to swim in memory's sea