poetry

Comfort is a dark, quiet night so dark that nothing you don’t light can be seen so quiet as to quell even the memory of a scream.

For comfort Helen seeks out a crowd of young men. Rows and rows of them stout, calm, enduring their battles long quieted over, over, over three come closer, closer, closer straw of sugar girl, girl She turns to her left. Cenotaphs, still brown grass reaching for a pale sky maple leaves like torn garments of … Continue reading buried men

The dish washer stopped working      just quit. I meant to scrub them earlier but a week went by And there’s dishes in the sink      and trash piled high and I haven’t done the laundry      and can’t see the floor. It’s not my fault.      It’s indolence it’s evidence      that I’m alive. My dearest — every day … Continue reading to my imaginary mate

Ultimate. That’s Frisbee — a game men play. Remember Civil War volunteers — men who lined up to catch lead like wind into farm field poplars. Now one locks his eyes on a floating disk; the body launches, even as tendons rip. Not a death wish. Men seeking transcendence.

If you look at me I’ll stumble smile and I’ll trip and falling over if I wake the beggar sleeping on that overturned paint can, I’ll ask him to go with me for a beer.