Published on: 11/17/2014
Back Alley Bill

Scat singing in the alley
where shadows smell like whiskey
& piss & regret—
& no one but a woman & me
at a moonlit curtain
wondering if he will ever wander home.

Published on: 11/15/2014
Surreal Years

She tries to paint me by numbers
on a tattered canvas,
thinks I will eventually melt
like Dali's clock.
But I will not become a lone stick figure
on a crumbling elementary school wall,
let roaches run through the shadows
of a stolen soul.

Published on: 11/12/2014
Sylvia's Stairs

She locks the weathered box
in a dank basement,

again hides the cryptic key
behind tangled brown eyes

that consider most all days
to be a crude wilderness.

Perhaps there can never be enough flowers
laid on the kind of grave

that resurrects itself each morning
to those teenage years

when she was pushed down
all the stairs of her psyche.