On the East bank


She sat on the East bank of the river that normally brought solace
The brackish estuary seemed to recognize her sorrows
Swollen as if to rise up to meet and console her
Waves lapped gently against a winded pier trying to rock the babe

As consolation evaded the silent river it swelled more with her tears
The sweet waters being overwhelmed with the saline sadness
And yet the beauty on the shore could not see the river’s attempts
Seeing only the blurred mix of her loss in front of her
Waiting for answers to mystically wash up to make sense of it all

No driftwood brought recompense for the void life had created
Only more questions swelled along the currents’ murky green passing
The river did it’s best to speed along so as to hasten time
Because only time could wash the freshly opened wounds
And the river felt helpless in the face of the flowing tears

The girl would visit the river many times with the same results
Crimson sunsets seemingly painting the sky the color of her pain
Every time the river would steal a bit of rouge off the crests of each shimmer
And every time it would hurt less than the last, even if unnoticeably
It was the most the river could do with discretion

One day, months from when the river had first noticed the girl’s sorrow
It saw that she had ceased crying and was still looking for answers
So the river whispered to the sky and the collaborated on a plan
The sun shined down on her face the river spit up the colors it had stolen
The sky in turn rained down it’s part and a great arch appeared to the West

There where once she saw the sanguine colors mock her heartache
A new covenant glimmered across blue skies ushering in feelings long since estranged
If only for a moment this worked and the river made her smile again
It was able to rest again at its normal level
Leaving the brackish tears out at sea and running sweet once again
The girl’s sorrow had broken like a bad fever
And the sky had taken back the passionate reds of loss


study of pain


from my account I had swallowed a chicken bone
one with shards poking footholds into my esophagus
it could not have been a fishbone, no too thin

at least my pride wouldn’t let it be true
a swollen tearduct had drifted down the wrong pipe
then lodging it’s bloated contents onto my windpipe
like a fertilized egg which would grow into evil

perhaps it was the championship fight I was in
I’m no boxer, but then explain the broken ribs
breaths are hard to pull as pain sticks to them
like they were basted waiting for a smoker

my voice defects every time I examine the specimen
cracking like the Petre dish of truth under the scope
the subject of heartache just doesn’t have the funding
so the good Lord found me to do a study

burning smiles


fabricated smiles are woven
into the gnarled beard that hides me
tied on with strings of booze
sunken eyes reveal the truth
but most don’t look past bared teeth
like simians on the last rung of evolution
devoid of investigative reasoning
or simply don’t care to dig further
either way the pilot light behind these eyes
is fading
waiting for the fire to burn again
perhaps we can use fake smiles as kindling
or is that not socially acceptable?

black as day


Today is the nicest day of the year
so far as I can see from my window
the curtains have been pulled aside
but the light does not shine over me
a dark cloud hovers like penance to be paid
casting a one man thunderstorm
to disguise my tears in a brackish mix

I took a moment to run an errand
and felt the warmth of the sun’s kisses
but my heart is not on my sleeve
though it matches in color
fading into the recesses of the cesspool
perhaps someone will be brave enough
to reach into the muck to find it
and bring it somewhere to dry
placed near the flowers on a day like today



In science they have a name for the nothing
now what is vacuum of the heart called?
happiness is muted like sound into plugged ears
and the blessing of life seems lackluster and bland

Shakespearian sonnets and Neruda’s thickened rue of words
make my sensibilities twinkle with life momentarily
only to fall dormant again as a crippled man’s toes might wiggle
a weak glimmer of hop in a long road of painful traction of the soul

Even these self flagellating words sicken me in my West Village home
lamenting my woes whilst I am provided for and healthy
housed, loved and appreciated, I still tear at my clothes
because that is what my sould calls for me to do

One day I will know true sorrow, cut to the bone
and perhaps that laceration will vent the demons
opening both an exit for the darkness and a crosswind entrance for joy

Maybe the pain will fall away naturally through life’s seasons
as have my milk teeth and stubbed purple toe nails
to allow the growth of a stronger me of more permanence

If that be the case, then this young buck is waiting for his stag’s horns.

cardiac rest


like ivy it began to grow
going unnoticed at first
clinging to the red walls
burying roots into porous flesh

the microscopic filaments
of depression started to show
but now the vines were well entwined
and the cost of ripping them out
would erode the intramuscular walls
and the heart would give way entirely

experts and headshrinkers inspected
advising as professionals and of shaman lore
pronouncing ideological thesis on the solution
knowing full well that it lied within the heart itself

one day, not much like any other
it was both gray in the morning and shined by dusk
something magnificent happened
with only an audience of scampering chipmunks and
fluttering Spring wings of awe
the walls once covered began to disrobe

in the morning when the neighbors awoke
they noticed something was different
but could not quite place what it was
though did have enough to question what it was

the shroud of leaves left lying in decay
behind a row of bushes were hid
the fungus that had once installed itself
thwarted and forgotten for all
but to the wall, who rejoiced in new life



how could we tell?
the external fruit was sound
showing vibrant colors
a youthful perk in his eyes
dressed of a carefree man
but there was a rot deep inside
a moldy soul began the decay
unnoticed and unattended
in need of immediate surgery

we got the news today
the inner rot had taken its course
sadness became madness
evil’s secret agent had it’s mark
the assassin struck with stealth
suppressing the cries for help
taking the villainous course at hand
allowing youth to fall to waste
and potential to fade into the grave
infiltration of the heart by an enemy
the hand of betrayal laid unseen