Some of my poetry is pretty dark, so be forewarned. If you want pretty poetry, buy a Hallmark card.

****

A dream.

Faceless beauty queen

writhing in the bubbles,

tempting the novice.

Slippery tongues entwine

as the warm water

envelops

my back.

Shaven legs clamp

my spine

Tighter, tighter...

Darkness appears;

the room takes form.

Moonglow through the blinds

guides the disappointed walk

to the bathroom.

1987

****

Loneliness.

A rancid worm eating its way

through moist meat and brittle bone

into your soul.

1987

****

Public TV before the news.

A polar bear engulfed in

white.

Drags the corpse of a seal

across the ice,

a quivering slug of blubber.

Blood on the ice freezes

a cherry popsicle trail.

1987

****

I live in a small world:

a child's first moment

in a new school.

1987

****

A Technicolor dream,

like a Hammerstein musical...

I sit cross-legged on the porch

the muddy smell of old wooden decking

and damp

grass.

Gnats buzz the Tonkas

as the Sun

makes waves

on the empty driveway.

1987

****

Our unkempt yard

was an aerial view

of the Vietnam jungle.

Reenacting the 5:30 news

with Japanese toys

and kitchen matches.

The cease-fires came with

the dinner call.

One more barrage before

the burger;

tomorrow would be another day

to kill some gooks.

1987

****

Crepe paper ribbons

and pastel balloons

affixed to concrete bricks

with masking tape.

Some fall, doomed

like turtles on the freeway.

Mandatory tuxedos laced

with Dad's cologne

glow in the blacklights.

All eyes follow

the haircuts

of the band,

wondering what that

world

is like.

Overdressed girls dream

of womanhood.

Beer-breathed boys dream

of childhood.

The Night To Remember

creeps to a close.

A night like any other.

But Mom is happy.

1987

****

Through a fence of yellow tape

I see the commotion.

In the darkness a camera flashes,

then again

and again.

Making sure to capture

his good side.

I can see his blood

as it flows into the pothole

next to the curb; an ambulance man

steps over it carefully

as if it were holy.

From under the coroner's tarp

the man's hand has escaped.

The gold of his wedding ring

looks out of place

by the nickel-plated steel

of his orphaned

service revolver.

Someone in the crowd relates

the story

but I choose not to listen.

All I can hear

is the sound

of the world

dying.

August, 1988

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