I don’t care
what you tell me to increase my mood
to influence the brood
in my brow
to caress my heart when it bleeds.
You need to show me.

I don’t care
what your biggest fan sells to my soul
what your best friend’s face looks like
when you are particularly woeful
what your pain sounds like
in another’s voice.
You need to show me.

Show me you want to hear my laughter
Show me you want my eyes to squeal
Show me you aren’t the you in my head
Show me the you I see is real.


Surrealism in a Denny’s Booth

I sit across from them,
the Harlequin and the opera singer.
Watching them compete for my attention
with words spoken and hearts open.
They could operate their own reality show,
each poem he reads, she claps and snaps fingers
each poem she reads, he gloats the first stanza

but they don’t own up to being each other’s biggest fans.

They are a couple of cool cats, their voices
continuously smoothing onto the tacky countertop,
the sinking seats,
the walkway to and from the bathroom.
The swish of her feline face unrolls her snark
Volleying to and fro with the stretch of his laughter.

I never thought I would while away here
rapt with the novelty of artists outside their habitat
this sinkhole of resignation
complete with soggy bacon
infiltrated with the flora and fauna of found
Not one more spectator
to this synesthesia of sound and sense
and milkshake
creating flavors in my head
I never knew were there.


I have a satchel to carry my dreams,
amassing sketchbook, novel, pen and pencil
ready for the parade of thoughts to tumble out
On a barstool, flush with pint of amber strength
and the dull crush of talking drinkers.

Parcels of inspiration left and right
Whispering women and children here
Bringing back my indecision

I want to return to comfort TV and linger.

I have a satchel to carry my dreams,
manically afraid to leave them in solitude
Trailing after each person I’ve penned
And wishing they would fit inside my satchel

Lipsticks and lovers, blinking and travel
Breaking of dishes, slapping of shoes
Making a waste of marriage.

I want to return to comfort sleeping and linger.

I have a satchel to carry
my dreams lie shattered on the floor
where I dropped them when I realized

they didn’t belong to me.