Category Archives: poem

The Man in Patterson Park

The man’s gnarled hands
fingered his coat collar absentmindedly
and pulled it close to block
the relentless cold March wind
his back curled over slightly
and what had been immaculate posture
fell to gravity and weight of years.

Secrets loves wars won and lost
the battles that were never his to
fight and die for. He, without regret, considered
himself dead since his return
thirty-seven years ago.

The park bench dug into his jeans
with splinters. The man dug his hands
into a snack bag of Cheetos, lightly
devouring and sucking off the cheese
from his fingers. Across the way
a squirrel tenaciously nibbled a nut
and the whole of the park groaned beneath
another gust of March wind.

Satisfied momentarily, he lifted his head, back
still bent. Dogs, babies, people all
were walking by, trees heavy with blossoms
drooped towards the ground, and
ducks circled aimlessly in the man-made pond.

Above them all on Hamstead Hill
the pagoda glimmered with a light that
seemed to shine from the inside. With
respect, Union ghosts let the man
disappear into the park bench with
a contented sigh.

Deflagration

Here.
Storm outside howls
Inside flames burn
and lick the foundations
There is thunder in my veins, in my ears,
Oh God
must be

Rocking.
I roll ever so slightly, to
press my face down,
press my hips
in heated sheets smelling of
cologne and

Man.
your fingers pound rhythm of
rain-soaked windows—
outside drips wet
Inside fingers pressing
hot back

Bare.
palms chase sweaty skin
I roll ever so slightly, sizzling
Hips find air
pressure drops down fast and
roars.

stoop sittin (a Baltimore tradition)

stoop sittin in sunshine
sloppy around the corner
book imprints my legs
burning with the last rays
of a day long in leisure
fantasy of characters
creaking shuffles of people
with no cares for me or my blues
so I’d rather stoop sit
glancing occasionally to see
a puff of luck caught in a sidewalk
a piece of trash gleaming
the cool marble on my hands
when I lean back to stretch,
glancing occasionally to see
a car, and then you, your braids,
your brown skin, your turn
to take another street.

Poet to Anne Sexton

When the poet discovered Anne,
he had a razor blade
draped delicately over the blue
rivers running back to his heart
in steady
P ul se s.

Anne is not just words,
but perspicacious ideas
thoughts he thought were his, the details
sketched in
early morning dreams that
he believed were singular and unique.

He sits with her in the dark
just a glimmer of steel and those whispers
of déjà vu.
He thinks perhaps she is
his sister.

Cast away

he spoke to himself
with a soft slur like sand in the mouth.
his eyes rolled around in his head
like waves lapping the shore.

he tries to remember, but her face becomes the rings
around the hot island moon predicting the rains.
he pictures her lost on the horizon.
he punches the palm tree till his hands start to bleed.

for years alone, he knows only the coconut rum.
it stains his lips brown as his skin tans to leather.

he passes out
in the hot island sun. he snores
while dreaming of nothing.

her reflection

written in college~ sometimes things aren’t what they appear. Sometimes you find that people are more complicated than you could ever hope to realize.

her reflection

the glass cracks invisibly
and distorts a girl –
slinking down on dirty tiles,
panting out of breath
and buzzed.

her bones dig in the floor.
she watches the burning walls-
they whisper her secrets
with the heady intensity of
a grade-school gossiper.

she screams with all the
cells in her wasted frame
to go go go go go away.

she screams till she’s shaking and water
is squeezed from her eyes
and her fingernails have cut
holes in her hands.

Becoming Alexander Supertramp

From the lower 48,
(like me)
from a bustling city
of crime and hustle
and modern wants
it seems that Alaska
has an allure like
cold mercury, it
seeps into the blood
and changes you physically.
Mentally you’re a mess–
you think of nothing else
you want nothing more
than one more hit of
sky, mountain, water,
clean expanse of land
hard living that involves
back breaking work
a daily struggle to survive and
when you walk off, you go alone
one small pack, sturdy boots,
and only the Lights
for companionship. Then
when the night falls hard
and you realize what you’ve done
you will remember
that charm city, that
charmed life and find it gone.
Your mortal self crying, your
new self finding solace
only in the sky.

untitled (future sunny days)

future sunny days
will remember
now as the season of rain,
the never-ending crying of the sky,
the flooding of the streets,
the swallowing of beach, bank, body
now as the time of disbelief
the desperate want and need for things
we just can’t have
the feel of warm
the feel of orange melting into the
sultry velvet summer night
the feel of skin tingling tan
instead of white
now as the overwhelming overtaking green
lawns like jungles where kids would swing
if the rains would end
but the windows now are streaked
still dripping wet and slippery
so hoping to end the
waiting.