The Garland

In her hands
is a chain of roses,
linked together
by a thread
knitted by a chrysalis,
sewn with a needle.
The petals curl inwards,
touching each other,
warmed with rubies
and swirled with
the sky.
These binds,
these connections,
we make with our hands,
our faces,
our bodies,
we seal and lock
in our thoughts.
Now,
this really about the mind
in the present moment
where there’s a cosmic river
of minerals and time.
Without it,
there are no flowers.

Splendid Lushness


I will never see those leaves again,
not after the luxury rental units are built,
and the ads that sell marble countertops, stainless steel appliances and parking included invite tenants one-by-one,
to gaze upon the foliage
from their own kitchen windows.
Those leaves,
swathed in dew,
veins of chlorophyll,
papering the walls of the jagged palisades
where abandoned factories
and once-loved houses teeter.
Eyes of broken windows look down upon me, mouths a grimace of peeling paint.
And those leaves;
My leaves of unspeakable lushness mask the ugliness of this urban decay.
A breeze causes them to shake,
but I cannot hear the rustle,
for the sound is buried beneath
tires tearing on potholed pavement,
buses rattling towards the Lincoln Tunnel,
and the low hum of a nearby electrical plant.
Danger.
Hard Hats Only.
I am lucky to see the green,
so bright in the morning light,
like a patch of clover,
or a polo field before the hooves.
I’ll never see my leaves again,
and it brings no comfort
that someone else will.

Last Supper

Under the full moon,
on the floor of the Subaru Outback with leather seats and a back up cam,
are the remains of a chili cheese hot dog from 7-Eleven;
an empty bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos;
a Charleston Chew wrapper (cherry flavored);
a medium-sized Shamrock Shake partially consumed, tipped on its side;
Marlboro Light butts in the dips of the emergency break;
a PBR tall boy tossed into a child’s car seat;
an empty bottle of Wild Turkey nestled in a blanket stinking of dog breath.
There’s a cell phone with a cracked screen and a text from Maura reading,
“Taking kids to mom’s. Don’t call.”
Once the man looked like Chandler Bing,
now he’s melted on the dashboard of a car
where a tree stopped him cold.
There is nothing in the trunk.

Lady in Lace

I snap open the window
of the small airplane tipping to and fro,
and see the Sierra mountains.
Clouds pull across the craggy peaks like
a bride’s veil on a windy day,
her lips rocking up and down,
her eyes a drought of tears.
Hooves on stones drive
towards the white church
where a river once ran.
Some miles away, snow-knotted socks
lay upon a coal burning stove
as melted water taps onto fresh pine floors.
Fool’s gold rattles in a rusted pan,
falling between dirty fingers,
which grapple the breast of a whore
and long for the lady in lace
who he will never marry
since she is now with another.
I shut my window,
and the plane passes over
these time-trapped shadows.