Sometimes a Pen is Just a Pen is

over Six
double-spaced pages,
my love
s t r e t c h e s.

God,

my hand is sore.

And yes,

I give you
permission
to laugh.

Philanthropy

Your ideas are refugees. I watch them
fold in hunger.
Then again, I'm cheating because
the blindfold wasn't on
all the way.

I whispered something
to the predictable hero, but you
misunderstood, and now I'm left licking
the crumbs
from your collar.

Skinned Knees

Let's contemplate and calculate how many kisses count toward the total. There was the drunk Coca Cola Santa at that party. There was that grocery store clerk with the blue hair. What was her name?

I wonder what your dreams must be like, all musty and green-stained. I bet you even wore that smirk to bed. I bet you memorized every time the actress laughed on the TV. What was her name?

I wish I could read your handwriting, your statement, words gunned down, unprepared for your exploitation. The caption falls out of your mouth, a wad of flavorless gum. Why am I so patient?

Switch

I did it because
I was tired of waiting.

Allow me to re-
consider the fly on the wall,

tired of waiting
for gossip to come.

I.

The spider you killed—smeared—on the wall is
still there—a sad painting, a dab of brown oil.

I just see it—my eyes don’t focus, they interpret,
interrupt the light patterns, then send up a code—

The trouble is that the painting could look the
same upside down.