Acting like you don’t know is an art in itself

It’s hard

To see

Out this pit

Of despair

When you’re down

On your knees

In the cold

Summer air

And it’s hard

To conceive

Memories

When you care

Looking for

What you lost

In a house

Built of mirrors

And it’s hard

When you know

All of this

Is a joke

Convinced

Or exposed

Either way

There’s a host

To obey

Or believe

In what you

See in me

That’s alright

It’s ok

Sip your honey

and tea

I just thought

You should know

I don’t know—

Yeah I know

Tchotchke

You read my sadness

Word for word

Like I’m a novelty

Then put me down

Back in my place

Some oldtime tchotchke—

And I wonder how it feels,

Window shopping too?—

From the corner of my gladness

To the outskirts of your sadness

Where nothing is for certain

And no one is to blame

Except we don’t glimmer anymore

Or sparkle like we used to—

Ornamental at our best

Tokens from another life

Tongues

Myself or you

Who to believe?

Our tongues

Entwined

With poetry

The trail’s bare

Just fallen leaves

Our bread it’s stale

And crumbling

Proper Horrorshow

Perhaps our first impression

is ultimately the last extension

of our false self—

primped and proper horrorshow—

doing any and everything

to impress upon the willing,

whether or not we recognize that self

is null and void of consequence

having fooled them all except

Ourselves.

Treason

Call me by my medicine

not by my mistakes

It’s all I have to offer,

it’s all that I can take

Call me by your reasons

my reason not to stay

And let me be the treason

to help you walk away

Teen’s Wet Dream In The Sun

There’s grass and flowers blooming

in Magnolia park

And this absent minded feeling

while the sky grows dark

Lily pads and grapefruit

growing in the yard

Fences form a fortress

full of dull remorse—

You left me standing idle

like a broke down car

Listening to Layla

watching shooting stars

Visions of Johanna

all just fell apart

Romanticized by healing

and those tarot cards—

Now I’m drinking nightly

at an empty bar

They gentrified the valley

and closed the bodega

I still see you smiling

from the bedroom floor

Hailing that taxi

with a broken arm—

A tincture of illusion

pressed beneath the tongue

Awakens the compulsion

to hold a smoking gun

There’s two sides to the story

I’ve got another one

The party’s in the distance

Teen’s wet dream in the sun

Parlor Tricks

Whatever I had to say

can wait until tomorrow,

with everything else

and all her parlor tricks,

scattering my brain

and blurring my focus—

people have that power over me

that no substance ever dared—

as if a bottle of whiskey

ever could compare

to the power of a woman.

Failure of odds

I was in love with the odds of failure

so I did all I could to succeed, and did.

And didn’t.

All in the same go, all in the same stop.

Another type of love—

I was a handful and

she had very small hands,

handing me love I

couldn’t handle and

it was no secret

we knew eachother’s secrets

quietly speaking through tears

and farewell in exchange

for another type of love—

one we both could afford.