A Four Letter Word

A Four Letter Word

There is a new four letter word

my mother uses it as well as pops,

my grandmother and entire family.

It wasn’t an embarrassment

when I learned it.

I use it all the time,

and so do you.


It speaks of togetherness

and points fingers

to inclusion and lumps

it even speaks of destruction.

We don’t hesitate,

but the implications are bigger

than the time it takes to say.


It isn’t fuck or love,

the best or the worst,

and it is not hate

But I fucking hate

that I love how it polarizes.


Generalization is its definition,

the stated fact of a situation.

It has started and ended wars

and it is doing so right now.


The word is THEY,

and you should think about it

before you say it,

or before it’s too late.


The Pieces

The Pieces


There are tears in her drink. The walls are salty and blurred. The paint is chipped and cracked with loss. The frustration wells and she screams. The reverberation is swallowed by its own echo and another heart breaks with the singularity of loss.

She let it in. She let in the remembrance the once wonderful romance and the betrayal. She let in the time together and the eternity of gone. She embraced what was and what should have been until it was clear and she was done.

She stood, naked in the sunset letting the orange light fade in her eyes. And then her lip curled, just a bit at the corners and her eyes shifted in thought. She selected this and that and of course those, maybe this… No, too much. She dressed and inspected the design. It was fresh and different and alluring without being slutty. It said yes, but it did not say now.

The emotion crept back in and she smirked because it was trying to betray her. She wouldn’t let it. She turned to the shelf and thought for a moment before selecting. She sprayed the potion as a last touch, as a beginning and a simple period on a final goodbye.

The sun was gone now and she looked out at the moon, sparkling in its glow above the Angel city skyline. Then she smiled. Not for what was or what could be, but for what is.

She stepped out with a trumpets whine and a cellos low moan, her heals drumming her through the night.

Freedom Bid

Freedom Bid


By the ringing explosion I stumble

through the haze of a sulfurous mist

thick with burned smoke wafting into my nostrils.

There are faint screams, some laughter,

another round of sparkling colors.

I remember China had the first fireworks.

All of them were white.

Europe brought the pigments

which cause the brilliant colors seen today.


There is another explosion, someone screams.

I stumble forward, catch myself with my freehand

and continue moving close to the ground,

serpentine, there is another explosion.

Something strikes my head, my back,

I stumble again fighting to get away,

blood is dripping onto my shirt,

down my pants as I clutch the body

trying to reach the edge of the chaos.


Something zings past my head,

strikes and explodes in front of me.

Another explosion, someone cries out

and I wonder if they see the blood.

Someone is lighting another cannon

as another goes off, too close

my ears ring, where am I?

I hold tight to the body, stumble again.

“Fire in the hole!” someone cries,

but the smoke is too thick to see.

Where is my neighborhood?


I look down at the nub, wonder where his hand is.

He hangs limp, passed out in my arms.

Another explosion, I am deaf, someone grabs me.

He is taken from my arms,

They begin to scream at the sight,

a child, maimed on this day of freedom.


The smoke doesn’t clear my head.

Music rises and I hear troops sound the attack.

Bagpipes assume a gentle moan of sadness

down the street after the funeral

and I feel for friends that have met their ends

bleeding into the earth for greed and fear

fighting over lands possessed

by those strangers they called enemies.


Turf is a name, burned from the first wars

as tribes fought to rule those near enough

to control then across the sea,

from the back of a horse.

Armies are created in the declaration

of what’s mine is mine and what’s yours is mine.




I don’t like your culture and that too must end.

I don’t like your face, your eyes, or your skin

and in their wasted lands we begin again

to force-feed our regurgitated beliefs

digested and refed a thousand times over.




One day we will tap into that which separates us

like thumbs from the apes and we will create

with the other instincts a new age

of renaissance will grow from the stem

of gray matter that resides mostly unused

behind the face of fear to fight the fight

which we portray to others hiding

in the rocks and hills grunting to survive

in the waste, after the governments

have crumbled to dust

and the machines begin to rust


But remember this…


Einstein knew, “World War IV

will be fought with sticks and stones.”





You are all of me,

filling my senses,

take everything

in emotion

and let me

worship you

for a moment.

Just for a time,


for time is all we have

running short

and I wish to spend

every moment

to my last with you.





I must speak,

so when I wake

alone and lonesome

I will not have the guilt.

Wrought from not knowing,

and never trying,

consumed by fear

holding my tongue.

the endless depths

of never spoken silence

rest heavy.


I want to be with you

on a mountain top,

watching a golden sunset

drift into infinity.






I will look at you

like it is the first time

remembering jitters


and tongue tied

running down

to my stomach

wrapped in knots

holding my breath

on your every last

spoken word


days when each kiss

came nervous and slow

igniting every sense

until they explode.


All of this and more

someday. But today,

I just love you.

What Apart-meant in the Darkness

What Apart-meant in the Darkness

at the new move in,

to the single apartment

eyes scan the out world,


from a forgotten fish bowl,

floating king sized

and upside down.


from the empty conditioned drone


to neighbors television sets,

beds squeaking of sex,

while love lyes masturbating

to reruned memories of an ex.


from the lost,

alone at the bottom of a well,

filling from eyes overflowing.

witness the stars

winking in the pitch,

on a black afternoon


from loneliness,

work-out the routine,

day in and out

only to return

to the cold bed

clutching a cock

with two empty hands

ticking in the wall

thinking of the razor’s gift

to shift everything


Shakespeare’s Curse

Shakespeare’s Curse

Imagine ghosts,

confined to a place


never holding the desire

to exist

as phantom’s

in a silhouettes of parchment,

spoken about

from detached voices,

reading of lives

etched into pages of verse

written, with or without

love or adoration

by those who told

storied emotions.



strewn of phantoms

inky black

and running together

over dead-leaves of parchment,

never wanting

to be sentenced to life,

extended, with a possibility

of immortality,

long after desires have flickered

and time has passed.


Shelves of text,

ancient to modern,

filled with others

who never asked,

living amid new creations

spawned from old.

a life borne into being

by pen and type.

Intimate stories

and private moments,

real or imagined,


for the world to judge

discretion and decency.


A single match struck

to breach

four hundred fifty-one

degrees of misery,

violated by time.

Then, once again,

the printed return

back to shelves

to gather dust, lost.

Always remembered,

only to be forgotten,

over and over again.