Wednesday, September 26, 2018


The first time
she shared Julie London’s
smooth, rich siren,
that illicit thrill
drew me to
a world anew,
or maybe it was
just my ears
hearing a song
which I recognize
from before
I was born.

Offering her hand,
she led me into
an undiscovered
tropical paradise
hidden within my soul,
and while it all ended
without blood
or acrimony,
she forced me to see
how everything else
was colorless,
and I could never return
to the sad, impotent
monster I knew.

These days,
her visits are infrequent,
but when I hear that song
buried memories materialize,
so I keep that song
in abeyance
for when I need
reminding of the unexpected,
unanticipated good and surprise
in this world,

and how
sometimes it comes
in the form of a
warm cinnamon roll,
with middle Eastern eyes,
a lazy tongue
and a reflection
than I could ever

Thursday, September 06, 2018

Staring Down the Mirror

I’m staring down the mirror
and neither of us
is blinking.

“I see through you”
I think.

I continue staring
half-hoping I’ll find
someone else
without the mundane imperfection
of moles and pores
stray gray hair
and engraved wrinkles
that stay long after the
laughter has died.

And what of this mouth
keeper of secrets and teller of lies
and those sad date eyes?

Suddenly I want to do away with him

and my rhinoceros nostrils flare
as I clench my jaw
and we begin the contest
to prove
who can hold his breath
the longest.

His face becomes red
but I push myself past slight fear
into gentle internal hysteria.

My suffocation from within
is taking its toll on my competitor
as his body starts quivering
and his face becomes an
unpleasant crimson.

I push myself more
and one more second
just one more
as I see him
clutch the bathroom basin
I hear the voice
“don’t give up,
one more second!

Don’t let him win!”

just one more…

out blasts
a mouthful of stale air
as my knees buckle
and my face changes
red to pink to brown.

I giggle
at my lightheadedness,

leaning forward
face to face with the mirror
still panting and laughing
I offer my vanquished foe
the only consolation
I can think of:

“Happy Birthday, Schmucko.”

[It's not my birthday, but I pulled an old writing out for ]