Life Support


The shift half over
and I shelter my self
in the hospital hallway
from rooms where beds
are perpetual oblivions.
I know by touch
the feeling in the air,
fury and rage.
Fear, cold and death lingering 
unfinished, spin and scream
my name.

    " I need you, nurse,"
the call bells bleed.
Skin and bone insomniacs
stiffly stretch tendons,
beckoning me to their death beds,
    "don't let me die alone."
They rout the night
with cries, a mass
of too many miracles
in a downward spiral to dust.
Agony pulls me along
by a ring through
my sanity.

In the hallway, on my knees,
fingers fanned, sweeping
up in the tangles of my hair,
I am the guardian
tumbling down eternity's open grave.
I hear my screams.





Fading Away



Shrunken within a salmon colored sweater,
57 pounds with shoes on, the nurse saying,
you look unwell,
Mae's arms choreaform gesture as she explains
she just doesn't feel like eating anymore,
maybe she has pnuemonia from smoking too much
but her heart is good, the hospital told her so
two years ago, they did tests.

Perched on the edge of a stretcher, legs crossed,
feet swinging like doors with busted hinges,
busy doors at that, Mae tells her sob story,
the details beaten dumb by apathy and you know
there's just not much left of her
to live anymore.




love at first sight


you know the story
boy meets girl

they put their secrets
in deep pockets

he never sees her
without her makeup

she never smells
his boutonniere

he has lipstick
on his ear lobe

she has lipstick
on her teeth

they both have
hidden videos

he offers her
his avaricious agenda

in ritual acceptance
she parts her waters





Sonnet for a Hustler


The silhouette of Michaelangelo's
David shades across the chenille bedspread,
this pose, his pose so familiar to me.
Jeans and shirt on the floor, he's marble cold,
and at my service for his going rate.
Who is he? What am I? Does it matter
who's tossed aside like handfuls of loose change
when it's over and I watch his price tag
swirl down the shower drain?  He always wipes
clean with the spread, before the lights are on.

The young man of the C-note rendezvous
slides the chain off the motel door for me,
a woman in basic black and pearls. I
exit.  No good-byes.  Age before beauty.

 





Quid Pro Quo



Daylight is slipping into a magenta pool.

You linger
in the doorway on the fringe of evening
aubergine hair reflecting 
the dusking light, a halo

you deserve to wear, face flushed the color of July-
my quid pro quo for a taken for granted life.

I can feel, oh yes, the sweet pressure of your hands
rubbing my weathered shoulders. Weightless
acts of kindness in a transient motel room
where mouths are candied and you, closer 
than the edge of a bed.  The tender imbrication
of words dangling from your lips are a constant 
I can't depend on, 

you being my secret. And me?
I'm a relic, a curiosity in your clenched fist writing memories
that will loiter on pages tissued and brittle.

But for now you lend your luster to my tarnish,
blow kisses into the air I breathe.  Where I am now,
where you cannot stay, I want to swim my tongue
down the slope of your waist, rest 
my mouth upon your concupiscent mirage, 
clasp your absence like I grip this mattress. 

And when our needs have been quenched 
and we touch ourselves
with sated indifference, we will resume
the lives we own, 

paths slightly askew.