Lace Butterflies

Grey barren ceilings—
slow the heartbeat
and dim the reflection
within glassy eyes.

While looking downward
at the slick pavement
a single plump worm
wriggles— searching

for a dry surface,
fighting for his life.
The possibility of drowning
becomes more prominent.

But beyond the mundane
color scheme,
there is a beauty
which can bring a calm

to even the most
empty of feelings.
These tiny, delicate
ruffled petals of

loveliness adorn
the trees from my
favorite afternoon walk—
accentuating the otherwise

deadened brown sprigs
of bark. Wholeheartedly,
I feel the frost-bitten vegetation
is thoroughly jealous of

the new spring babes
reaching their tiny arms
to the welcoming
Mother earth.

Each resembling bundles
of butterflies, fluttering
in a downward cyclone
of ethereal wonderment—

one may even describe
each imperfect flower as
an explosion of county fair
popcorn kernels popped perfectly—

or the intricate lace embellishments
on the hourglass framed bodice
of a virginal bride’s dress,
on her most joyous day.

And it’s because of a single
sunlight afternoon
that these chameleon-like
blossoms opened

exposing life that had been
hidden for months, safely
in it’s self-made cocoon.
A true annual gift of the season.

Thanksgiving Jog

The ever lowering temperature
personified itself as wisps of
breath as she ran—
faster and faster because the night’s
obstacles consisted of
a string of potholes,
lonely immigrants and coyotes.

While she kept a steady pace,
scents of tradition and love
and obligation
were wafting through the air
in the form of scalloped potatoes,
green bean casserole and burnt dinner rolls—
irritating reminders of
Thanksgiving.

At least 45 minutes,
that’s what she needed
to distress, to distract herself.
Yet curiosity led her to peak
into the lit windows of each
picket-fenced home she passed.
Was everyone else allowing
the holiday to sink in
and choose—
or pretend
to focus
on what made up the good
thus far?

Abuse in a New Form

Abuse in a New Form


Nowadays a man
doesn’t even
need to be face to face
with a woman
to abuse her with his
arrogant
thoughtless,
vengeful words.

Electronic devices
have become
stone-colored,
cold messengers
which are the
catalysts that
end relationships
with the mere option,
“send.”

He likes her at first,
and isn’t afraid to say so—
of course none of it is “said”
through
verbal communication.


Lets just fuck,
before you
move away—
it would end my
infatuation with you.

Come over now,
I love morning sex.

All I want is you in my bed.


She says he’s being ridiculous,
and tries to downplay the fact
he’s acting as though
she’s some hooker off the streets
wanting to be bought
so she can pay off her
expensive coke habit.


I’m not going to stop
being forward with you.

If you don’t respond to me,
this is bullshit.

It’s funny how when
a word as simple as “no”
is included in the mix—
anger emerges.

Holding in your feelings just makes
it better,
ignoring me is really healthy.

I love that fact
that we have been friends
for multiple years,
and you still won’t date me.
Fuck you, you tease me.


Why must a woman be seen
as wanting sex,
because of dress
or a little flirting.
She never hid her personality.
But nevertheless,
she’s the evil conspiring
man-eating female that
wants nothing more than to
squash any man that gets in her way
and takes pleasure in destroying the
idea of romance.

Poor innocent man,
never doing anything wrong
simply being the Neanderthal
that he is and giving in to his
penis’ yearnings.
A woman must surely
allow the man to fuck her
if he feels fit.
It’s the way of the world.

I would have fucked you,
past tense.
I don’t think I should get involved.

I deserve better—
And everyone around me
Thinks so too.

He’s right,
he deserves someone who’s
attracted to him,
wants him,
and has actual interests
in common with him.
His ego must be saved.
His reputation, redeemable
after this sort of rejection?


I liked you
because
you have issues.
I can tell you have had many
healthy relationships
with boys.
I can’t look at you the same way.
Fuck you.

Still anger doesn’t arise within her.
Yet an upsetting and unsettling feeling
begins to surround her.
How many more men
feel entitled to say whatever he feels fit
when the woman says “no?”

Bewilderment surfaces as she
discovers this new facet of
his personality.
People don’t hide
who they really are, ever.
Clues are carefully placed,
Like the little breadcrumbs
Hansel and Gretel put down
in the forest, to find their
way back home.

I like this angry energy we have,
It makes it better for me.

Can I put this more harshly?
Fuck you.

If I ignore you or leave the
room when you come in,
that’s my special way of saying
fuck you.

Not being your friend
is the healthiest thing
for me.


Treatment like that
garner’s no response
because a reaction is what
a man like that wants
from the woman.
He wants to know he’s
weaseled underneath her skin—
sucked a little life from her,
made her question
who she is.


Have a nice life.

4 Tries Equals, Lesson Learned

Four Tries Equals Lesson Learned

All for B.J.

I couldn’t cum.
Goddamn it that
is so frustrating.
Why couldn’t I?
One simple answer.
It wasn’t good.
I have no grand
illusions of sex,
it doesn’t always have
fireworks exploding
in the background—
lots of
satisfied panting,
the simultaneous
climax of the pair
doing the act—

But this was just
boring—
and I’m being
semi-nice
about the whole thing.

I literally said,
Go ahead and cum,
it’s not going to
happen with me
tonight.

(Did he have to
on my stomach?
It looked like I was
five and had gotten into
odd-colored frosting.)

He begged in
frustration,
What do you
want? Need?

I couldn’t put
my finger
on it,
but it definitely
wasn’t the beached
whale that was thrusting
on top of me.
It was like I was the sand
and he was scraping
his fins against
me to get back to the
ocean where
he belonged.

That said,
I did get a lot
of mental
to-do lists
started in my head
while pretending
to actually enjoy
myself.

I wonder,
and still to
this day,
How can a man
be so good at kissing,
but so awful in bed?

I yearned
only for
multiple-hour
make-out sessions like
we were still
high school students
with raging hormones.

Honestly,
I’m guessing
it’s because he was
with the same
beer-bellied,
white-trash
ignorant
woman
for
five years
before meeting me.

Back-story—
seeing him with me
sent her into hellish
rages full of
crass name-calling
shoe-throwing,
and ninja kicks
against my car.

He must be so
used to making
a woman—
whose future consists
of getting knocked up
by some illegal alien,
(blind, most likely)
who then
leaves her
after he finds out she
is with child
because he can’t be
with a woman
the definition of
low-standard,
cum—
that he has no idea
it takes more
finesse,
a little sexy
foreplay,
some actual
mental connection
to get a woman
going.

I should have known
right away
this was
going to blow up
in my face
because we only
had things in common
when we drank—
like lust, or an affinity
for…
I’m actually drawing
a blank on anything
besides lust
at the moment.

Otherwise he
enjoyed conversing about
cartoons like Southpark
or television shows
like Cops.
(His uncle was on it—
big fucking deal,
he isn’t anymore
and
he still
watches it.)

Not to mention
stand-up qualities like
his previous
meth-addict
days
multiple
DUI’s,
arrests,
and
the only skill he
is able to put on
his resume is summed
up by the fact that he can
pour a decent
gin and tonic.

Here’s the kicker,
he tells the world,
I’m bad in bed.
I’m sure it’s to cover his
own ass.
I’m not going to tip-toe
around it and say
I was so amazing.
I wasn’t due to
the preceding mentioned reasons.

I’m not that great of
an actress either
so he most
likely could tell
I would rather be
pulling my
fingernails off
one by one
than have him
try to devour
me like
the greasy,
cheap,
fattening,
fast-food
he is so accustomed
to consuming
on a daily basis.

More than ever I
miss good old-fashioned
playful,
spontaneous,
sex.
The kind that happens early in the morning
resulting in faint bruises
in the form of handprints
etched onto my thighs.

Now I still believe
in second chances,
so many things
can go wrong during
a
first fuck—
but after that,
move on,
that shit ain’t
gettin’ better.

A Part of My Heart

Part of My Heart

For Brigette Bonfiglio—
Here’s to looking forward and being par t of one another’s
lives for a very long time,
in whatever form is meant to be.

She wore her emotions
effortlessly
for the world to see
on that deliciously freckled
and dimpled face of hers,
sugared sprinkles of delight.

A glaring and furrowed brow—
if she was not fond of you
but when she was—
oh, her smile seemed to
illuminate the entire room.
light poured in from every direction
as though it was daybreak
and the sun had begun to climb
over the plush green hillsides,
almost blinding one’s sight enough
that a hand was needed to shade
the eyes.

The cork-screwed, rust-colored hair
drew people to her—
people just loved to touch her,
and her hair.
But the Girl Scout heart of pure sparkling gold
Is what kept everyone close.

Just quite—
not shy,
but strong in convictions and morals,
and so loyal she no doubt would take the first swing
if a situation aroused where she needed to defend
a loved one.

Her nature was simply to help others,
to be the calming rock-strong shoulder
and chest to lay one’s troubles upon.
She could sense unhappiness,
but never pushed another to divulge more than intended.
By simply engaging her in any sort of conversation
you told her your life story without even realizing it.

And when she left,
whales from the sea sighed heavy sighs,
honeybees atop the roofs buzzed a little slower,
persimmons from the lonely tree in her backyard dropped to the ground,
And I simply cried.

Goodbye my dear, dear friend,
my confidant, dancing and drinking partner,
a part of my heart.

I Would Have Liked to Show You

I would have liked to show you
the things that I love
and cherish—
things that warm my
indifferent exterior.

Right now my eyes gloss
looking at the pale blue
sunset fading
to a persimmon orange.
Oh how exquisite the water

is rippling against the otherwise
still ocean.
If you were still here, I’m sure
I would have shared
my favorite spot with you.

And we would sit side by side—
you drinking chai, me peppermint.
And we would be content
in the silence,
because the comfort we mutually

felt when together
allowed for no words
to be spoken.
And after our tea, I would
have taken you—

to the grainy damp sand and
insisted stubbornly
for you to take your shoes off.
One must always feel the luminous earth
between one’s toes at the beach.

Each grain a sparkling gift
from the gods of the sea--
and if lucky, we would find the
quintessential shell.
A shell so white,

it resembled virgin snow.
Shell hunting is quite possibly
my most prized pastime.
I had forgotten it lately,
And had hence forgotten—

to mention it to you.
You see, the ocean is where
my happiness lies,
where my stress-ridden shoulders
can slump in relaxation.

I can feel calm near the water,
listening to it lapping in the distance
playing a never-ending game of tag
with toddlers and golden retrievers.
But I forgot to tell you all of this.

I didn’t allow for you
to see the bits of me that come
together to create this quirky puzzle
that at times, I cannot even
find the pieces to.

I’m sorry.
Oh, now it is dusk.
The forthcoming night is aglow
with barely visible, crisp white
boats, in the distance gently

rocking back and forth to the rhythm
of the earth.
A fading sight
which can easily be appreciated
or unfortunately ignored.

I will take a picture for you
so you can pretend you were
here— sitting beside me,
drinking tea,
and watching the world fall to sleep.

Overstimulation

Too many times during the week,
too many people,
want too much of her.

This is a girl,
who now can’t
even keep the days
of the week straight—
can’t go a day without
running because she need to
release the tension
mounting within her tendons.
She savors the time alone in the shower,
just washing the day’s grime from her
dirt-ridden scalp.
She can’t drink without blacking out
because she is so over-exhausted
the world becomes overwhelming as
she tries to self-medicate.

Too many times during the day
too many annoyances
leave her leaning toward solitude.

This is a woman
whose mouth can no longer
fake a cinnamon-roll-sweet smile—
she can’t handle the dim-witted questions from
oblivious customers and responds with hidden sarcasm.
She worries she’ll be stuck in a job that doesn’t
stimulate her mind enough—
already boredom frightens her
into the fetal position underneath
the warmth of a cotton sheet.
She is too young, to feel so scattered
and unhinged—moving all the time,
always searching
for a place to call home,
and a space to call her own.

Too many times
too much
of her life is skimmed over.

This is a woman
who has become
withdrawn from any sort of romantic relationship
because it’s too much work to begin again
with a stranger—
The thought of a simple lunch date suffocates her.
She wakes in cold sweats from nightmares
of becoming an alcoholic like her father
but conversely only feels alive when thoroughly buzzed.
She worries she isn’t living up to her full creative potential,
and that life won’t get any sweeter than in her twenties.
The lines on her once ocean-calm like face have deepened,
at the thought of missing out—
because responsibility and obligation
have shackled her down to the bottom of a river,
her air supply diminishing second by second.
Her once pristine diamond-clear eyes have clouded and dimmed,
the light has begun to flicker out.