Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Gas light

You remind me
of the traffic light
on the corner of 8th St,
and Cecil B Moore,
which reads both
yellow and green.
I can blame it
on faulty wiring
in its indented base,
disfigured by drunken
hit and runs.
But with you,
it comes easier
to assign myself
as the culprit
of some wrong doing,
real or imagined.

A wounded animal's lament


I'm tired of being the wolf,
ravished and snarling,
circling patiently for the
slightest nibble of
a bit of meat.
I'd rather starve.


I dream that I have
a new wool coat,
soft and white, unlike
Philadelphia snow,
stomped with grime
from excessive habitation,
and plotting retaliation
with her hardened black ice.
It covers my weather beaten
form, which spells out
my bad decisions, embedded,
in ink.


If I play hard to get,
will you chase me?
Like children calling
duck, duck, goose,
when I tap your shoulder,
will you rise to the challenge
and bring me down,
ripping open my neck
in your conquest,
and then savor your meal,
or abandon me for the vultures?

Saturday, February 5, 2011


The space between
the mattress and my neck
houses your arm, splayed out
as if in a thrust for territory.
If the roles were reversed,
a thousand needles would be jabbing
me awake, with the pressure from your frame.
But instead, my sleep is stolen
by the jut of your bicep
concluding there is no rest
for the meek.