Something’s missing

How many dress shirts 
Do I need to get me though the work week?
And what about shoes? Ties?
I look around my room, and see
Many things I like, and yet
I don’t like what I see.
I guess what I’m really learning
Is how to be me.
There’s boxes full of things I can’t let go
Too much stuff for this space
There’s still something I need
But there isn’t the place.
I’m sorry to ask you to read this
it’s a mantle, in a heap, on the floor



Wild man of manhattan

The wild man of the city is a strange beast indeed
Swinging from the bars.  Moving amongst the cages.
When he sits in his apartment, his ass stabs down
Through three floors to reach the ground
The ants crawl all over his soul.
Plays hide and seek with the skyscraper obscured sun.
When that guy in 3d didn’t come out 
For seventeen days, he could smell why.
He can read the weaving like the tabloid.
When the sweltering summer heat rages
His balls throb along with that beat.
For totems he talks to rat, roach or pidgeon
Poised, posed on the ledge or fire escape
From there, see the park where (as a mockery)
Only assigned trees grow


Thinks he’s a nature lover.

With a cold beer in cozy, in hand
Headset to drown the sounds
Mask to filter flora’s exuberance
Loud motor clattering blades
Back and forth in straight straight lines
Then recliner, the game, another beer
And a satisfaction of having
Spent the day out with nature


Free, duh.

I am homely and mean,
Scrunched up with a pain
That waxes and wanes
But never subsides.
I am hairy where
I ought not to be.
I am surrounded
By flowers and birds
And butterflies.
And if all you do is read me,
I am lonely and unseen.

#free, duh20180503
Frieda painted herself, a lot. So the eyes have it. “I am my own muse. I am the subject I know best. The subject I want to better.”. To me she looks better in photographs than her own paintings of herself, as if she wanted to show the pain and weight she had inside. I’ve tried to do that with this…


some autumn trees
push off old leaves
with new buds

covered in thousands
of tiny little fists
they keep their leaves
tightly clenched
all winter long.

i wonder
when you come to
spring, tree
after many months of cold
will you remember
how to let go?