Rosedale

there was a time

when my fingers

caressed

her blushing face-

a memory

gone

to waste-

no longer visited

on street corners-

creep back in-

she walks another

beat now,

but they'll never have

Rosedale moments-

dirty hippie-sheets,

wrinkled dollar bills laughing

from a corner table,

cheap perfume mixed

with motel signatures;

we were just two beaten souls

in a closed down rat race,

and behind stained-fabric

curtains,

we found our place.

Late Night Glare

stare blankly at

a blazing white screen and

go blind; think like they do.

surely if I think like they do,

I can write a 'they do' poem

with enough of me to take

away the sting of them?

they consume my cancer,

my disease-

my need to produce,

like a man spreading seed

to feed

his desire for a

fertilized dream: I give this to you

take from me what you want

and give only hunger

back.

I know that flames

burn bright in youth, and my

youth is flickering out like

a candle stuck in a draft-

this poem is for you,

understand? your hunger

to consume me is all that

I have left and not even these

words will sate you?

what can I give to you?!

here,

take the last

piece of my soul that you haven't

gnawed upon,

but chew slowly and savor the essence

of my death.