Well Folks, This One's Dark (and Not About Who You Think It's About)

The Director

Young lover, convinced he knew everything,

was an instant addict.

Struggled with what he had, strained to skim away his body,

his love, and render his fat into putty,

delivered to the Director’s capable useless hands.

Let her do with him as she would,

giving until debt would swallow

them both. This he looked forward to.

This he thought was love – imbalance.

Idiot, blind boy, tried so hard to be

the perfect thing he wanted her to see,

to make a real appear in her eyes.

And found his real

when what he feared came true.

The house he had built was matchsticks, kindling strong

and backstage, when

all the props were placed and the actors came together

for the climax and the blocking was just so

and the lights went out he scraped

the last match and burnt it to the ground,

for fear it would fall.

He burned it. And he burned the ashes.

And again.

Burned the ground the house stood on, burned and

burned until he was the only thing left,

then burned the smoke.

A Poem About Resistances

Wasp shadows dance in my smoke.

Flitting wings break grey blue streams in lined shadow

over Sunday night Charleston.

The hazed out slats of the porch rail are

a fence, for me and the statue darkness. Both of us

kept in, kept out.

Here is hesitation in the sharp draw of a cigar.

This is caution, dumb and worried,

silent among the wasps.

From A Three-Part-Poem

I.

I can go a whole day without thinking of you,

now.

Once done, everything collapses into dust-pain, into grey shadow.

This is withdrawal from the drug of being wanted.

Nothing inside of me is attached,

and all of it falls out of the way of the slow boil, the dust rising,

the sun death in my lungs shutting off every light and leaving me without a

thought.