In My Mirror


Night Driving

I swore I could never see
in the dark
yet I take to the roads
blinded by the fury
of sudden light
And I know
I must turn back
try again tomorrow
but tomorrow only comes
to the fair and fortunate
How lonely the darkness becomes
when your only ally
is light years from
marking time to daybreak
Another night
vanquished by the sun
that spectral being
in the face of strangers
And I still can't see
though many years I've ached
to see beyond the darkness
of my steel framed prison


Near The Ocean

Destitute and drunk
lying on the beach
they said I was found

Lying in the breeze
that chafed my skin
raw as the open wound
that left blood

I drifted to the shore
where my heart raced
to the music of the waves
and begged silence

I lied on the satin beach
as sunset rested on me
to kiss my wounds
and the lid was gently closed

An Early Frost

All things die,
or, are put to death,
by the harshest onset
of winter's tenure,
the early frost.

The dew point froze
and the stalwart wind
bellowed from dusk to dawn.

Oh, the purple marigolds
passed away that night,
covered in the shroud
of glistening white, and
shriveled from the touch
of sunlight.

The flowers died,
and soon after,
the bees.
of death-kissed
the eyes of the marigolds,
the last to know.



It was autumn
before anyone noticed
the bright green foliage
that seeped through
the cracks in our garage.
Blooms that splintered darkness,
oblivious to the sound
of pain and mercifully sustained
but restricted to anonymity.
Quiet and cold
retreated to shadows
knowing only its time
to drop off the vine.

The Mirror Pool

Monsters of my nightmares
collect the pain
stored in the belly
of the armored moon
Brilliant in its silver
And the mirror
tells me lies
shows me love
when God's presence
asked for no one
to rescue me from
the driving force of agony
But I was always allowed
to suffer hard when
daylight drifted
I stare into the pool
glaze-eyed from
the brightest silver tank
and find my pain
more sub-human
than I could ever become


On A Myopic Sunday

Snoring on the couch
while the kids are playing,
you succumb to the
Sunday afternoon slumber.
Sweet is the air
surrounding the house,
sitting heavy, like a
blanket of chaotic noise.
I can't remember
the days when
you worked on Sunday.
What did I do with the kids?
Was it I who snored
on the couch while
they played, on and on,
a rock band
with no intermission?


My body's wrapped
in bandages of pain.
Loud, ludicrous aches
crowd, and I try
to cut free.
The pain seizes
at my defiance,
telling me it will stay on,
far removed from
science and healing.
Stuffed in a chute
of agony, my
claustrophobic limbs
refuse to be set free.
Soon, mummification
turns to dust
and only my pain
will survive.


In My Mirror

I said it had to be over,
I couldn't go on.
It became a dream,
an escape hatch.
"But I am not my own anymore!" 
I screamed.
"I move, not of my own volition,
but as one possessed, mad
with rage spilled on the table..." The table, it was the table,
and the spill, I think, milk.
"But it was rage, rage on that table!"
And it is true, I am not my own.
I weep for peace,
I weep for dignity.
I rage for respect.
"The fight is near over,
it has to be. 
My whole
life, a fight..." 
I had none,
nothing like it.
"I just wanted to be
loved."  I wanted love
hurled at me with force. 
I wanted it
stuffed in my heart,
branded in my mind,
worn for a coat.
"I knew it was there,
I just wanted to feel it."
"Let me speak now! 
Let them hear me!"
My heart pounds
through my head,
a noise so severe
it crushed an eardrum.
"Hands and knees to the bathroom!"
They raged on and on.
Forever my glowering inadequacies spurred
them forward.
I remember leaving,
but I didn't feel
the stitches.
And after that, "I was
never my own."