A Guilt You Would Not Understand

A Guilt You Would Not Understand

A knock on the door

that echoed in

the unreachable distance.

The last indelible image

of my love as you faded

in the darkness

of a back bedroom.

The foreboding

that swarmed me

ignored, in favor of

an agenda long forgotten.

The immediacy of the day

superseding the years

of sacrifice in my favor.

The hours spent

playing catch in the absence

of a grandfather or father

not otherwise engaged.

You were love and acceptance

in my eyes and when you passed

I was passive and afraid.

Betrayed by a single weak vessel

in that brain that I so admired,

you lay helpless, a state

that was an anathema

to everything I knew you to be.

Forgive me

for not kicking

that goddamn door down

and carrying you to the help

that might have saved you

and all that you were to me.

SMG

Notes on Poetry Composition

Notes on Poetry Composition

When I need to make sense of it all, I go back to the beginning.

I throw out the poetry textbooks and all my lecture notes.
I ignore the voice in my head that keeps repeating “imagery,
cadence, structure and rhyme”.

I go back to Bluebird and Roll the Dice. I go back to that place
where my passion was born, where the muse first gave me a wink
and the gods showed me words that could kick like a mule
and kiss me like no woman I had ever known.

I forget about submission guidelines and contributors’ copies.
I pour myself a tall glass of cheap scotch cut with ice
and drink until I don’t give a shit, until I’m ready to wipe my ass
with rejection letters and can vomit up years of advice.

It’s then that I remember the women I’ve fucked
and the ones that have fucked me. I think about the pain
and failure that's refined me, then I take another sip and say
“but I’m still here”, and I smile at the gentle tinkle of ice and glass.

SMG

Cutting

Cutting

A razor’s edge glides
through dermis
with a surgeon’s
disconnected precision.

Crimson tattooed
parallel lines
concealed for now
on the inner thigh.

Ejaculated blood spatters;
a decorative memento
for the bathroom floor.

Endorphins engage
serotonin orgasms,
and the impulse wanes
while platelets seek
companionship.

Tonight she will sleep;
tomorrow’s hungry voice
but a whisper that will grow
in the darkness.

SMG

The Long Nights

The Long Nights

The nights I wake up

like a drowning man

the moment he breaks

through the surface finally

able to draw a breath.

The weight of disappointment,

memories of passion traded

for safety, heavy enough

to stop my heart. I lie awake

and try to recall what it felt like

when I was hungry and naked;

living in the wild.

The nights I am alone,

tormented by ghosts in the dark;

by the women that loved me

until I turned and ravaged them

in the glow of full moonlight.

Nights when the whiskey

won’t whitewash my sins

and help me forget their faces.

Like the wail of a distant siren,

their cries echo and taunt me

in the emptiness before dawn.

SMG

Lost Forever

Lost Forever

At sunrise
God breathes
fire and smoke
into azure mourning,
as the demiurge groans
back into motion.

Last night
the world stopped,
dreams and motivations
became paper icons
engulfed in pyre flashes;
Ashes to ashes

As light slowly
pries loose the last
fingers of night
clinging to the landscape,
the shine of innocence
appears tarnished and tired.

Last night
a hero became mortal
human, uncoiled,
glint of his armor
dulled with rust;
dust to dust

The midday sun
hangs, half mast
in the horizon,
weakly illuminating
yet another void,
a diminished world.

Last night
God blinked,
in that omnisecond,
The words fell silent
inspiration stolen;
Amen

(Excerpt from "Another Hotel Room")

Poets and Other Liars

Poets and Other Liars

She told me that she wanted love

stricken from the poetic lexicon.

It is often a lie after all

but then again poets are liars.

Dreamers that distill language

down to its purest form

in a vain effort to sip 90 proof

metaphors of truth and passion.

I used to write love notes

on the fogged mirror of her bathroom

on my way out in the morning.

She would sing full throat in the shower,

sweet songs of joy and hope

that stuck in my head

as I walked out the door.

I suppose she stopped singing

when she finally realized I was gone.

She asked if any of it was true

and I looked past her

and nodded platitudes.

One more lie couldn’t hurt.

“I’m sorry I hurt you” fell

to the floor next to her tears

as I composed a new poem in my head.

SMG

End Jamb

End Jamb

The conversation was rife
with well timed
pauses; intended
to keep balance at
bay. I raised my glass, sipped
slowly--deliberately.

“We really need to
talk” echoed over
the tinkle of
glass and silver
night.

“Maybe some time” // “apart”

(caesura)

The evening’s exchange wore down, then end-stopped.

SMG

Don't Tell Me Your Name

Don’t tell me your name

Don’t tell me your name;
I won’t remember it anyway
because I killed those brain cells
two or three bottles back.

Just call me Sunday morning regret
and scream whatever you want
in the darkness.

You told me that you left
your vanilla suit at the cleaners
but you won’t need it
on this bad boy escape.

All I want from you
can be had without words
and what you need
requires no long thoughtful gaze.

I want to give you stubble
burns on your thighs,
rolling back spasms
and make you question
everything your mother told you.

In return I’ll take
your nail track brands,
lipstick smudges
and your lingering guilt
home with me in the morning.

You can be a slut for a day
and I will wear my Mickey Rourke mask
until we wash off the night
and go back to our assigned seats.

Eastern Terminus

Eastern Terminus

The eastern terminus of the Lincoln
Highway is Times Square, New York,
New York; the confluence of Broadway,
Seventh Avenue and 42nd Street. Three
thousand three hundred and eighty nine
miles from San Francisco to the Cross-
roads of the World, cut through the
Rockies, across the broken heartland
and over the big shoulders. There is no
poetry here only clichéd mannequins, neon
buskers and Moriarty’s ghost. Pale travelers,
blown in from Bountiful to Bedford, stand
on line at Bubba Gump and an old stripper
cries in the shadow of some forty odd stories.
Jesus used to ride the crystal ball but now we
seek our salvation in the ticker’s rise and fall;
God is dead after all. This is jazz, blues and
rock n roll, marquee lights and urine stained
sidewalks, the end of a long road, destiny
manifest and an innocent kiss at midnight.

Late Fees

Late Fees

I know you watch me,
over spectacle rims
near the bridge's end.

You shush me
over index cards
and collected late fees.

I want to tie you up
or hold you down
and scribble poems
on your breasts
in red fountain pen
and let your screams
echo through
the Dewey stacks.

We both know
pain and love
are partners
over time, overdue.

SMG

Petite Danseuse (In memory of Erica Abbott by Melissa Olsen)

Petite Danseuse

A glass of Mark West to toast in your honor.
Our fuzzy brown blanket wraps us in the warmth
and comfort of your memory.
Every day a furry little friend with a snaggle tooth
greets us with your spirit.
You were the first to tell us of gay marriage
and how the family could celebrate our love.
A cultured soul from a classic time with wisdom
beyond your years.
Vibrant. Passion. Brilliance. Artistic talent.
A teacher of sorts, striving for perfection
and unabashedly sharing tribulations, successes.
How we mourn for you, Petite Danseuse, but feel peace
and love surround us. You calm us, tell us
to get past the rage.
Do not fear, for traditions will change and it’s okay.
You are swimming in the ocean.
So we pour a glass and savor the velvety taste.
With each recipe, we reminisce, we wonder,
and we thank every beautiful moment shared.

Melissa Olsen

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NY Post Article

Another Hotel Room

Another Hotel Room

Four and half months on the road
and loneliness finally caught me
stole into my room,
sat at the foot of my bed
and shook me from a fitful sleep.
Her stethoscope cold touch
pulled what remained of my self respect
out through my chest into the night air.
When the panic finally wore off
I fell back to sleep at peace
with the idea that at least
she would never leave me.

SMG

Daddy's Girl

Daddy’s Girl

Small feet running;
tears, so many tears
“it’s broken”

Knowing look comforts;
patience and glue
“thank you daddy”

Little girl laughing;
giggles, screams and giggles
“catch me”

Steady hands toss;
catching, gently catching
“again again”

Tiny ears covering;
shouts angry shouts
“stop please stop”

Somber judge intones;
Mom vs. Dad
“for the petitioner”

Deep voice explaining;
fault, not your fault
“mommy and daddy…”

Small hands cling;
sobs, guttural sobs
“come home daddy”

Desperate kisses and hugs;
visitation, odd weekends
“I can’t baby”

Big feet running;
tears, so many tears
“it’s broken”

*(From "Another Hotel Room")

Excruciating Atoms

Excruciating Atoms

I tried
to calculate
the weight of sorrow;
break it down
to its component parts.

Duplicate fermions
were assumed
to be irrelevant
based on Pauli’s spin.
Intrinsic angular
momentums
were observed
and each element
was cataloged
and classified.

Heartbreak (Hb7)
was a constant
as was Loss (Gn3)
and its partner
Pain (Ow4).

Each
excruciating atom
was taken into account
right down to the quark.

The final analysis
determined
that up and down,
charm and strange
failed to add up
to the collective mass
required to account
for this leaden feeling
in my chest.