the pyre

featured in the poetry forum January 21, 2015  :: 0 comments

i took the time to look
to see the fresh youthful
skin frothing at the rim
my cup so empty, nearing the bottom
for some time i have hoped for something
a pen, a paper, look, lights,
the thing that is real or happening I’m not sure of

i never knew it could be this way
awake without ears, so quiet
eyes blurred with simplicity
one down, mine
head is tilted, sagging to the edge yet
hopeful for something
any colors, any birds or water for my mouth
so sour and dry spitting sadly at this scream

it could be you, all your fresh
downy powder of rose on my tongue
the tip of you, so slender and quick
relish a ghoul inside my bed
he is all i have left.

editors note:

A flame to fire another solitude, left with a ghoulish union. – mh

Disfigured Allegories do not Represent a Woman’s Face

featured in the poetry forum November 23, 2013  :: 0 comments

Mrs. Too has a daughter for today
her he-hair thumbs above boys
blotted mannish clown caps yet
her studio sketched lips stay
buttoned by cross hairs;
her daughter hides in open
stalls for cats only come to sit
on her lap while she is pissing
while wondering: How fast and how
much can a woman eat when alone?
(She is) cheeks like shovels full of
flowers standing neck-less and deep
ended by rumpled people for all time.

editors note:

How fast and how much, determined by deep end proximity. Too… – mh

the softest part of you is behind your ears

featured in the poetry forum April 12, 2013  :: 0 comments

you grow when i kiss you
your right eye holds a lonely grain of black
outside its iris, fallen
out of the nest.

you face the heater when you sleep
i can see that scab, growing
i can’t stop
myself from picking, tearing
peeling away crushed edges moving
onto tender red beneath.

i scratch but you leave marks
it hurts best on my fingers
where i bend reach. i need
to soothe with what burns me
my blood, it pools
in the cracks of my hands
these fingers still somehow rough

you sweetly listen as i rub away.

editors note:

Maybe not quite the object of affection, but obsession is better than sleeping alone; so happy to be her worry toy. Woof! – mh

Pale Girl

featured in the poetry forum January 5, 2012  :: 0 comments

The phantom, the naïve flirting
her infant of a thousand parents
she had a “bad heart”
always for him

up on the hill, Dr. The Great
Bear is happier but really envied
because we strip tease and
weep upon a big rainbow
for my Triassic funny bone,
the little orphaned thread to my heart.

Angel veins are like jelly
fish twisted in my fingernails
I stand in your momentary
swoon skin and bone,
I do it gold baby.
Herr and burn-
Let’s stay for the air.

editors note:

He musta been some nattily dressed professorial so-and-so. He can herringbone choke on his own self-adoration, cuz we won’t. – mh


featured in the poetry forum October 26, 2011  :: 0 comments

Have you ever seen an
elephant gas mask?
Dominatrix mask for the moon
or a scarecrow made out
of three mailboxes?

Paper cuts into readymade
bleeding hearts.
Have you ever scored a sore,
exposing the pink continent beneath?

Sylvia said, “Love set you going like a fat gold watch”
but I am made of copper –
the coiled mass from a
mothers unspun thread.

These little houses
have no homes
to hold them – only a plot,
that must steep
in order to thicken.

editors note:

Just because you asked, doesn’t mean I will. Masks, scarecrows, what else? I refuse to see a thing until the plot thickens. – mh

Your Last Name

featured in the poetry forum September 8, 2011  :: 0 comments

I gave you a naked
photograph of myself and
the only vestige I
have left of you
is an old Eskimo pie and
the skunk dyed
rabbits foot you gave
me, its nails now
crumbs at the bottom of my bag.

editors note:

Always strive to leave a more lasting memory than rabbit’s foot toe jam, especially when you still have that picture taped to your bathroom mirror. – mh

The Bathroom Floor

featured in the poetry forum June 21, 2011  :: 0 comments

horseshoe, clean hit
against the rusted bar
(ringer, spit).

soles squelch against
maleficent pine.

shadowed teemers hang in a
fine line
(garb, gabble, & smack).

I will never know your face.

editors note:

This poem is the song of the South. If it’s not softballs and beers, it’s certainly horseshoes. And as the immortal game is played, the world goes and goes one Swirled clean set of sheets and pile of undies at a time. – mh