The Drugs Don’t Work

featured in the poetry forum May 12, 2012  :: 0 comments

Sleep when exhaustion
spreads its arms to strangle you,
rage at the constant sway of worlds,
of words, letters sharpened, whetted
to a deadly edge, they will not hurt you.

Grief rises in the empty well,
and you piling stones,
making molehill mountains.
Pull bricks from the walls,
the gaping absence becomes footholds.
Climb stones, expose your feet,
cling with long nails of your toes,
they are not stigmata,
just another cross you have to bear.
Use it to hold your weight,
it’s all it’s meant to do.

Mass opiate, they smoke it
on the way to church on Sunday,
Monday, any day will do.
A speaker tells you how to live
while hidden ‘neath the pulpit,
a dirty soapbox carries him away.
Dream as the bells beckon,
your vision has more truth
than any laws made up by hypocrites.

Pundits smile in squares, rectangles,
getting larger with technology,
smaller with implants, you forget
and it sounds like your conscious.
There is no arbitrator, Jane was murdered
the day they found her making sense,
now the Cochlear whispering in your ear
says “KILL, KILL”, you will return a hero,
they’ll throw pills from the balconies,
leaving marks upon your skin
looking strangely like rough groups of sixes.

Sixes are lucky numbers, the double
trinity of hallucinogens you would not take.
When parades are over the chosen illegals
will sweep them up, into gutters
where the rats will drink the water.
But you, you take your liquids from a virgin bottle,
knowing always that the drugs don’t work.

© 2012 Rose Aiello Morales

editors note:

This one can be tough to kick; the high is overpowering, laced with incense and dogma. Equate your awaiting the hammer fall to withdrawal symptoms. Once you’re clear, you’re clear; no back-sliding into this “righteousness.” – mh


December 24, 2011  :: 0 comments

from indeterminate sleep,
warm bathe of comfort,
the calming squeeze
of dark red canal,
light blinds at emergence,
the primal scream
of those unused to cold air.

Surge of blood
from mother’s wound,
head long rush
into consciousness
another gene
from an endless pool,
brought together
by a chance encounter,
one quick zygote
swimming into eternity.

© 2011 Rose Morales

Waiting For Santa

featured in the poetry forum December 24, 2011  :: 0 comments

She spent her last dollars
on milk and cookies,
arranged on a spotless
chipped plate, liquid
in a re-washed paper cup
(the only set she had).

Fell asleep on the rug
a gift of salvation
along with two rough chairs,
a candle in the dark,
Sterno and a couple of matches.

Fist of awakening rubbed from eyes,
maybe it was the absence of a tree,
one bare stocking taped on the wall,
the heating coal must have fallen
from the holey sock, powdered
from the drop, wind blown away.

She had written an unanswered letter,
not asking much: money for the lights,
fuel for the fire, and, if it wasn’t too presumptuous,
somehow, someway, to have a way out.

editors note:

‘Tis the Season, deck the halls, chestnuts roastin’ – now to find the right colored paper and the perfect box within which to wrap a way out. God rest ye merry!– mh


December 20, 2010  :: 0 comments

I am not the chrysalis.
There is no change in me.
Just a drawing into man made cocoon,
scratchy wool surface covering what I’d like to disappear.

There is no evolution,
no Devo,
no desire to stay the same.

Erosion might chip pieces here and there,
sediment might gather in forgotten crevasses.

I am less, and more
with no thought to how it seems.

I will let life have its way with me,
a bit of neutral hue, a touch of pink
the black gangrene of perpetual non movement,

The inability to run or stay.

It’s so much easier this way;
to simply sit, drenching wet, wind blown dry,
or merely drift with the tide.

Here in stasis where the world waits to breathe,
let momentum carry me, I will not stop or go;

Just flow.

Nothing is the way to be,

No joy

No sorrow,

No right or wrong….

Just flux.

Dying Alive

featured in the poetry forum December 20, 2010  :: 0 comments

Life was hanging jagged
on the last limb,waiting
for the Fall, wanting to flutter
away before the coming cold of Winter.

We stared at all the signs,
billboards counting down
Doomsday minutes,our eyes
forever surrendering to “Buy more Coke”.

And we mainlined corn syrup,
hoping for a new recipe, our
final betrayal seeming simply Classic.

My lips moved as you passed the bottle,
mouthing platitudes in the drunken dawn,
anything to make the coming daylight bright,
a reason for waking to another day.

You wheezed a phlegm plagued cough,
a sign of tubercular rumblings, deep in
your throat to bring words out breathing:

“I think I’m dying”.

I glanced at our surroundings;
the needles of sun highlighting
the ruin of our days, smoke
cascading, frozen in the chilling room.
I grabbed your empty head, proof against meaning,

“Honey, we all die sometime”


September 28, 2010  :: 0 comments

I might perhaps wax patrician,
dressed in flimsy, Kmart wings
my tail tucked neat between
my legs, my knapsack packed
with bribery; for if by chance
I find I’m wrong, I won’t waste
time with dogma or philosophy.

Some spices placed within a pocket
of a purple, well worn shirt, then if I’m
grokked I’ll make a fine soup, drink
me with a glass of chardonnay, you’ll
probably fine some sugar hidden in
the cambric weave, which afterwards
will make a very sweet dessert.

Since I’ve come so close to leaving,
thinking of my wayward past, I’d like
to guarantee my comfort, let my soul
be free at last. I’ll send instructions
to relations, outlining their celebration,
beer, agave, salt and lime, I want
them all to have a time, for I
don’t want my family grieving.

The Sky Is Falling

featured in the poetry forum September 28, 2010  :: 0 comments

I’ve saved two pennies for Henny.

Quick stepping under pieces of sky,
a flood of memories pouring in, I
had forgotten to close the shutters
and the world rushed in, needle stings
in the broken fabric, my face feels wet
and I finally found the reason why.

I hear the ping, ping, of drops against
the tile roof, a symphony of litanies
crying “Duck, duck!” but my legs are
hard to bend and I can’t get down. My
umbrellas are burning to keep me dry;
the doomsayers in the coffin box are
screaming “Help! we’re all gonna DROWN!”

I laugh, because I’m growing old, and yes,
I think I know about sorrow and pain. The
oracles speak of the coming Apocalypse

but I know it’s only rain.


May 24, 2010  :: 0 comments

Funny how we kill the silence.

Auto horns, tv blears, machinations of machinery’s hum
and thrum, children laughing, crying, jumping through the city
streets rife with music, curses, rumblings of humanity’s need
to fill the air with noise, a minute spent in comemplation
seen as useless waste, the filling up of air and space.


As smoke into a venting fan, the cacophony of man
disappears, and in its wake is


Wind through fertile fields, bird songs, dogs bark, cats cry,
rain upon the grassy knoll, the fall of leaves on pristine grounds
untouched by sapian foot or paw, the ceaseless mewl of man
sucked into nature’s gaping maw, escape of breath held in
at pause between the words, a period, writ in red ink, the ending of the story.

But not the thought. Listen: this is what silence has wrought.


featured in the poetry forum May 24, 2010  :: 0 comments

How could I not have seen it?

Wandering, wondering in Braille,
making my point far too obvious,
wanting to see inside of you, through
your eyes, under your skin, entering
every pore, all entryways opening
to my touch; I was too eager, too earnest,
ended up trying way too much.

Licking drip off fingernails, new to the sense
of flavor as education, finding blood not to my liking.
Needling, picking at your bumps and scars,
poking into places better left alone.
In knowing I destroyed the magic, broke
this bubble of happiness, discovering too late

That you cannot taste the rainbow.

Now we stumble along naked alleyways,
leaves and trash blown harsh against our faces,
stranded, stagnant against this rolling tide
the enlightened merely side step blithely.

The blind now leading the blind.


January 12, 2010  :: 0 comments

I slipped a sawbuck
to the crippled Pope
way back when
when it was still possible
to buy your way into Heaven.
Then, like a camel
through the needle’s eye,
heated and glowing,
blinding all to the sight
of the numbers
on a bank statement,
goodness reigned
in the heart’s of the hypocrites,
dirty kneed urchins
proclaming their worthiness.

And I tore my lapels,
and scored my flesh,
putting pistol to open mouth,
razor to wrist,
indulging in rituals to speed my way
past the needy few
to secure my interview,
curious as always,
scouring the legalese,
searching to find where the rules changed.

I was thrown a bone
with a bit of gristle,
a watery soup of my dour lamentations.
Ipso facto, my habeas corpus
overlooked the fine print,
the ink on the time line;
indulge in the self as much as you see fit,
whine and cry, gesture and decry,
raise your fists in the air and scream “WHY?”

…but it’s gonna cost you.


It’s raining today.
Is God in the heavens
crying for us lost souls?
Crocodiles line the gates,
snapping at whatever hapless toes
dare to venture past the Demilitarized Zone.

It was just a simple
flick of the Bic,
red ash falling,
the Word that ignited thought.
Satan kicked himself,
realizing it was all too easy,
while God sat back
and blew smoke rings.

Maybe He had pity on us,
sending spittle our way
to cool our frying brains,
sending welcome relief
to those who had taken the heat
for Jesus for far too long.

I believe in nothing
and everything,
belief in the right
to choose my own inaccuracies,
my own way to singe my soul.
I’m sending a tear or two
right back at you, Lord.

I believe,
I believe…

I believe I’ll have another beer.