2 Year Celebration (with special guest Bob Hicok)

2 Year Celebration (with special guest Bob Hicok).


If you love the written word, you read this.

If you are a poet you print it and drool over the line “In the beginning sand resembles a face”

And may I suggest you follow dVerse as well, if only form moments like this.


17 Days


17 Days

Since last we saw each other,

See here, what I have done

These are the strings I have attached

Like a fine puppeteer to my heart

Knotted the aorta to the blue line,

The pulmonary atrium to the green,

And the left ventricle to the red.

The blood rushes through smoothly

Then twist into tangled messes.

Floating around violently against the

Left atrium digging against the wall

Looking for exits that don’t exist.

I have so little control pulling at the strings,

As you well know.

All the valves working, but the rhythm is off.

A skipped beat, a forgotten moment,

Another lonely night.

I am a sloppy puppeteer, my dear.

I am not good at the slight tugs of the lines,

The sudden pulls to move right,

The operation of the emotion.

I want to be a master class

More agile and elegant

Moving like you do,

Nearly enchanting the strings to work on their own.

So I have this sad puppet of a heart

Which I hand over begrudgingly.

It belongs with someone that knows how to use it.

Entertain the women to come

With the way you can make it dance

And manipulate it to stop

On the Eve of 41

I wrote this the night before my birthday, and oddly enough the night before UCLA called with news  new kidney.


On the Eve of 41




It’s not the new 21

Or even 31

It is the back of my hand

Tired, mocking me with intensified hand cream

Anti-wrinkle serum

A sign perched next to the roadway exit

That I refuse to take

A reminder that time has not

Pulled over to the shoulder

And allowed me to march by





I tell myself this year is no different than 31

I am just as solitary

Lost in the comfort of pen and paper

Year after year, both my only real companions

Tucking me into sheets of rehashed love affairs

That were and weren’t

Of self destruction beneath the thighs

Of faceless men that always end here

Where counting an inferno of candles

Is less damaging than counting

Natural disasters of lovers’ exits




40, 41-no matter-I am still dieing

The average life span of a dialysis patient: 5 years

I’ve wasted 4.

But I am young, can beat the odds, I’m told.

Some great reward

After my blood has been filtered for the third time this week

After I faint in my living room

Through tremors and convulsing

A seizure I welcome for it’s proof of life

Yet I cannot help but wish there was dialysis

For my broken down heart



Saying goodbye to 40

Isn’t so difficult

Not like counting the threads in my pillow case

I’m resigned to the shifting of time

The movement of the clock that I can’t control

I accept

The tears I would have cried

Dancing in the hollow of my liver

Fermenting with vodka

And yesterday

Searching for tomorrow