These Tired Tracks

My time is like a speeding train

And each person

Each commitment

Is another box car

Each mile

The speed increases

Broken tracks and curves

The chain breaks

I lose a car

My frame tilts and shakes

Praying it won’t pull me from the tracks

When it does,

I pry myself from the red mud

And the shattered glass

Of my fallen friends

Dented and tarnished

If I fall again

I will surely die

And I can see

The boxcar behind


My Quiet Friend

*Trigger* This poem deals with the subject of suicide.



I saw her years ago

She smiled in a quiet room

She was soft

Her body was warm

 As white as the sheets on the walls

a room without a window

for sometime

She’s patched

Like she’s spent a lifetime

Pulling her hair out

She says she’s done more than

taste death,

that it emanates from

her very being.

Death has become a part

of who she is

The circles around her eyes

Like she’s spent too much time

In the dark

The bright bands on her slit wrists

Like the neon signs in Vegas streets.

Breakfast With Death


She sits at the same chair. 8 A.M. Sharp.

Her husband used to order eggs and a piece

Of sour dough toast.

She sits alone now.

Staring at the hard boys

With hair slicked back and knives and daggers

They are the hyena in

The wild

Her solitude is the


She isn’t ready to go.

The end

Flustered faces
Life dependent
In or on that manila folder

But there are no windows
And the walls are white

Frazzled fro
You once combed into
A crafted mane

High school, college,
“something must be done”
I remember when you said it
“it feels like so long ago.”

The world was cracking
The shell caving in
And we had to stop it.

I haven’t seen her in ages
At a bar once
The black cocktail dress
Holding her figure
As close as I used to.

I remember the curves of her supple body
And fighting to stay awake
To keep the moment
In our grasp.
Stale in the eyes
That once overwhelmed
Me with vibrancy

Vivacious and vulnerable
Now drained
Running from
What will
wait patiently

The rain drips drips
On their foreheads.
Sagging, stroke victim smile
mixed with lip and grimace.

Wilting crow’s feet
Darkened with the scars of the road
two small burlap sacks
Void of color

She picks him cherry blossom
And they walk hand in hand
Riding the high

ballpark-urinal teeth
Misfits of the street
Miscreant of society

Walking numb
Dim inebriation
Smiling at colorless
T.V. screen skies

For them it ended a longtime ago
Weary from the race
They stand on the sidelines
They’ve accepted

Behind the Days Inn

In the cemetery of the youth
frantic junkies frisking
For the frequented fix

Body odor orgies
Wasteland ovaries
And spurting seed like
Northwestern rains

Motels rented by the hour
Where love can be
mimicked long enough
For neither to know
The cold reality

and Cinderella
are from stories
the desolate
create to delude
and lobotomize

But 12.50
a night
Is too costly

Crack rocks
Copulating in the dying grass
The same patch
On which
I was conceived

Hepatitis party favors
And needles passed around
Ancient family heirlooms

We all shoot up with the same needle
That did in Grandpa
When he got wise
And noticed the hungry cats
In the corners of
Sterile hospital rooms
Doused in the gasoline of aging
Drifting from sappy faced reunions
Into the void