Does a Metaphor Yet Exist

Does a metaphor yet exist
Who hasn’t grown tired of his employment
By repetitious poets such as I?
We are ruthless masters,
Enslaving this one fresh from the womb
And digging that one out of his grave-
Standing hm up by force of our own will
In hopes that some unsuspecting soul will gaze upon him
To declare us inspired by the muses.
They don’t know we found this one already dead.

Does a metaphor yet exist
That hasn’t turned a dull gray,
Ready to retire to his death bed?
“Do not weary me with your last wishes;
I have my own,”
He gasps
As he cuts into a juicy steak.
Let him alone.
Haven’t you gotten your use out of him already?


May wonder fill my hungry heart
Whene’er the world is torn apart,
And all its gears lay out, exposed,
And all its myths lie down, reposed.

For nothing quite as this should stir
Our souls; our ignorance, deter;
Excite our lips to sing out hymns
That tell the slaying of man’s whims.

The rainbow shines without a god,
And neither do such fairies trod
Beneath the blooms of Earth’s own womb-
Our burying these do perfume.

But I will not lie down to die
Save one last look up to the sky
Where ghosts of stars usher me on;
I’ll step into the great beyond.

I’m not afraid of this last act,
My wonder will be left intact.
Though all I am shall pass away,
Eternal night is worth the while, for just one wondrous day.

Call Me Israel

These waves toss me back and forth.
I can barely catch my breath before the next one hits.

Too disgusted to let this continue, I struggle against them now.
I am Jacob, and I know that
If I manage to walk away,
It will be with more than a broken hip.

Battered and bruised,
I will be the one who found myself amidst the waves.

And I Love It

Bloody Mary for you.
Mimosa for me.
Bartender asks for proof we are of age.
I hand over my ID and he scrutinizes it
Before peering up at me over his bifocals.
He smiles curtly and with a quick nod, hands it back.
You hand him yours,
Though I laugh inside because he hardly needs it;
Surely even he can see the grays poking through.
“What are you doin’ hangin’ out with this old guy?!”
He admonishes.
I smile.

Later, we are lying in your bed in comfortable silence.
“What are you—twenty-eight?”
I smirk.
You hesitate.
“That’s like ten years.”
You hesitate again…
“I feel like I’m breaking you.”
I roll over to give you a kiss.
You hug me tighter.
And kiss me back gently.
I reach up to cradle your face in my hands
And press my lips more firmly against yours.
Soon we are passionately interlocked
And I bask in it, loving every bit of your attention.
“I feel like I am breaking you” runs on loop through my mind.
What I don’t say is:
You are.


The rising sun breaks over the edge of the Earth.
I wade into the ocean,
Pressing in-
Far enough to get past the violent waves.
Far enough to relax in the undulating swells.
Far enough to float and gaze at the gorgeous sky.
I am safe, bobbing on the surface of the Earth’s womb.
I feel my own womb, 8 weeks along,
Feel the life inside me,
And feel at one with the rhythms of the universe.

Now, as I cradle myself in my bed,
The sunset peeking in through my half-closed blinds,
This baby should be around twelve weeks,
But is forever stuck at eleven.
I cry;
I feel my stomach;
And, inside me, all I feel is death.

At Least

I wrote a poem about you.
We’d only been dating a week,
But you inspired something inside of me
And the poem came bursting forth.
I called out verses as I drove down the highway.
I could not hold them back.

Now you won’t talk to me.
I lie in bed waiting for a call
That I know will never come
As I drink a beer that I know I will regret.
But something inside of me says
It was not a waste, for

At least you gave me a poem.

The Craft

His poetry is delightful.
It makes me smile,
In an ironic sort of way,
About the fact that life
Really is that way,
Now isn’t it?
And it makes me want to write my own poem
About a sandwich
Or an apple
Or the burnt taste of a lover’s cigarette-flavored mouth.
But my words don’t seem to dance
Quite the way his do.
My words trip onto the page
Like an amateur baseball player
Who can’t move on to second base without
Hesitating too long.
The umpire calls-
Too late.

Strangers on a Train

I like the way my shampoo makes my hair feel, just like
I like the shape of my lips
When my mouth is set in neither a smile nor a frown,
And I’m just myself.

I used to like your lips too-
How they felt against my shoulder,
My neck,
Up to my face
Where our beautiful lips would meet
And quickly become friends-
The kind of acquaintances that seem
To have known each other in
A past life.

But our lips were like strangers on a train,
Meeting for one brief journey together
On which we spilled our souls
And delved into our dreams.

Until we’d reached your stop.

And now I’m left on this train with no one but myself,
My hair,
My lips,
And the silence in which I must learn to love myself.