I miss my Claire :(

I counted the days until your vacation
for two months, like little capsules in a jar.
I held my breath and waited
and tried not to scare or scold.
Then the day arrived.
Your daddy knocked on our door.
I handed you over like a loaf of bread
with your bags and told you to "be good."
You, my blonde bubble,
my life's precarious gift.

I never exhaled.
Suddenly, your bed is vacant.
I walk slowly.
Like a ghost, I drift.
Lost without your squeaky demands,
searching for my beating heart,
I count the days like capsules in a jar.

suicide poem

Beware of these images.
In death, there is nothing tender.
Last night, as I dreamt of dying,
waves came in bearing photographs.
An army of stone statues;
they bind themselves with electrical cord,
looped and knotted in a suffocating chaos;

they are cut in half with a bandsaw,
two halves rolling this way and that;

they turn themselves inside out,
their guts coiling out like caviar,
settling in a neat bundle beside them.

They are the faces of hate.
The devil looks down on their severed heads, smiling,
their mouths contorted in an eternal last laugh.
Their eyes roll back like two glass marbles,
their faces a jumbled puzzle,
bloated and the color of ash,
in their eternal state,
still angry and pathetic.

Internet Pr0n

These images stick to me like hooks.
These pictures, movies, all emphatically unethical,
devoid of all artistic aspirations.

A hundred nameless faces
a million and one variations
undress for a race of ravenous men
who spend their midnights dreary,
on the prowl for naked skin
gravitating to their computers
alone
or in the office
or at home with their wives and children
in the other room, asleep with their heads slightly bent,
their innocent mouths, unquestioning,
as their husbands and fathers spend their time
typing out the letters:
A-M-A-T-E-U-R

Searching for "reality"
within the parameters of tripods
and vertical shots and cum shots
and angles and directions;

thighs breasts mouths nipples--
these cartoonish depictions projecting
as the hairless majority are thrown
from their domains into a fiery bottomless pit,
injecting their pseudo realities like an infection.

For my same-named scorpion friend.

Two Scorpion sisters:
kindred spirits--
like clasping a lost hand in the woods--
words
that worm through
flickering screens:
What potential lies within these dreams?
Our secrets, exchanging and devouring sameness
like candy. Sweet, poetic mouthfuls--
the wind in our hair!
In the sky, in the air!
The pouring out of our very souls.
Dead. Sexy. Escaping ghosts.
Beauty and filth both rise through the steam
over coffee as black as our matching clothes.