Smearing

Our pyroclastic remains litter our once wannabe house. 

The first great dream is always a bruising lie, leaving one feeling cornered. 

Dipping our index and middle fingers into liniment jars, 
smearing balm like war paint, with an ash chaser.

We ready for something smaller, a one bedroom apartment, apart. 

BFM

I know what I'm doing

Rita kept her fuzzy strapped pink slippers and matching laced negligee chilled in the lower neglected family waters at tentacles reach.

Her skin glistened like frosted dew in the moon's wane, ready to melt under the firm embrace of an intellectual bipedal man, if only he’d risk a late night swim in a losing tide uncovering tentacles flailing with knives, forks and mirrored shards.

B.F.M.

Two Things

It's one thing to chain a man to an anchor, to drop him overboard; it's another to leash him to a buoy, to let him drift.

B.F.M.

phd.fail.ed

I tried to be someone extraordinary: Jerry West. Then tried to be Jasper Johns and Robert Rauschenberg rolled into one. Dreamed of being Robert Plant, David Bowie or David Byrne. I tried my hand at graphic and web design, then business. Fail.ed.

Being too temperamental, I was never voted most likely to succeed. Tried to be loved, but never learned how. Tried marriage, failed twice, but today sitting in my peach colored box I successfully envied the riders of the Tour de France.

B.F.M.

Bowl A beggar

A beggar 
holds out his bowl,
I climb in.

B.F.M.

Shards

After I kissed you good-bye,

I made my ritual strong coffee, 

watched the sun crest the ridge,

watched her define clear cut 

but empty shadows.

Shattered ceramic shards

cut at my feet.

I cried over each fragment:

the handle’s curve in twos,

the bottom’s foundation in fours,

the walls that held in eights.

Bloodied, I did what I could, 

I got up did 
laundry, sorting, hurting.

B.F.M.

Sunday Rain

I wasn't crying
then the rain came,
and we both wept in sheets.

B.F.M.