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

Bulbous & Red

I must stop making declarations,

’tis foolishness, a clowns nose.
I hate clowns, scary as a viper's pit.

BFM

House Poem

House Poem

House

Home Poem

Home

Poem Poem

Poem

BFM

Garden Path

Sometimes,
I exist

Sometimes,
I’m in control

Most times
my mind, a lie,
wanders
thistle paths
thorny dreams
swirling bricks
and chipped wood.

BFM

Watch

Dear poet, step away
from the laptop, put down
your pen and watch
the sparrow navigate
the Mesquite’s thicket.

BFM

Returning

after a long needed break

i return to being the self important
cartographer that I am:
the faux poet.

BFM

Swallowing is the Issue

The doctor tells me, the feeding tube is the size of linguine. There is no irony in his voice. Facts. It's temporary, to get nutrients into the old man. He had two small strokes in bad places. 

Carnivore octogenarian dilemma. The old man hasn't had a meal in five days. A man prideful about his choppers, his cock, and numbers. A temporary feeding tube?

B.F.M.

Anxiety 2

Floating on a tide that ignores moon and sun, who’s true masters are relentless pictographs – a historical fiction writer and an one eyed seer in a meat locker with a cracked crystal ball – my cooled breath quickens as I watch shark fins circle my predilections for thunder and lightning. 

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.

The Strike

This beautiful evening's sitting 
is better suited for a monk.

The quiet a paralyzing 
venom slithers 
away all good intentions.

B.F.M.

All the Pretty Girls

In a mountain college town,

I, the elder, pose 

in a coffee shop,

a cliche scribbling 

notes for Mr. Poem.

B.F.M.

Betrayal

Though you say
the morning cock crowed
I was miles away.

B.F.M.

Love Poem 22,314

Mosquito bastard
loitering, piercing,
diseased, delirious.
Love.

B.F.M

Abandonment

My rime formed
in formative years
is meant to keep you at bay.

My slick craggy shores, 
lack kindling or foothold
is meant to keep me distant.

My charm: 
trapped coolness;
glassy particles;
seething–hatred–remorse;
thick tarry dark matter;
belief in a Simoom fairytale.

B.F.M.

Tipping Dominos

Losing morning after morning,

hermetically sealed inside a

windowed room 

crowded 

with ten foot wooden ladders

he rants his Poet-ness

atop a 

plastic footstool.

B.F.M.

Expectations

Betwixt two maypoles
light contorts, yet
I’m to walk up right
without support.

B.F.M

Earlier in the day I posted and image from my notebook, the before. This is the after.

Click here to see the before.

Before

scribblings. a look in my notebook; the birthing of a poem.
B.F.M.

Click here to see after.

Sunday Rain

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

B.F.M.

Trail Map Lament

I found 
an old trail map
of yours.

The one with polkadots
and trails highlighted
in bright star pink.

Yet no matter how closely
I followed it, 

it

never 
led me 
back to you.

B.F.M.

This Exact Morning Moment

I’m as kind
as a porcupine
as long as you don’t 
know
what a porcupine is 
and think
a pin cushion 
is cozy.

B.F.M.