Painting by Mauricio Naya


Draw the blinds

Lock the door

Turn the lights to low.

He doesn’t live here

any more.


Stare for hours

at the empty wall

Deafened by silence.

Because he never lived here

at all.


Drowned in memories

Frozen in time

That’s all that remains

of that dream

that was mine.


Here I Go Again ’87 or Flock of Seagulls in My Bangs

She couldn’t fathom

why anyone would have their hair

so hideously coiffed

in the dystopian future,

while we watched Stargate

this week on video.

I previewed Mel Gibson

and Grace Jones in Mad Max

and she almost fell

of the couch.

Blade Runner.

Same thing.

And then I remembered

that her dystopian future

includes characters who

have smooth wavy


as they fight


at the Capital

and jump over fences

to shoot rabbits

for dinner.

And every time

the 80s come back

and my daughter wants

to hop on that

fashion bandwagon,

I’ll make her watch

The Wrath of Kahn


the video for Wake Me Up Before You Go Go

to show her how far

human kind has evolved.

And she can never

go back.


Cuckold and Nomenclature

Painters use images to show what’s inside.

Writers use words

to draw a connection,

forge a bond

within this human experience,

ripe with controversies

and redolent adventures

and the unbearable ennui

of routine living,

job, car, tv, pasta, kids, weariness, traffic, insurance,

the overwhelming hope

that it can be better,


if only we can find the right words

like a branding iron to the soul

and the gratifying reply of, “me too,”

from our reader,

our muse.

With this compulsion

to create an image with

twenty six symbols

(take that, painters, and your actual images!)

that can only be seen

in the mind’s recesses, experiences,

finding just the right word

can often be


or mindlessly overlooked,

as I’ve collected many gems of English and

other languages,

trying to find

exactly the right word

in desperation

to create a picture

that, finally,

makes a connection.