I clutter my life
so as not to see
the blank planks,
because my feet
will feel warmer
in designer slippers
even if my souls
knows distress only.

red star

the days were gray
and joyless,
shoddily constructed
sunday afternoons.

The fountain sounds dull,
as the blunt light
of the day.

I heard faint voices
from the drab square,
but I can't tell my name
from all the other tiredness.

Please, leave me now
in the ovenly darkness
of my starchy walls.

The red silence
as heavy as steel,
as comforting as the contents
of he who steals copper
for a meager living.

My teeth refuse bread.
My tongue is dry.

53

some say success is dirty,
but they haven't seen failure
up close.
They haven't known defeat
on a first-name basis.

The trusted face of a ghost
cruel as few,
the unkind revelations,
fond of assaulting you
in the small hours.