thank you,
now it's time for the next step...(cross fingers)

Of Bows And Chains

if you think we all play by the same rules,
you have never met her.

she is stunning.
she is moonlight,
and she is also both triumph and disaster.
she is a mess.
she is selfish and blunt;
almost to the point of being rude
and I put up with it,
we all do,
it’s a small price to pay.

when she’s around
there’s always a cost;
always something to be weighed.
and for some reason, it always lands
in my lap.

don’t get me wrong, I love her
and I have for years,
(I guess I keep hoping
that she will one day
learn there’s a difference
between bows and chains)
but that doesn’t stop her from waiting
for her Prince Valiant
to come riding into town and
sweep her away.



I left her at my place while I went to
pick up some more vodka
and to try and score some weed.
even though neither of smokes the stuff;
tonight she just had to have it.

when I got back she was sitting on the floor
with tears trickling down her face.
“what’s this?” she asked.
“what does it look like?” (it was all I could think to say.)
she had found my poems.
two notebooks full of them.
“I never knew you wrote.” she said.
“well...” now you would think after all these years
and the fact that, yes, I have read a few of them to her,
she would have known this. I mean it’s not that I have
hidden them from her, or anyone else,
I guess she just never took the time.
It reminds me of that movie when Lauren says to Bateman:
“know me, what does that mean?...nobody ever knows anyone else, ever!”
Lauren, you couldn’t be more right.

“oh my, some of these are so sad.” she remarked.
I was waiting for her to ask if any had to do with her
and she didn’t let me down.
“are all of these about me?”
“not all, no”
“this one is beautiful”…”I know you wrote it for me!”
“maybe, I’m not sure which one you are referring to.”
“I want them, the ones about or to me.” she demanded.
“we’ll talk about that in the morning.” I suggested.
then she asked me to make the drinks
and to roll her a joint, so she could keep reading.
all the while, she was also texting on her phone.

two hours later, a slight buzz going and bored to death,
I told her I was going to bed. she was stoned and after
drinking most of the bottle of vodka, pretty drunk,
but she wanted to finish reading the poems.

before going to my room I went into my office and
loaded the printer with a new ink cartridge
and as much paper as it can hold
and hit the print button.

I didn’t have enough time to get comfortable
and there she was,
standing at the bedroom door.
she did a little dance as she removed her clothing, then
leaped onto the bed.
her soft body covered me like warm down
and for the 536th time,
I made love to her.
though if you ask her
she’ll tell you without pause
and without considering even the
simplest mathematical likelihood of such a thing,
that all we did was have sex.

when it was over, at her weakest point,
as we lay there in our skein of
arms, legs and emotions,
just seconds from falling asleep,
she murmured, “I love you”.
I answered, “I know you do”,
then I drifted off to sleep
knowing It would be a couple of days
before I would see her again.

I woke to find a note next to me.
it explained to me that what she meant was,
she loved when I did that to her:
shaking my head, rolling my eyes
I walked down the hall.
the printer had finished hours ago, (I knew that)
so I went to the coffee table and picked up a freshly
used glass and the now empty bottle.
she of course was gone, so too was the pot
and as expected my notebooks were nowhere
to be seen.

she always gets what she needs from me
and I always get...

see Lauren?
in my case, this case,
you couldn’t be more wrong.


kc`11

It’s Simple...


I won’t be discovered
after my death,
we already have an
Emily Dickinson

I have no
dilutions
about it
it’ll not make me rich
or famous
I don’t follow the rules
I don’t plan
I simply
write

I cannot quote
the greats
I don’t try to emulate
any of them
I don’t wish to be
the next
Neruda,
Whitman,
or Yeats
I just want to be me
so I simply
write
and I write
simply

I don’t do it to please
people
I don’t do it because
I want to
I do it,
because sometimes
it’s in me
sometimes, it needs to
get out
and I write purely
because
there are times
when being
silent
is not living
and so it is,
with apologies
to the masters
I
write


kc `12

tonight the August air is still
though predictably heavy with
humidity
that’s the way it is the south;
in the summer

the moon is full and brilliant in the north sky
I’m sitting in the middle of my backyard
sipping a glass of wine,
enjoying the day’s last cigarette
and I am at peace

all around me the night is teaming with life
a few lingering fireflies dance under the
wisteria canopy
that hangs from the Bradford Pear,
just this side of the back fence

tree frogs are calling out to
one-another
the bull frogs loudly proclaim
their presence
crickets and even locust
scream for their recognition
a coyote howls in the distance
and now, that little rat terrier next door
is joining in (as usual)
I genuinely hate that mutt
with his four inch legs and
Napoleonic complex, but tonight,
I am at peace

in among the Pin Oaks next to the run-off creek
that borders me to the west,
on a crooked branch of the lone
hickory tree, sits my bi-weekly visitor
his magnificent silhouette is easy to spot
with the backdrop of the bright sky
he is rather large and being very vocal tonight
“who…who…whooowoooooo, who...who…whooowoooooo” he calls
and we wait,
moments later, from the far off distance
the exact call returns
and we are both
at peace

as menacing as he may seem
to the rabbit that lives here,
seemingly to feed exclusively off of my
tulip bulbs,
and the squirrels that remain hidden
in the trees around him
I find a comfort in his attendance

unlike the cat that just scurried into the bushes
at the corner of my house,
I look forward to seeing him
I usually talk to him, but tonight,
I simply sit here
with my feet wet from the dew that clings
to the narrow blades of grass that are
trying to tickle my ankles
the same grass that is home to the
spiders and worms, the ants and toads,
the occasional box turtle and snake
I just sit here and listen and
I am at peace

the night is blaring, but
there are no sirens
no cars passing by
filled with people too busy
to actually enjoy themselves
no children playing
no screams of fear
just me
and the night
full of activity
and it is exquisite

I apologize;
I thought for a moment tonight
I would write a poem
a poem about those arms, her arms,
the ones that hold me gently
when I need it
and firmly when I don’t realize
I need that too

it was going to be
beautiful
it would have been
had she existed,
and God knows
we all could use a bit
more beauty,
but as I sit here rapt
by the din of my surroundings
the arms have been replaced
by something unexpected
and I am at peace knowing that
in the shadows of this crystal moon,
lies enough beauty
to generate the jealousy
of a thousand suns



kc `11

took me awhile to catch up, but.... exquisitely well done :)

OMG, YOUR ALIVE!

I miss you!