in a glass dream

color of dusk
color of glass

menagerie of a dream
menagerie of silence,

cleared her throat by swallowing a
reflection scraped off of glass

cracked clay tint,

wrote it down in her diary,
sealed it with wax

and nostalgia;

climbed into a garden, smelled 
dead flowers

drank the scent,

followed a bee, squeezed honey into
old tea and lemon

opened a book dazed by a still breeze
and light scurrying 

through empty pages

in a pond, saw herself drowning, picked
up a stone, dropped it in

hand reached out, struggling for a 

damp footprints through a rusted
garden gate,

her hair and dress were wet with exhaustion,
longed to climb into rest;

in a tree, breaking of aged branches, scream
for HELP! 

landing in brittle autumn leaves, a little girl in
tomboy clothes,

wearing skinned knees and bruised ponytails;

on a swing with hemp holding onto suspended
air, she sits

fiance’s hand stroking beauty
stroking her soul,

a turn of her head with blue eyes sees him
disappear, on worn earth, a letter

a careless wind carries it to a cemetery 

she walks in solitude and tears, 
death tugs at her clothing

then, chokes her skin,
chokes her emotions;

eyes in glass,
glass splinters

cracks run down her face like pouring
rain running 

down bicycle spokes

she turns black and gray, her reflection
pushes back 

onto cold ground,

inside, wrenching of hands, fingernails
dig into palms

like an ash and bent metal shovel
into a grave,

slips her fingers through glass into

on a table, old tea and lemon.

Copyright © 06/12/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


a whisper through ice

slapped her with a weakened hand
while she drank red
wine from a
borrowed glass, in
she got thirsty
for a walk, shattered
windows scattered
fog through
old furniture, she sat drunk
in dust,

sleek shape and a poverty
of shadows hid
her behind
portions of sliding windows
and pieces of
a smile,
eyes recited no emotions
fingers breathed no

she untied him like laces
on discarded shoes
in forgotten closets, moth cakes
drip down
and are eaten by blind

cursed him in French braid and
tired mascara,
color thread in 
sheets lay on tarnished
brass and impudent
his green eyes closed from
scowls and

he cried dreaming awake
in solace,
cradled his tears in
wrinkled skin, whispered
through icy grass
and cold

she licked her lips drowsily,
moisture impatiently
awaited like
suitcases in a bus terminal,
he woke up then,
“the time for lies is
‘cats prowl for blind mice
in alleyways’
she questioned in the usual way,
she sat there unresponsive,
his silence made
a sound…

Copyright © 06/19/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


tears on whitewash and rusted nails

she’s there, does not love fences, they
make her cry

but firms up her backbone and sends
the horsehair brush

coating of something sitting in dented
cans and paper labels

onto wood picket and rusted nails,
skips the gaps

they get filled in later to silence
yelping dogs

and quiet slingshots from pinging
glass fronts that

hold onto rubber arms;

wears her ring finger rough from
bargain wood and price tags

paint grasps coveralls and old sneakers
with tenacious hands

uncut grass with white tops gasps for
sun and turpentine

wipes her sweat with hard work and
tired bones

pulls out of a deep pocket where forgotten
thoughts remain, an old photo

of him,

he wears frowns and wrinkles from
crinkled black and white

on the back, “that thing standing on
the deck is me.

i know you will say you like this
snap but i still say

it’s no good, love…”

another photo anxious to breathe
air is reluctantly

pulled out of lint and jacks,

husband, wife, two offspring,
they question,

“where’s daddy?”

storm off of rocks and disagreeable
blue water,

a photograph washed up, waves
poured it onto sand

poured it down a path to a beach

her tears on whitewash and
rusted nails…

Copyright © 06/12/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


she sings the blues

she sang a hard song across his face,
he sat in a room where

outside light had to open up blinds
covered with cobwebs

and one inch dust,

he listened while he squeezed the 
last drop out of 

irish whiskey,

looked around the room for an
outlet to plug his 

life into;

she hugged the microphone with red
fingernails and 

impudent guilt,

unconscious eyes were fixed into
a moment like

a drunk driver’s headlights on a wet

they had met in a bar, a place that
served watered down

drinks and by ‘B’ girls wearing
fishnet stockings,

a cheap song was making noise
on a bad needle,

they danced with her body in
a 45 degree dress,

arms wrapped around his neck
like loose morals;

they took a ride back to her place
in a checkered cab,

threw their clothes into a heap
and had sex

with his five o’clock shadow
and her insecurity,

he left the next morning on a
crowded mid-town

bus with a lot of maybes,

fumbled in his pockets for
spare change to 

buy postage to mail her his

she, sings the blues to wallow in

and broken promises,

he, nails boards over windows
to keep out

false hopes that knock on windows
and post foreclosure

signs typed out with faded black
ribbons and

missing letters,

she, misses notes now, her mind
keeps slipping

into unanswered questions,

he, ends it with silence…

Copyright © 06/12/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


of love and suspicion

she pulled paper off of elm bark and cut out

characters with dull scissors,


pressed them into old scrapbooks with white

paste and the corner of a smile


she took pieces of a puzzle out of a cardboard

cupboard where paint chipped


and cracked dishes held onto forgotten suppers;


had a hound dog that could smell a funeral

a mile away,


scent came up through porch boards and wet



black ants come crawling out of woodwork

looking for leftovers


scraped into trash cans with dirty newspapers;


jealous boyfriend next door every time she

sat on rope and board to swing,


wearing her low cut red dress and wiping off

humid air with


a soft, wet, damp sponge,


young men cruis’n by in white walls, d.a.’s

and wolf calls


she eats it up with a silver spoon and glued

on lashes;


walks into the house moving like her hips

are on springs,


she’s running on full oxygen,

he, just trying to breathe


opens up an appliance for cold milk

and satisfaction,


a shot fired


travels through white in a glass,

travels through


a life,



she clocks out like 24 chapters in an

unfinished book,


her body, flying puzzle pieces that

scatter into blue darkness


he tucks death into his pocket, opens

cautiously a


screen door where police lights pry

into furniture and


eyes in grandparent faces hiding behind

glass walls


‘rounds exchanged,

the boyfriend keels




hits porch boards like slow nails and

a hot sun


had a hound dog that could smell a

funeral a mile away …


Copyright © 06/09/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®



sky of a tree, leaves tell secrets

to frost
i take the sun in my mouth
to feel
the worth of your soul,
stars walk backwards in 
moon lit 
nights so i can drink your
you enclose me in your 
i hear you crying, i sleep in 
your tears
you hold rain in your tender
i skip a stone in the wetness
of your heart
my mind strolls hungry to 
make you,
i lick you like honey on a
porcelain jar
i lay on you, eat your
i penetrate your lust, you 
mark my 
back with fingers that run
deep into
my skin
wind blows in through open
blinds, window,
dances on silk sheets,
i push further
my palm rubs your breast,
you arch 
your back,
your voice
lips bitten,
i come
i love you,
Copyright © 06/06/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

A-l-p-h-a-b-e-t Rain

Aqueous vapors in the atmosphere

began to fall to earth, at the same

moment she explained to her mother,

“It’s beginning to rain, but not like I’ve

ever seen it, in fact it’s quite weird!”

Her mother strolled over and threw

up the sash; “Oh my, I haven’t seen

an A-l-p-h-a-b-e-t Rain since granny

died!” “Well, at least the letters are

falling in their customary order!”

She continued, “Now listen very

carefully – you must go out; other

wise you’ll never get a man!” “But

mother, it’s now beginning to pour

and I might get drenched!”

“Don’t but me young lady!” “Time

is wasting; take an umbrella if you

must!” So, with great hesitation,

the young, attractive woman ventured

out – and she loved it!

Her mother called from the second

story window, “You see, I told you

it would be worth your while!” “Be

sure to pick the right letters!” “You

know, remember your A-l-p-h-a-b-e-t!”

And so, the young beauty all dressed

in virgin white, chose her letters with

great care, in hopes to make her mother

proud; but was all in vain, for you see

her ‘ideal’ man turned out to be all wet!


Copyright © 06/04/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


Sleep Pretty Darling

You lay there peacefully, so

beautiful, your soul to keep

I watched over you after we

made love – I had to leave.

We met – chance encounter

was love at first sight; your

skin was milk white and as

smooth as silk – solaced.

Little was said – we knew

deep down in our hearts

this was meant to be, we

had a common bond.

Everyday we set aside time

from our busy schedules to see

each other – time for you was

precious, for me, running out.

Each second of the day we

thought about one another, our

love grew stronger and stronger

sadly though, it would soon end.

There would be no secrets

between us – we made a

promise; but I had one that

I could never reveal to you.

I stood by your window, was

unsolaced – for you see my

love, I was dying; could not

bring myself to tell you.

I kissed you softly on your lips

as not to awaken you – left you

a note – over the balcony I went

Leapt to my untimely death.


Copyright  © 06/03/2013  Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®



deep mud glued in truck wheels,

spin onto black flaps,
truck bed carries baa baa black
sheep into a field
where a sheep dog stands by a
fence gate painted closed
grass lies waiting where a mesa  
has a slow drift 
into a water pool;
slick finger on a palm that pushes
him against a wall
she anticipates with beaded bag
skin and a Sunday lunch;
snake in a hollowed out tree
stump like hemp rope
coiled, touch of badass with a
poison sensation of 
warm custard on a tongue
coated with white school
pardon in a prison parole board,
keep a dead secret, 
convict on his knees trembling
with a winter frost
filling his soul like seeds sown
in soil from a cemetery plot;
two piece suit with a windsor
knot holds a breath
as a hold up man with a g.e.d.
and untied shoe laces
steps in gum on a sidewalk
where barking dogs
short order cook wipes sweat
onto breakfast eggs and 
customer in a formica booth
jerking off his girlfriend
with promises kept in old
luggage with a 
forgotten combination;
police kick down a door 
labeled innocent,
fire off rounds without Mirandizing
uncleaned milk bottles,
they scream high and sharp
into cheap cigar 
smoke, glass like long, slick
bodies exercising
on treadmills;
book in a library with a scent
of dust and senior
citizen hands closed tight by
a child with a look 
on his face, same as one in
traffic where drivers
put on tired looks and rub
hate into steering
laying on horns, sound of 
blast furnaces,
but, something inside keeps
them silent,
“the quiet sense of something

Copyright © 06/02/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


black dog alley

alley fell into the pit of his stomach
on a fire escape,
afraid of heights where steel and rivets
fastened to smog
fastened to lives,
held sounds of escaping tenants from
false alarms
metal railings smoothed from frightened
palms without grips
in a Mission church with a neon, 
flickering cross
they hold tight onto hymnals in pews 
where pockets
are turned inside out to collect dollars
and subway tokens;
subway trains run underneath with 
mole blindness
for a place to rest, let off passengers
to go and rob homes,
only costs them two and a half bucks,
but not for the leapers
theirs is free, much the same as dancing
on a fifth floor ledge;
alley cats walk across ‘for only’ signs
with the same 
attentiveness as a salvation army 
colonel carrying 
a red kettle filled with lost identities,
black dog pack on the prowl looking
blindly into turned over
trash receptacles with incinerated 
remains from 
crime scenes,
poverty is the parent of a revolver 
tucked loosely
in jeans with button down flies,
a No. 38 is an excellent argument
with a thug
carrying folded steel
carrying street fights;
aging brick and mortar let go of
rivets, fire escape
tries impudently to hold on,
rakes the side of brick where
tenants watch anxiously
through checkerboard iron
barred windows,
cashes in when steel meets
alley dumpsters
he is busted up with the same
tenaciousness as 
riot police rubber bulleting 
Mission church holy roller
administers last 
rights,picks a pocket or two
for subway fare.
Copyright © 06/01/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®