A Month Since My Last Confession

My first sin: I have started a blog. My second sin: I have sucked you into reading it.

How's Boston, you ask? I'll get there. This will hopefully (yes, that is correctly used) serve as a source of stimulation and conversation. You must reply if you are reading. If you were too busy to reply, you wouldn't be reading.

Before the soul-searching, I decided to open with two poems that I wrote in the last month, one of which I admire much more than the other. Surrounded by MFAs, I feel that I must contribute to the literary world when I get a chance.

7:41
On the sill sits a fan.
Mine or hers; doesn't matter either way.

Its leaves rustle with the fingers of dusk,
teased by motorcycles riding on the air.
Lamplight frees itself from the confines of this room
and soars down the block,
splintered by coathanger branches up high.
As the streetlamp melds to the curb,
sight picks up the radio transmission.
Its call, "walk this way," repeats
until a Buick passes, hustling its amigo down the road.

Cerulean heaven takes on an icy green,
but the voices pervade,
swirling around the lamppost,
sectored by the windowscreen,
and caressing the still fan.
It perches, waiting to be turned on,
though it rustles sans breeze,
without my hand coming near.


Afternoon Forecast

Sirens overpower the nasal hum of indoor cooling.
My skin prickles, like it did
Throttled vowels in a low masculine voice coast across the floorboards.
Papier mache walls betray our secrets.
What they say, I can't be sure.
What you said, I can't
The sun seizes me from slumber, thrusting upon me through smudged glass panes.
Sleep comes calling for some of
I brace myself to look down into the alley,
Where trash-can lids play checkers with desperate vagabonds.
A city bus docks at the curb, narrowly missing a pedestrian.
What a gift, to be spared
Kaleidoscopes dance on my retinas, courtesy of the glare.
I can't see, though I can.
Another layer of urban haze frosts my awareness.
You can't see at
And this gloom appears as the February mist,
When we sat on that pier and chortled until we
Red light dissolves into green.
The pride of variegated lions crosses the street.
We were fierce together,
And now we're at stalemate when we are
I'm unaware of the clouds, sweeping in as white noise.
Shouldn't the mere presence of the sun,
In brief flickers,
Be enough?

There they are. I am self-published. Give me my degree this minute!