carved and gutted hollow

only has to fake a smile for

one night.


october leaves

me breathless

I can hear you

speak again

inside fractured

shades of when

in the wind,  you

breathe again


To ashes

we pour our tears,

sculpt familiar faces with frantic

hands, paint them with bleeding hearts.

Color has drained from this world, this gray canvas reflecting our hope,

our futility.

We must be artists now, and we carry on, creating frescoes from the ground,

from metal

feather dust. …  to dust remaining

devoted, even now

as we breathe

and it scatters

to the


We reminisced about growing up

on Blanchard Road.

I remembered sneaking peeks

of the neighborhood kids playing

kick the can

from a blue rocking-chair on the porch

above the garage, hiding in the shadows

of the old oak tree with my pile of books,

high above the street.

I planned my escape to the countryside

with a mouse and a cricket from Times Square,

while he produced and directed Star Wars,

alone in his room high above the porch,

his empty triangle space-ship hands

flailing and poking air, at war

with each other, in an epic battle

between good and evil where no

one was ever hurt.     

We laughed until

we cried.