Fruitless Melancholy

Fruitless Melancholy
 Fruitless Melancholy

I sleep.
Jumping bean heart.
Targeted piñata dreams.

I fight for sleep.
No more sangria.
Fruitless melancholy.

Sticks to break
the piñata
symbolize virtue.

Candies and fruits within,
A reward
For keeping faith.

I fight for sleep.
No more sangria.
Fruitless melancholy.

I fight for it.



Dispatches From a Comfortable Prison

Dispatches From a Comfortable Prison…
where social phobias are cultivated
from a pit of despair.
Behavior modification
to the tune of Job – like lamentations.

My creations come from dreams
because the world is
desert oasis illusion
trying to morph me.

You must know that
where I go to relieve
pain, and loneliness is

To your smile, your eyes,
with my regretful should have beens.
Hopeful blind faith of what still might,
carries me through to tomorrow.
To parole.

Freedom-In-View-Dispatches From a Comfortable Prison















Clairol LA#7

Bukowski wrote of missing the redhead.

I lost one too.
Her color
came from a bottle.
Clairol LA#7.
She was perfect.
I was a dog from hell.

I lost her
the same way.
Drank her up.
Sucked her dry.
My color came
from my bottle of
melancholia blue.

Though it seemed so long,
grieving her for fifteen minutes
did not work.
The clock is still ticking
after years but
I think it has only
been five minutes.

Yet “another smash”
and I concur,
“there is something definitely
wrong with me besides

I am also missing the redhead.

originally published at Finding The Beat…


The gestation and lifespan
of Love has proven
to be equal to that of a child.
If not aborted, –  not nurtured
As is sometimes the case.
The result is the same. Death.

Nine month or less Love.
Some might prefer
abandonment in a hospital
at conception, – at birth.
Too overwhelming.
A child or another’s heart.

A western poet, an eastern poet,
neither abandoned. Not in a hospital.
One fights to live.
One goes into hiding.
Resurfaces again and again.
Or not.

One is killed
in spirit-in memory.
In honor of a lie.
He loved too much.
Too overwhelming.
A child given another heart.

Not an isolated incident.
No one is at fault.
No one is responsible.
No power to stop it.
It’s “The Human Condition.”

It started in a nine month cycle.
Not aborted. – not nurtured.
As is sometimes the case.
The result is the same. Death.
Too overwhelming.
And not an isolated incident.