where the writers are
Untitled #4 (Empty Healing or Slow Mend)

Family binds are no longer hear

the sacristy of boredom is full of foolish story,

         that people make into history.


The brilliance of what is to come is not reserved for the hip,

and the family which once drenched laughter with smiles and shared dreams is fractured

overcome by plaster paris, the cooling of cast has yet to be stopped.


Children matter not and neither do the stories of snide mothers

evil harpies who hurl sonic hate for the sake of woe,

perpetuating history in episodes of time…snapshot of terse remedy.


bitterness escapes in nicotine binges + when friendships

become charade-- one liners in drunken stand-up routine


christmas masses as child are distant, relic in nature and form

we'd mend wounds and enter into the sleigh bell slumber of knowing

the new year was around the bend.


The plaster is warm, the fingers mind and the pain is milligram'd within.

The winds of the winter storm greet the face,

as church lets out and the fun of being is stifled by instamatic moments.


Visits thereafter are conjugal cordialities, no sutures only the mend of time hardened and cool

 the cast is scribbled upon by friends and well-wishers,

                the radio need not wane the batteries have been left out.

but still those who grew with me know and need not ask…


tides race, the river's rise

current not noticeable from the Williamsburgh Bridge

trains trolly-- velocity, held to track not to memory.


doctors visits to Manhattan

poor family members think we made it

we have nothing but instant photographic gratification and a 1:00 appointment


that too is a stilled image,

a cut of plaster @ paris and the fractured limb all gone,

...better see?


They mate with the old times on the stoop

and I think what could have been


foolish stories take to ink, the way drunkeness takes to fuck-ups and frauds,

friday night after-work was more important than 2 boys and latched key


five dollars fix-its were doled out on thursdays

and the kindness was closeted in hate for being single


she shared the negatives of here experiences with future

in-laws…daughter's first


Feelings aside, I am still...better,

I smile for I have survived…decades later there

is no cast, no Williamsburgh train rides, and no family.

they tear through dreams and through words at the rate of plaster

slow to dry but long to mend






(c) 2011