Here I turn on the faucet
Where the words
Get wet and begin to bubble
With a romantic binge
That makes it feel all
Too erotic.
Together, it stimulates
And caresses,
Until it becomes
Like the cast of
Two lovers in a movie part
When bodies come together
In the water

Rubbing down each other
With such a focus
That leads one to believe-
It’s great when words
Can create so much excitement
That has a *get laid* quality
All of its own.


a young boy,
around 8 years-old
went to the library
and would look
through the shelves
for something to read.
after picking a book
with smaller print
and signing it out,
he discovered
that bigger words
suited him more than
reading cat in the hat
and became a follower.
that price-
you can read it
in his eyes.


during the time
my brother and i
lived with our aunt n uncle
and their family
when our parents
were in the divorce process in the early 70’s,
our mom n our two younger sisters
lived with her.
at some point,
our mother met another man
and she got pregnant.
that man left her high n dry.
mom eventually spiraled
into another nervous breakdown.
she put my sisters
in foster care.
baby christine stayed somewhere in town for a time.
mom had to go to warren
once again to the state psychiatric hospital
and lost all of her possessions.
baby christine was adopted,
and now would be in her forties.
it’s a sensitive area
no matter how one looks at it.
our mom didn’t abandon baby christine,
or my other two sisters –
she completely fell apart.
all we have of baby christine
is a picture of our mom holding her.


the stigma
attached to the mentally ill
is purely unfair,
whether it be
those of the homeless,
or those in prison
that had no indication
whatsoever that they were ill,
or never properly diagnosed,
and sometimes not at all.
even worse yet,
let out of the hospital
before it was time
to either commit suicide,
or harm others
without knowing why
when not in control.
other times,
it’s simply not knowing
the hospital protocol
to get admitted,
by not saying,
“i’m going to slash my wrists,”
or that, “i going to really hurt someone.”
somebody has to speak for them.
their is a lot of blame
that can be passed around.
however one can be
highly sensitive and be acute
to the surroundings.
a person that feels
in greater proportion
than the majority of the populace
just absorbs all that negativity
which can mimic symptoms
of the mentally ill.
some of us writers
are saved by our creativity.


it is here –
i find you
hot on my forehead.
words that sit here
like beads of sweat
illuminate in the light.
when they drip –
cut like razors
through the air
and land upon the flesh.
the power source flows
to my wrists.
these fingertips in steady drips,
leave the page
with an image
to really soak thoroughly
into the poem,
induced by the mercury
on the rise
out of these veins.


poetry is a drug
to keep me high.
when in need of a dose
to feed this craving,
i go to the dealers
selling their best stuff.
after the buys,
i go home
to feel their lines like braille
for the beautiful flow
of imagery to make you feel
need to write.