Company Time

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Image source: Google

Company Time

Morning alarm pierced my skull.


As I groaned to silence it,

I locked eyes with Wifey.


Words needn’t pass between us,

but they did, as microbursts

of shorthand dialog tends to form

invisible webs between vessels.


“I think I’m staying home,”

my mouth and eyes said.

My head pounding,

the weight of my own body

collapsing my bones

into the lush comfort of our bed,

the covers embracing me,

bracing me for non-stop cartoons

and marathon Texas hold ‘em drawls.


Wifey peered through my marrow,

doing the math in her head.

“You had too much Irish Death last night,”

she deduced,

“and now you’re waiting to die.”


I am wounded,

but I never shy away

from a game of cat

and also-cat.


I pivot and counter, declaring,

“Theoretically speaking,

we’re all waiting to die.

It’s all a matter of degrees.”


Score one point for the good guys.


I elucidate some concessions,

hoping to persuade her to my side.

“But my head is pounding,

possibly from too much Irish Death

I suppose,

but mainly from spring allergies,”


I sniffle unnecessarily,


“and I didn’t drink enough water last night,”

because I’m no lush with self-control issues;

this is biology’s fault, dammit!


“And my body aches from

too much young man work,”

c’mon and pity my

alcohol-soaked marrow;

I know you’ve seen it!


“And I’m depressed,”


“and so yes, I am lying here, waiting to die,”

which was the truth; I mean I was lying there,



Wifey’s eyes smiled

the way they did

when we use to play Texas hold ‘em together

before I gave up on playing with her

because it was no fun

playing against someone

who didn’t have a poker-face.


Then she began;

“Well while you’re lying there waiting to die,

take a look at our bank statement

and weigh it against our mortgage,

our utility bills, and our

ballooning credit card statement, including,

yes darling,

the very comfortable bed

you hide from the world in

as you lie there waiting for death;


“Yes, please lie in your holy sanctuary

that we have yet to pay for.”


Our bed

wasn’t quite as comfy as it was earlier,

but I still had the river card to turn.


“One day of my waiting to die won’t kill us!”

I counter, in vain.


Suddenly, my day of rehydrating while

binge-watching cartoons

feels further from my grasp.


Her smile widens. I can hear

the poker analyst in my head yelling,

“No help on the river for this groggy

hungover desperado!”


She gloats,

her pair of aces

staring daggers through

my sob-story.


“True, I cannot refute that,” she begins,

“but while you lie there waiting to die,

consider my role in management.”




“I would love to curl up next to you

and wait for you to… well, not die…

I kinda like having you around…”


She’s setting me up…


“…but I cannot indulge my wants…”

 I don’t like where this is going…  


“…because I need to go to the place

that pays me to make decisions…”




“…like the ones I have to make today

to set the apparatus in motion to sanction

a few troublemakers

for not being team-players

and setting all I built aflame

just so they can rule over the ashes.

I guess in their own way,

they’re waiting for death too.

Sadly, I don’t have that luxury.”


The poker analyst in my head bellows,

“He’ll be spending the next few hours

on the bus

wondering where it all went wrong…”


With the microburst of

unspoken conversation ended,

where seconds felt like minutes,

I drag my undead carcass

from the world’s most comfortable

unpaid mattress

and shuffle to the bathroom

to brush my teeth.


That foolish woman!


She actually thought she’d bested me,

but unknown to her,

I can still lie and wait to die,

even on company time.

** *

Written for dVerse’ Meeting the Bar: Irony hosted by Frank Hubeny. I’m a sarcastic a-hole by nature, but irony is a wee bit subtler than that. Still, get me started on irony and suddenly I need an editor. I know it’s a long one, and I’m sorry. Hopefully, you were entertained by it a bit.

And since you’ve made it this far, why not head over and read other poets’ contributions to this prompt.  



Image source: Google


Intervening breath

screaming at myself

At my lack of self-love,


Flashing no wealth, love

What are we doing here?

The venom’s ballooning here

The voice never knew me here

My choices undo me here

I’m better than this,

Head-checker remiss

Demanding reset-vector


** *

(Warning: Video contains strong NSFW language… And perhaps one big beautifully-shaped bottom. The message clearly isn’t about the bottom though, pretty as it is.)

(Damn I can’t wait until April 7th!)

My second poem for dVerse’s Quadrille #29, hosted by the talented WhimsyGizmo. (The balloon prompt.) I wasn’t going to share this one, as I felt it was a bit too blunt, too negative, but WhimsyGizmo convinced me to give it another look.


Feel free to drop by and read other poet’s contributions to this prompt.

Air-Filled Pauses


Image source: Google

Air-Filled Pauses

Our thought balloons

referenced one another

in past tense

even as

our flesh


our present

spent in dark recesses

of hypothetical

bubbling imaginations

swelling with fullness

of what might have been

and what could be

if we


into crust,


lustful toxins.

** *

Written for dVerse’s Quadrille #29, hosted by the talented WhimsyGizmo. Today’s prompt is to write a quadrille using the word balloon. I wrote one other quadrille using the word balloon while I was at work, but I felt it was too negative, so I’m sharing this one instead.


Feel free to drop by and read other poet’s contributions to this prompt.

Warming the Kiln


Image source:

Warming the Kiln


elements of strife

calm to see


coalescing in proto-life

nexus calls to me



warming up the kiln

warning me


of fires burning within

scorching all i see


drowning me

in fires of righteous

grounding me


bring clairvoyance to sightless

as we crowd to see


pulsing plea

compressing plasma

fusing free

flame of sea

igniting molten magma

the blacksmith emcee

** *

(Warning: Video contains strong NSFW language.)


Written in anticipation of one of my favorite hip-hop artist’s pending new album, rumored to drop on April 7th. Kendrick Lamar currently holds the title as the greatest rapper living, and he recently released a single that hints at what’s to come very soon. You might say that I’m a bit excited for it.



common tempest


common tempest


pooling downward

joining creak to marshland

ponds, streams, tributaries fed by

her tears



chasing lightning

sonic reverb transfer

potential, kinetic shudder

his pain



rushing downward

life uprooted, falling

order, chaos, all the same vibe




churning, winding

carving stone like putty

flushing nutrients to deltas




what’s left behind

river lapping edges

touching, lingering at tidepools




chasing lightning

life uprooted, falling

touching, lingering at tidepools


** *

Written for dVerse Poetics: The River. Paul Dear is guest hosting. The river theme is his baby. Feel free to drop by and check out other poets’ river-themed poems.


Hazy Sanctuary


Image source: Colour My World

Hazy Sanctuary

Sheltered within the embrace of gentle mist,

climbing the thickest, soft mossy bough,

thinning amongst higher branches,

lost among fractured paisley pink blossoms,

I am born, a balmy parting from swollen bud,

among a cosmos of bursting buds.


I am born a specter, breathing ethereal dew,

fated to travel the world

perpetually displaced from it,

questing for my place in the cosmos,

infinitesimal in my insignificance, yet unique

in beauty as the double-helixed molecular barcode.


I am born, sheltered within nursery of thought

on reprieve from long winters of barren greys

where the mist bubbles, yielding space to sprinkle

light touches of pastel ideas that dare to open,

revealing flowering layers of imagination

efflorescence in portrait form.


I am born in whispers, neck craning to reach

higher in muted sky, patiently smiling

through the blended fragrance of renewal,

with birdsongs reminding me that it is OK

to raise my head and breathe.


Tea for Two


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Tea for Two

Controlled nocturnal chaos.

Streamers painted onto charcoal skies.

Screams, squeals, shrieks pierce the void.

Neon-pink catastrophic, organ-grinding joy

spinning, twirling, lurching,

clutching the restraint bar

with a tiny left hand,

bracing for the spinning,

twirling, lurching,

that somehow hasn’t

spun us into oblivion,

spinning, twirling.


Lurching into another

seemingly random direction,

gripping momma’s arm

with a tiny right hand,

wondering how she

could possibly laugh with delight

at our pending deaths

from all the




into the blurred lights

as I willed my tears not to fall,

showing momma

I’m a big boy now

and could endure the




in stoic silence

while others my age

lost their composure and

sometimes partially-eaten

cotton-candy to the random




of this gigantic

many-armed neon demon,

spinning, twirling, lurching away from

our demons down the street at home

that smelled of reefer, whiskey, angry shouts,

and disquieting nocturnal thumps, inevitably

dimming to aural fragments;

haunting, lingering, lilting,

unmistakable sounds of

momma sobbing.


But she loves the teacups’

spinning, twirling, and lurching and

though I’m more of a merry-go-round

horsey-guy, well who knows how long

they’ll be down the street from us

spinning, twirling, lurching,

making kids my size sick with fear

and nauseous with motion?

All I know is

I ain’t never seen momma

crying her eyes out while

spinning, twirling, and lurching

on the teacups,

I get to show her how brave I am

lurching, twirling, and spinning,

and I get to eat cotton-candy

that’s bigger than my whole body!

That’s a pretty sweet deal.

And so I grimly endure the spinning,

twirling, lurching nonsense

as if it’s no big deal and

not the worst thing

that’s happened to us all night,

because it isn’t.


Lillian is hosting today’s Poetics over at dVerse. Today, we’re digging into our memories of amusement parks, carnivals, state fairs, and whatnot and so-forth.

I enjoyed this prompt, though my subject-matter might suggest otherwise. Sure it’s a melancholic memory for me, as most memories tend to be for me, but in that moment I was a small child who thought he was lifting his mother’s spirits by being brave for her. I haven’t thought of it in a very long time, and it probably would’ve remained buried if not for this timely prompt.

Feel free to drop by and also check out the other dVerse poets’ contributions to this theme.

False Dawn


Image source:

False Dawn


Phuket, Thailand, June, 1995

Dear Pensri,


Maybe you don’t remember me,

though I suspect that memories of my boyish,

22-year-old smile remain with you

just as your lingering downcast expression

when I turned to walk away

from our last night together

remains tangled within my fitful dreams.


Maybe I was just another

nameless face in the crowd

even when what we shared

cannot be tied to some trite label.


Maybe I imagined the bond and we were

nothing more than customer and patron,

even as you rested your head in your hands,

staring into me

when you should’ve been bussing tables and

flirting with paying customers

with greater resources than me.


Maybe you’re just a ghost now,

wandering the tropical scene of your regrets.


I sincerely hope not.


I hope and pray for your health and happiness,

though I’m woefully out of practice

on my hoping and praying.


I should’ve paid more attention when you lit incense

and paid respects to your grandfather’s spirit,

though I find it hard to believe

I could’ve possibly been more attuned to you

than I was way back then.


I can still hear your voice ringing in resonance

and almost perfect English; your command

of your second language, even better

than my shaky grasp of my first one.


I don’t know a single Thai word or phrase,

except for your name, which means

“beauty and goodness of the moon”

(I googled it).


I pray you haven’t joined your grandfather too early

and that the song of your voice,

that your beauty and goodness

still rings true and full in this world.


I cannot recall the moon’s phases those four nights,

but I know how light and shadow paid homage

to every angle of your presence.


I still recall the blank slate

of the first of our four nights together,

just before you served the first of my many beers.


You moved as if you guided the respite of cool breezes

to kiss the heat from my brow; your laughter,

both contagious and addictive.


I watched you flitter from table to table,

pollinating sailors with good vibes,

helping them to temporary relief

from being so far from home with a wink

and well-timed joke.


Maybe I imagined the whole thing,

but I could’ve sworn you paid special attention to me,

playfully teasing me out of my shyness.

Maybe my passive nature put you at ease with me,

but I suspect that the extra beat in my heart

was the gestation of something special that

only you and I could detect or comprehend.


I noticed a sailor or two leaving the bar

with some of the other servers.

Curiosity got the best of me,

leading me to ask you how it worked.


The transaction, that is.


You told me

what amount of money

equated to certain quantities of alone time,

including overnight visits.


You gave me this information

as if it were as plain and common a question as

where’s the bathroom or

how much for a round of Tiger beers.


You shared this information with a similar

sing-song teasing you did to get me to

break from my shyness and crack a smile.


You shared this information

as if I couldn’t possibly want to

commune with the moon,

to ask her if she was as lonely as I was,

to possibly bathe in moonbeams.


But you had to know; our tides

were already synched by then, I felt it.


You were a few years older than me,

but not much older. Still, maybe

your game was that much more refined

to win over my naïveté so quickly.


I’m probably overselling my naiveté, but

I certainly wasn’t the crusty cynic I am now.


Maybe your game was just that tight,

even though as I saw your peers pouring themselves

onto my shipmates, you never even hinted

that I should buy time with you.


Maybe you knew I would ask to buy time with you,

even though you seemed

genuinely surprised by my suggestion.

I was probably never in control of that situation,

though you implicitly gave me the illusion

that I was.


You probably inferred from my initial passiveness

that harmony mattered a great deal to me, so

you made a big deal of taking my hand and

offering your company

after I asked for you.


Maybe you were gaming me,

but you couldn’t possibly

fake all the tenderness and intimacy we shared.


Perhaps I was a bit naive,

but not so much that

I didn’t know the difference between

a genuine embrace

and a purchased one.

Yes, they were one and the same,

but the connection was real.


Two broken people

don’t readily expose their jagged,

missing pieces the way you and I did

without having our grey ash spill over

into technicolor vibrancy.


You were my second lover ever in life,

but I often wish you were my first

because embracing you

was like listening to music

for the first time.


Our bashful waltz metamorphized into

a baltering wish for time to stand still,

allowing us to live within that moment

for an eternity.

But as I’m sure you know,

time stands still for no one,

especially us mortals.


I had done plenty of living before meeting you

and had already filled my cup with various flavors

of heartbreak and sorrow.

But though far from innocent,

I was still criminally ignorant

to the world beyond my horizon,

the nature of exploitation,

of what I am certain now, was your exploitation.

It never dawned on me, then, to ask you

if you had chosen your life, or why.


During our short time together,

a courtship duration that makes mayflies envious,

I soon found that you spent time living between worlds;

your life at the seaside bar resort in Phuket,

and your village,

where you helped pay for your family’s lodging

and your education.


No wonder your English was better than mine.


I listened intently,

inhaling your story along with

your lavender and jasmine.

If I could go back in time,

I would ask more thoughtful questions.

But perhaps it’s for the best that I didn’t.


My one burning question;

would you stay with me that one night, knowing

I lacked the means of adequate compensation.

You didn’t answer,

but you giggled quite a bit.

My face burned with shame for daring to ask,

but you kissed me and pulled me close.


I remain grateful for your patience and gentile spirit.

No one taught me

to breathe or to swim with the current of fate,

but there you were,

enveloping me within our moment,

buoyant and enduring; mindful.


I flailed, gleefully floundering in our silly

kiss-and-chase-and kiss again games

through the night that lasted

through the zodiacal glow of false dawn,

until actual dawn,

and then,



We spent one night together,

but I visited you at the bar for

the three remaining nights I was ashore.

I barely had money for beer,

but if I was hindering business,

you never showed it.


Your face always resembled my heart

when you saw me coming; beaming.


The lady in charge would halfheartedly

shoo you back into bussing tables and serving drinks,

but you mostly wasted your time talking with me.

Wasted sounds too harsh;

you shared your time

talking with me, and


I greedily smiled into your smiles and

soaked up your moonbeams until that final day,

when smiling was a difficult feat.


I gave you my ranking insignia and some award ribbons.

Worthless trinkets, but I had little of value to give,

and I wanted to leave something behind with you,

as proof that I existed; that we existed.


You tied a red friendship bracelet to my right wrist

that I would’ve cherished forever

had I not lost it after two months.


The sound of your voice,

your ringing song of laughter

was the next to go,

slowly fading from memory,

blending into the long flickering Phuket shadows.


Memories of the warmth of

your hands clasping mine,

your smile dancing in candlelight

keep you buoyantly framed within me,

and I smile, knowing that you existed.

That we existed.


Moments before parting,

you told me that I was a good man.

Frankly, I just didn’t see it. To be honest, I still don’t.

The old cynic in me can’t possibly see how

you managed to come to that conclusion so quickly.


But I suppose that isn’t fair. After all,

you were a good woman. A good woman

living her best life, reflecting her best light,

circumstances be damned.


You are probably still a good woman, I hope.


A good woman

that I knew I loved

after less than four days,

knowing there would be others,

knowing that no other would ever share

what you and I shared the way we shared.


We stood at the bar, hands clasped.

There was only that moment.

There would be no more for us.

You blew out the candle to hide your face.

The moon betrayed your tears,

though you smiled anyway.

When I let go,

you warned me not to look back,

but I did, and to this day,

the stars and zodiacal glow

are still jealous of you.


Maybe I was just another face in the crowd.

Maybe you don’t remember me,

but I will always remember you.

I hope and pray that you have found happiness

and are enjoying all the beauty and goodness

of the moon.