Backsliding between the rinse and spin cycle

He told me it was the way I folded the sheets;
the way my hands ran along the material
smoothing out the creases that was so

That's how I reverted back to my old ways;
how I so easily stepped back into my old skin
that I'd tried so hard to shed--I had simply been
minding my own business, focusing on the wash
and folding the shirts just right so they wouldn't
wrinkle when I'd noticed him standing in the
doorway, his liquid brown eyes trained on me,
his thumbs tucked confidently into his denim pockets,
fingers invitingly curled loosely over his pelvis
and the next thing I knew we wound up panting and
grunting on the dirty laundry room floor, my leg
propped up on the linen basket, my ear pressed up
against the roaring washer like the sound of the
entire universe crashing, hoping to God we
wouldn't get caught with the sparkling-clean image
I'd been shooting for now diluted by the bleach
and the sweat, a little guilt mixed in, swirling
away with the dirty water; gurgling right down

Waiting for the pot to boil

It's times like this that I want
to slit your throat

when your problems are bigger
than anyone else's
when the only thing you see after work
is a cold beer and an empty chair
when you are deaf and blind to everything
and everyone around you
when you can't see the little things
that quickly turn into big things
like consideration
and attentiveness,
the house cleaned and dinner on the stove
with your shirts crisp on their hangers
and me in the background with my unspent anger
like a pot about to boil over
a poem screaming to be written;
the sharpened pencil hovering above
the empty page, waiting to absorb
the brunt of it all...

and after all these years,
I still can't figure out which one's
the first to hit the paper:
the blood
or the tears

I'm 38, having written poetry for the past 17 years.
Currently back in the publishing world after having
taken a 2 year hiatus due to creative apathy and
temporary insanity--which, actually may have enhanced
my writing. It has certainly enhanced my weirdness.

I currently have a book available, "Piss On Your
Parade," up for grabs at a mere $5.00. Contact me at

2007 Underground Voices