Nothing I do is good enough for you

I hate myself

Wipe the table clean with tears and tissue

All I am is deficit to you

My worthlessness

Another mouth to feed


We are each over-expectant

Hoping for the incredible

Imagining more than what we’re served

Denying reality

Each destroyers

Of our own dreams


The moral compass

Keeps teetering towards disaster

Not-so-distant past lingers

I want to go back to my own people

But my own people don’t exist anymore

Except in cartoon version


Everything is collapsing fast

Nothing is gradual

When did the present

Overstay its welcome?

I am desolate dictator

Of empty room


What do you do with your scabs?

Not the little flakey ones

I mean the big chunky crusty ones?

I throw them in pan and sauté them

With olive oil, onion salt, a little pablano pepper

Serve them to myself and ghost dog

Views: 165

Comment by Arthur James on October 13, 2013 at 2:06am


I swear I appreciate your work.

I will view and try to just hush.

I know dark enmity and strife.

I use to make wooden items:

Gifts of ` Oval Shaker Style

Hat and Hanky Stack Boxes.


I've made dark walnut insert

Butterfly Dovetailed Designs

On 1/4 separated Curly Wood

Grained Maple ` Tea Table


I coul not wash a dish good.

I know sneers. But, I try to

Understand what sadness to

Be a twelve year old orphan

in Manhattan - Sad griefs . . .

I will reread - Thank You

I wed a Orphan who?

Turned on me? why?

Life is Grand Mystery.

I don't do` badmouth.

Both her parents were:

Working in Law Firms.

Child Pain & War Pain:

Maybe add fire to fire: 

Comment by Arthur James on October 13, 2013 at 2:13am


wild . . 

I had t resign in

and I got ` RELAUNCH




Fish drink water

and No gulp` GIN

But we smell ` bad

Comment by Phyllis on October 13, 2013 at 5:18am

A sad poem, indeed.


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