Ladykiller

You blamed your lewd acts on society and pornography,
claiming 'not guilty' until your bitter, dirty, tragic end.
Illegitimate child -- probably the product of incest.
You psychoanalyzed yourself and came up with no answer.
"Why? How could he have done those things?!" Those evil, derelict deeds.
You smiled, shrugged your shoulders, reminiscing about the stark gore,
the girls, the crowbar, the chase, the murders, the rapes and the blood.
The blood -- you wanted to bathe in it, wash yourself clean with it,
your past, your history, wishing to be a star, deity.
You renounced God and humanity, creating effigies
from burned and battered flesh, from the remains of true innocence.
Your will, your choosing, your destiny -- a self-made man; monster.
In your final hour you accepted Jesus Christ, your savior.
The Governor of Florida, your real God, turned a deaf ear,
as your sister-mother wept for you, her son, her little boy.
The world sighed relief as you left, then went on with its business.
Just a flicker, after all, a meaningless flicker in time.

Ceramic Elephants

I wish my life was like an Urban Outfitters catalog --
at my age, a ridiculous desire, yet still, I want it.
Those kids look like they're having so much fun with their records
and their beer tumblers emblazoned with the words 'slut' and 'douchebag'.
Those crazy kids with their ivy-league educations and their
summers spent in The Hamptons, or in Morocco or Paris.
They gallivant in cut-off's, forced shabby chic, with the back-up
of Daddy's credit card and Mommy's guilt from being away,
never fully present (extended cocktail hours, pill-popping).
Those kids, poor orphans, are forced to reinvent themselves through style,
modern art, macrame plant holders, ceramic elephants,
marijuana cookbooks, paisley-print sheets, fruit-scented perfume,
Indian-inspired jewelry, and pomegranate candles.
They create a space, all their own, in their dormitory rooms,
hosting parties on their magic carpets, drinking from tumblers.
They make toasts, and eat hors d'oeuvres; Life stretches out in front of them,
glossy, immaculate, full of endless possibilities.

Energy

Energy...clean sweeps of it.
Dark bundles of it, lurking.
Light silk feathersweeps of it,
meaningful glances of it.
Energy -- use it up, fast!
Usurp it, demolish it!
You are made of it -- an itch
will never be satisfied.
Energy -- stand up for it,
celebrate it while you can,
it's breaking up, it's breaking.
You depend on it, always.
Energy...it's a fool's game,
nothing but a foolish game
one you are destined to play
simply because you are here.

Tell Me What is Real

You've built your life upon complaints,
stacked neatly, one on the other.
Negativity ruminates,
boiling over -- hot, sticky mess.
It has to be pushed down, controlled;
like everything else, it grows.
Before long it would overtake
your walls like a cloying ivy
wrapping you up like a mummy,
while you make lists, judge, criticize.
Your comparisons won't save you,
neither will your weight, your money,
your husband or your fancy house.
They are all as illusory
as you -- the inside of your mind.