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Purple finger-beds against white finger-pads
Sensitive touch, blotchy hands --
the sickness has spread.

pressed roses

people handle their wallets in such a fashion:
coveting plastic representations of currency,
fondling their misconstrued conceptions of wealth,
feeling up their change while staying the same --
"i have a lot of borrowed time,
i'm living life by your proverbial coat-tails,
hanging on for my dear, confused existence."
i smile, knowing the futility
of handling wallets in such a way.

i finger the coin casket in my back pocket

it's still there, so i'm okay (alright).

the green-eyed monster

you were always so silently stealthy
behind book-cases and in hidden door ways -
within secrecy, malicious intent growing,
swelling into the open, actions with reactions,
yet you were always safe.
iago of my life, what went wrong?
have you awakened to find those ways
hold no merit or morality?
have you realized the ethical standpoint
to which i've always adhered?
your actions are now transparent
they see you for what you always were,
a vile verminous creature hidden
behind the guise of innocence.
you are no longer shielded by
your quick tongue and mind.

Mary Pattary

We were always trying to turn something into a profit,
we'd collect sticks in your yard
and I'd poke fun at the eggplants.

Your family introduced me to a more rustic way of life --
I never pictured myself to be the hiker or fisherwoman,
but you helpd me break out of my shell.
I remember collecting rocks with you and
trying to find the fossils within,
or trying to determine if they were special in some way but --
everything was special with you.

We'd go door to door selling our wares,
usually just bundles of sticks or dolls we made out of yarn and
your neighbors would always be kind and pass us a few singles
or spare change.

And we were rich.

Deflowered

I always made you the hero
in my one-page vignettes...
when in reality, you were the villain
who plagued my every breath.

I choked on locusts.