Meaning on the Loose

 Meaning on the Loose

Meaning has slipped its leash again—
metaphors never knock;
they tumble, laughing, from the roof
and leave the garden shocked.

They’re trolls with fairy wings,
with pollen on each shoe,
who leave the poets wondering,
“What did those creatures do?”

Once loose, they follow poets’ home
and scribble on the walls;

 

We watch the sunset spill its gold,
then cheer a friend at night:
“That scope is just a spelunker
with a helmet full of light.”

Then we mend the economy
while politicians graze;
we button jokes in wisdom’s coat
and lose them in the haze.

By now the metaphors have roamed
from garden beds to news,
with sunset gold upon their wings
and headlines on their shoes.

So if the meaning slips its leash,
just smile and let it rain;
the metaphor will shake its wings
upon your roof again.

 

 

 

 

Ancient Psychology 101

 Ancient Psychology 101

Give me a Big Mac, fries, Diet Coke—
Tomorrow's the diet. That's always the joke.

The dream of a master procrastinator:
"I'll leave him tomorrow...
or maybe later."

I've dated a loser far longer than wise,
Believing old echoes instead of my eyes.

There wasn't a prince waiting patiently there,
Just ghosts in the hallway pretending to care.

I can't post the truth where the whole world can see,
Because then all your lies would unravel for free.

I'm not who you've painted,
not wicked, not wild—
Just someone who finally
quit playing the child.

No—
it's you.

A spineless jellyfish floating with ease,
Bending to crowds with each whispering breeze.

Even old fossils have more of a spine
Than someone who buries the truth every time.

The sting finds the liar.
It always comes back.
No shortcut escapes
an invisible crack.

I've still got my dignity.
I've still got my name.
You traded yours off

for applause and for blame.

So I'm leaving.
No hiding.
No rewriting the page.
I'm done with your circus,
your cowardly cage.

Go play with the dinosaurs,
bones turned to dust.
Keep feeding the ghosts
that you cradle with trust.

They're haunting the corners
that daylight won't claim,
Still calling your number,
still speaking your name.

Teach them to blink
when the truth floods the room.
Teach them to dance
with the scent of their doom.

The tide always rises.
The sea always knows.
It buries the masks
that a coward still chose.

I won't join your herd.
I won't live your lie.
Some curses are broken
the moment goodbye.

Ancient psychology—
nothing has changed.

The ghosts keep the cowards.

The free walk away.

 

Painsomnia

A tweaked-up knee, a darkened stair,
a midnight curse, a silent prayer.
You missed the pill, you skipped the dose,
and now painsomnia lingers close.

It takes the stage, demands applause,
ignoring all good sleeping laws.
An encore act you didn't book,
yet there it stands with a knowing look.

So leave the bed. Abandon sleep.

This night's ambitions clearly run deep.
Head to the kitchen, calm and slow,
where fellow insomniacs often go.

Pour up some ice. Pour up some tea.
Negotiate terms with that mutinous knee.
Then grab the AARP, my friend,
a source of wisdom without end.

Forget the phone, the screen, the glare.
An actual magazine waits there!
While others toss and curse the night,
you're being educated outright.

You'll learn of diamond intersections,
and proper seatbelt inspections.
You'll master how a roundabout
can smooth your traffic stresses out.

You'll discover how to safely share.                                                                               narrow lanes with cyclists there.
And, best of all, the crown jewel still:
the proper hand grip/steering-wheel tilt and angle.

Adjust it just so, left and right,
to spare your face in an airbag flight.

Who knew an aching joint could bring,
such useful automotive tutoring?
What started as a swollen knee
became a graduate degree.

I'll leave you here to contemplate
the many steps that age creates:
the pills, the aches, the midnight quests,
the magazines we once called "rests."

Perhaps aging well is not a race
but learning all these things with grace.

 

A Luxury Amenity

 A Luxury Amenity

 

At Radio City, Bryant Park, and Greeley Square,
these humming thrones await the public there.
A civic gift in plastic, bright and grand,
for anyone in sudden, urgent demand.

First comes the hand before the scanner’s eye,
the red light wakes as if to verify.
Then clears its throat with bureaucratic zeal,
and starts the brisk official toilet reel.

The glossy film advances, trim and quick;
a hidden blade makes one efficient snip.
The used layer vanishes without a fuss,
as though embarrassment rode a public bus.

A fresh sleeve settles on the porcelain throne,
with all the grace of something, state‑issued, blown.
It clings the way an office rumor clings—
transparent, tense, and full of private things.

Then down you sit, convinced the coast is clear,
and find a warmth distinctly not your dear.
Not filth, not doom, not anything unsound—
just someone else, still faintly hanging round.