She is pale maple.
Small, grain-lines throughout...

You are no more than a meaty center, a
block of electricity at the core of me...

We're homonyms
for the same...

Head pounding.
Her unexplainable achings are an earthquake...

From the warmth of a Sunday
bed, I hear church bells calling...

Don't talk to me as if you know me!
You hover around the periphery...

Sugared orange slices, lemon pops-
You are my gingerbread house and I...

Your admonishment - mere monologue.
Your thoughts - humility defaced...

Preachers keep preaching of
one love for each...

The Modern Writer is on a never ending quest
for salvation through an almost dead medium...

I'm tired-
of standing on the walls of your...

All too rich, too raw, too real-
The delicate palette of life...