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If changing my name
was as easy as feeling your pain,
Norwegian it would be.
Siri, Solveig or Petra?
My heritage reflected.
Great grandma approves,
as she sweeps away
all evidence.
of idle hands,
tacit fame.

Need I explain?

Now I must go write about more constructive stuff.

My Frantic Frenzy

Purple stops popping

Metals lose luster

Objects grow tired and unaffected

Others leave little impression upon you.

Your light tarnished by little women in big houses built by evil hands

Why risk leaving~

Abandon stasis to deal with the devil?

Your lilies aren’t so white anymore.


You start to walk.

After blocks of plodding along through sticky snow,

You serendipitously surrender to the rhythm of the universe;

Allowing her to lift your every step until life seems less laborious.

Soon romantic notions unfold...

In the form of a checkered table cloth at a cozy “Italian” bistro.

He writes your name + his = heart on the paper placemat runner.

His cowboy smile wrangles around your heart.

Captured in the confines of your pollyanna persona,

He waits for you.

He waits for you to remember the first time your eyes met his.

Behind a covered wagon,

Thousands of full moons ago.

Too many trunks in wagon,

Your feet brought you to your fate.

And now that you believe,

Christmas lights start to sparkle.

With childlike brilliance,

They bring you back to your frozen valley.

The glow of the snow it lightens your heart.

And the bright moon strengthens your vision.

An evening stroll provides a much needed dose of optimism,

A glimpse into your core via stolen spruce in picture windows.

Every bobbling bulb a miniature crystal ball,

Reflecting precious memories you thought were only dreams.

You strain your eyes to see him,

But all you see is energy~~

Waves of consciousness pulling at your fraying heart strings,

You pine for his velvet embrace.

At last the lonely moon reveals a crystallized image~

Two lovers, hands locked, twirling in a frantic frenzy

Until the scrape of a snow plow interrupts,

And your dance with destiny dissolves into the frigid December air.

Once you catch your breath, You look at your mitten.

Beneath it fine lines measure moments that make up your fairytale ending, that has yet to begin outside of the your lovesick heart.

This tiny crooked hand holds the Ace of Wands and the warmth to thaw his heart.

Written on a cold December evening in 2008.

Poem: Mansurdity

Feeding your drunk lusty stare
Has become a habit of sorts.
It contorts my inner logic
Until the signs beware abort.

Starving, your Swedish doll dream
she consumes so much your passion.
So let's make believe that she
Was just a passing fashion.

Never mind your old affliction
They can find it sold in fiction.
And those dusty playboy days
See them start to float away?

But you cut me into fractions
Like distant old distractions.
Between the sheets the friction
Be now our new addiction.

Please tell me I can have you
For more than just one day.
To complete your scrambled sentences
In a simple, silly way.


Poem: She Was Precious Alright

She was precious alright.
In all the wrong ways.
A mad lick of wine off the spine,
turns the cork into a fruitless memento.
One she would hoard, in a miniature treasure chest
of half forgotten dreams.
The futility of it all seemed clear from the first click,
but she prayed to God that this time there would be no test,
no tragic twists with sharp turns and trivial tricks.
With him she would surely sparkle.
Not in a grandiose fashion,
but with delicate detail.
Reminiscent of her late Grandmother's superfluous fine china,
Which she knew she would never really use.
Yes, she knew.
But in spite of her sixth,
She would welcome the fix.
Make him feel like a man,
By holding his hand.
She might make him quiver,
with the likes of her hips.
Not to mention her big fat lips
He would stir into her, his gift~
Dirty words dissolved by her sweet Nord nature.
And she would cast onto him an immaculate imagination
until she shed silly, sad tears with a girly purpose.
Why should it make him so naked and nervous?
And rear-view mirrors make for such sorry goodbyes,
Of which she much disdains.
Disconnected fragments of such a fine design,
couldn't possibly give her away?
So say you will stay, if only for a day.
And make her feel precious again.