The Phantom Girl (revised)

Its now 9:02 and the blue bubble
lonely, surrounded
by an infinite sea of
blank space, is waiting
for the phantom girl's response.
Waiting to see her blonde hair,
so blonde it's as if the sun reached down and licked it,
streaming over her shoulders
down her terracotta back,
her slate blue eyes
rustic and industrial,
her cherry nails,
the paint freshly dried.
Waiting to feel her small warm hands
sliding down my back,
her pale pink lips
brushing against mine,
letting me taste the mint gum
she had chewed on the train earlier,
her smooth legs wrapping around me,
easing us onto the clouds of the covers
diving deep into the folds of the blanket
until we are lost among each others bodies.
Its now 9:03, and the blue bubble still sits alone.
There had been some hope this time,
but now I can feel her summer blond hair coiling itself around my neck,
like a snake around a tree,
squeezing until the last
breath of optimism escapes my bloated lips.

Robert Fulton (love poem)

Robert Fulton

Tick Tock
Tick Tock
My eyes burn holes into the clock's mocking face.
It stares back, not flinching.
Tick Tock
Tick Tock
My eyes lazily walk down a spiral staircase
finally landing on her.
Brown hair cascades over her shoulders,
her tight striped shirt hugs her,
like her future husband will
when the band of commitment is
snug around her finger.
With tiny hands she furiously
jots notes (Robert Fulton-inventor of steamboat)
And now shes standing on the deck
hair dancing a waltz with the wind,
white dress billowing around her knees.
She smiles, the sort of genuine smile
that only happens in a daydream like this,
and the spray is jumping up around her,
the dry sun twinkling off the droplets.
Her wide brimmed sun hat
suddenly is soaring through the sky,
running away along the river.
And she laughs and
I laugh because
this is paradise and
she is happy and
I am happy and
Tick Tock
Tick Tock

Queen Anne's Lace

I want to feel your sweet embrace,
Your pure, pale skin, my Queen Anne's lace.
I want to feel your warm, soft face,
See your eyes that sparkle like outer space.

It has been forever since I've seen you last,
But all my errors are deep in the past.
Long, long gone, so I thought I'd ask,
If you, my sweet cherry, would take me back.

So let's replant this seed and let it grow,
Into a luscious tree, with branches reaching low.
We'll climb to the top and gaze below,
Shot by the arrow from Cupid's bow.

The Phantom Girl

The blue bubble
lonely, surrounded by an infinite sea of
blank space
waiting for her response. It's now
9:02 and the phantom girl
is still missing. There had
been some hope this time,
but it was now being squeezed out of me,
her summer blond hair twisting around my neck,
suffocating my heart until it turns
blue and cold.
I should've known
that she wouldn't show,
what would've made this night
different from all other nights.
It's now 9:03 and I'm
wondering where she could be
Stuck in traffic on the BQE?
Train delays on the A or C?
Or maybe she was
"sick"
again? Where are you, phantom
girl, where are you?
Buzz
Buzz
"I'm really sorry aga..."
Well
what was I expecting from the
phantom girl?

The Carnage of a Conversation

I want the carnage
of a conversation

the curses and dark tales-
the woods-winding weeping willows

its dirt path, dredging up a memory
footsteps telling of follies and flings

nights when the streetlights twinkle-
the a.m.- tears and treasures

tied up in love, lost
a million Marches ago

aging-high on a shelf-
locked up with the key thrown

down, down the drain
down through the sewers

into the open sea, only
to be swept up onto the shore

sitting among the seashells-and two years later,
sifting through the sand

toes curled, curled around a key
slid in a pocket

and once again
the doors are wide open