not now, darling!

it’s not convenient that you die now,
do you understand?
you haven’t noticed but we’ve had wars.
friends divided over loyalties to henry and rose,
who fought bitterly over cds and books
and unused kishko cutlery sets,
but were happy to see sarah go in the spca van
dilip was finally incarcerated for hitting jane,
but only because we intervened,
and stayed night after sleepless night in vigil
at her side, trying to get the blood stains off the love seat,
playing U2 and Nirvana to drown dilip's rage
as he hurled the garden gnomes at the oak,
howling outside, high on jealousy.
sammy lost an eye battling brush fire
and then lost his job, and we’ve all taken turns
taking care of bobby and sonya,
while he’s stood the dole queues
hoping nobody would notice him.
my days are numb from carrying trays
of six-egg omelets and gravy,
the night shifts have left me not a single minute to think
about broken nails and straw hair and coffee gone cold.

tina told us about the rejection letter and your drunken binge
that has lasted three months and how the doctor was surprised
to see your tequila riddled pancreas still working.
so don’t tell me you are dying now,
dying, giving up the ghost, kicking the bucket
because your muse has been unkind to you.
i have exhausted empathy, have no words of comfort,
am tired to the bone and quite empty of tears.
and white my dear, has never been my color.

Slam

stand up. stand up.
face the drunken sods,
say, ‘fuck you, Krishna’
in free verse or rhyme.
it could mean inclusion tomorrow,
among page three poets,
and one free whiskey now.

my throat is parched,
my fingers aching
to clutch that cold glass
of iced amber fire.

the girl in the silver lace dress
has been looking at me
as if she would be warmth.
if only i could move my cold feet
and break a principle or two.