Meanwhile, In The Real World

Cassandra writes far better than
I ever, ever could;
But keeps most of it in her mind
Where it does little good

Abiding with her cigarettes
And straight Crown Royal shots;
Anesthetizes her regrets
Picks off her straggling thoughts

For cynical and sexual
Is how she likes to be:
But yet beneath the skin and ink
Is pure humanity

She lives in an apartment
With a lingering touch of mold;
While I live in my luxury
Amidst suburban gold

She scorns me, but she’d do me
To submit me, to control:
As nightly, she must strangle out
The poet
In her

Character Sketches #3

“… Has hundreds of friends …”


Overflowing with affection
But prone to criticize

She works in her garden
Has hundreds of friends
Many across the globe
Where she worked as a volunteer

Having given much of herself
For decades, she is often characterized
As “difficult” by those
Who fail to see past the veil

Of abruptness
Of exactness
Of the habits of a librarian

And, yet, alone
She cries

Her tears fueled by love
In the dark and uncaring haze
Of the mountain evenings

So it is that
Some nights
Many nights
She would welcome her own death

Not for not being loved
But for having so much love
And no one there
To receive it

Character Sketches #2

“.. waxing political, and smoking Camel-bastards…”

He believes in nothing but his own oppression

Will say anything, no matter how cruel or thoughtless
Ever convinced he is a suitable moral judge

Sociology is sort of his religion
But it is an odd, non-scientific sort of sociology
Compounded of third-hand observations
Made by fourth-rate thinkers

He sits in his dining room
Drinking Chivas Regal
Waxing political
And smoking Camel-bastards

Bishop of his own social circle
Never uncomfortable, and never happy

And believing still that his kind are treated unfairly