Late Night Haiku

there is something romantic
about wine bottles
after i have emptied them




warmly romantic
comforting
lonely at my desk

The Funny Thing is...

skeletons are made of math
phospholipid fingertips
hearts are stopwatches

lips ooze with honey
throats swallow gold coins
and regurgitate ashes
which bend the sun
and tarnish feathers

homes are made of melting ice
pyrite smiles
sympathies are pins and needles

yet, i still don't know how i feel
about this outfit

these women keeping
me up all night

and your insightful assumption
that everything is falling apart

_jackson grind

She

She lingers alongside
a stubborn cloud of smoke
amongst cigarette butts
and rose petals
cradling hope for the morning
when her name will be painted
in the sky
and she won't be afraid to follow

blanketed in delusion
the bottom branches of the oak
laugh, as they did when she was young.
skyscraper penthouses
kiss the clouds more audaciously
and wink in her direction.

It may be she's lost an inch or two
or maybe, at her specific
latitude and longitude
the ground sinks
until her fingertips
glance off the apple

yet still, she taunts the sea
dodging the waves
and shooting seductive looks
upwards, toward the moon
making him blush
and the tide roll in

_jackson grind

It's a Trap!

hey sugar,
would you like to escape?
to my well decorated appartment

we can get stoned
ill turn on music
light a candle

leave the unbuttoning to me
if you can wait

shadows of last night
have yet to be licked from the mirror

which you look very pretty in

let me count your freckles
and the ridges of your lips

baby,

ive got you surrounded

_Jackson Grind

_________________________

estrogen

Glitter

I spied one moth white
flying against a stormy november night
and she was me
destined for disaster
but rare and alive nonetheless
perhaps one distant day
nameless we'll be pressed
in a yellowing page
fragments of an age
once moonlit and warm
mistaking any given ray of light
for the morn
Francesca Calabrese
________________________

Savior

Make me forget the past.
This is all I ask.Take my hand and lead,
And bring me back.
Back to who I am
Back to who I've always been
And yet to be, I am,
Yours, eternally.
Flow like a river,
Rushing through my soul
Until you are my insides,
And make me whole.
Take the clouds and part them
Walk across the sea
Pray to God for wisdom
And let us be, love.
Let us be.

_Copyright ©2007 Francesca Rebecca Calabrese

Dog's Life


He's lying with his chin on his forepaws,
my dog, and looking at me, his eyes turned
upward because I'm on the bed and he's
on the floor. Where a dog belongs, even
if the ground's merely floor. He'd rather be
outside. Where a dog belongs. But I can't
leave the house today--I'm sick as a dog,
you could say, although I don't eat my own puke.
When I try to throw up, however, I
pretend to. That usually does the trick.
Then I stagger back to bed, where he waits
--lying where I've lain because it's warm, I guess
Because he likes my odor, I guess. Or
because he's trying to fool me. He can't
--I'm too smart for that. Get down, you fleabag,
I say. He does and I pet him. Then I
fall where I've been and where he's been and
I'm a different animal altogether,
smelling somewhat like him, and taking on
any hair he's shed there. What does he take
from me? He's back on the floor, in the same
old posture, looking bored and lonely. Can't
go out today, I remind him, as I
close my eyes and see green grass and trees and
blue sky and red and yellow flowers. And
I throw him a stick and he fetches it.
Well, almost. This time he brings it halfway
back. I open my eyes and say, Good dream.
That's when he lifts his head and begins to
move his tail. Settle down, boy, I say. Can't
go out now, I say again. He lowers
his head once more and sighs a deep sigh, out
of boredom and loneliness and a bit
of sympathy--he knows I'm sick. At least
I like to think so. I fall asleep--when
I wake up again he's on the bed, head
on my chest, dog-breath panting on my face.
I reach to put my hand around his neck
and he intercepts it with his teeth, but
gently. Leggo, boy, I say. He does. Then
I scratch him behind the ears and his eyes
shut and I just know he's dreaming of me,
he's dreaming of me and it's a good dream,
of being fed or caressed or freed from
the leash. Of digging a hole to bury
a bone or dig it up again. And of
bringing it to me as if to say, This
is what we are, what we came from, what holds
us together, what we're returning to.
That's pretty smart for a dog. Pretty smart
for a person, too. And way, way wiser
because he doesn't have to work or speak, just
bark or whine or growl, and he doesn't need
thumbs or money or school or girls or God.
And as long as I'm sick, neither do I.


--Gale Acuff

Intern

microwaving ravioli has never seemed so dismal

someone muses about the weather
the cute one asks about my weekend

gazing at the framed scenery
rainforests
mountain ranges
the sea

all reminding me
that teamwork is important
and to get those numbers up

Bobby tell's me I'm the man
my soul gasps for air