My Old Bedroom

My old bedroom, a rotten apple,
a museum for clouds, a long knife
made of torn cotton, an empty bus,
a Godless chapel.
My old bedroom, a door with no lock.
The window with a screen to keep out
monsters. A bed for nightmares.
A voice that cackles.
My old bedroom. Posters on the walls:
Wheels, cartoons, and words. On the floor, toys,
books, and pages of poems.
My soul in shackles.

Yvette and Val

Yvette and Val were left behind.
Yvette was blind
but Val was brown
and new in town.

Yvette turned Barbie for the night
and stood in light,
alone near Val
her ghostly pal.

Alarming masks appear and fade.
She's not afraid,
been touched before.
She shuts the door.

Fool my Heart

I shut my eyes
trying to fool my heart
that I'm fast asleep
But here they come again

Creeping out as if from under
a shut door into the moonshine
swelling out like diamonds into the dark
one and two and then a trillion tear drops

Tragedy of the Little Goat

The moonlit rows of roses guard
my garden's grace.  They taste so good 
to Goldberg's goat.  It coughs and burps 
and rams my door.  Gobbles my reds,
repays in dung.  The scent of stool
should guard my plot.  I shake my head,
I sigh, sit down.  But soon it's she
who turns and eats, my full goatee.

Frankenstein

God had indited Shelley's eyes and she  
the shameless fiendish mortal Frankenstein 
upon the pages prostrate 'hind the door
the lashed lids agape as though undead.

Forget Your Woes

A Birman licks her paws—deformed and pale—
and wails, inside the doorway, where the footprints fade. 
A belly rises, quivers, falls. 
A head is hanging down—the eyes are open wide.
A sign implores, in letters painted scarlet-red,
"My fellows, have a drink, forget your woes." 
Fluorescents buzz and flicker, overheard.