Per the request of Chris Puzio, here is a post of some recent writings:
Baklava Encrusted Baked Bread
The big black back and forth of
the camel back of time sweeps
and sweats silently.
It rolls on
and on and stops and on it rolls, rolling
and stopping with the wind.
it's tail is thick and warm like a donkey's and
always marking the baking sand it drags upon. Upon
the warm sand shuffling along with
a worn down rusted bit in its mouth,
it sags
from the weight
it encumbers.
Cucumber eyes filled with antiseptic sadness and sterility
soften the features of the lumbering beast.
Try to climb upon its sticky back,
grasp tight the shoestrings slapping,
stirring, try to climb,
and you might skid your knees on his porous flesh.
You might tumble down its back, caught
unaware by the methodical back and back
and forth and back and forth.
Try to climb and you may sink your hands deep under its hide,
and into its pouch
to find treats that offer themselves like candy
from a
piñata 
that has been wounded
and broken.
Something must be broken for the treats to come.
For the sweet sugary pops to be eaten.
something pink and phosphorescent and beautifully stagnant
must be torn
for the night to cease and
the pearly gumdrops to gather.
the catacombs filled with truffles and turtles and Turkish delight and
baklava encrusted baked bread are there too,
hidden inside
the languid roamer.
Six in one, half a dozen in the other,
where will your groping hands cast themselves?
Try to climb. Climb the bitter
cruel cyclical back of the black because
we must climb inside sugary time with
our mouths open and watering, and our eyes closed.
Try to climb the shoestrings,
shoeing your way through
the snow.
Women with Plastic Bags
Women with plastic bags at their feet
sit
at the Palomar Street trolley
stop.
They sit
and they wait.
There are five of them.
They are bored.
The young one in the middle sits
with her fingers in her mouth
and stroking her hair.
The ancients on the end
bob their heads
back
and forth,
the resign
to staring ahead at the empty ominous tracks.
They are bored.
Always staring forward
with plastic bags
at their feet.