poetry

getting there from here

poetry

green grass under my newly shod feet
brought me wonder at the improvement
in my soccer in the purchase of soccer shoes.

black pavement under my newly equipped feet
brought me wonder at the improvement
in my skateboarding in the purchase of a real board.

and today i looked to you anew
i shook from bed to floor in your presence
and standing in awe saw an ever so subtle
change, enough to bring a reality check to this day.

knowing i am small. so very very insignificant
without something bigger for which to live.

The Curious Case of the Blinking Cursor

poetry

|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _
|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_
|A n |_ L |_ s |h a |p e |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_
|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_
|_ _ |A n |_ _ |_ _
|u n |d e |r l |i n |e _ |_
|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_
|P r |e s |s _ |r e |p e |a t |_ _ |_ _
|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_
|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ R |e w |i n |d
|F a |s t |_ _ |_
|_ _ |f o |w a |r d
|I n |f i |n i |t y |_
|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_
|_ _ |F i |n i |t e |_ _ |_ _ |_
|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _
|I n |f i |n i |t e |s i |m a |l _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _
|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_
|_ I |t s |_ a |l l |_ t |h e |_ _ |_ _
|s a |m e |_ _
|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _
|I t |s _ |n o |t h |i n |g _ |a t |_ a |l l |_ _ |_ _
|_ _ |_ _
|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_
|_ _ |_ _ |_ _ |_

It’s Been a Long time, you and I. And never again, I fear.

poetry

We spoke twice today.
I feel you didn’t listen.
I didn’t have much to say
so I guess you didn’t miss much
but I missed you,
every day this year.
A shame, a god damn shame
but I hope to never drop a tear
at least not in your name again,
but hope is only that
and sometimes that’s just not enough
and it’s a shame, a god damn shame
but here I am and acting tough
at least, I am
until the moment passes.

Sensory overload

poetry

The cool fresh air and things roll easily
down every and any city street, except
for the ones near the reclamation center,
then the smell of fried chicken is
all you can really taste as you’re
driving.

There is a constant push for more air
escaping the stench, avoiding the
creeping choking terror that haunts
the East Side.

There is some respite, though,
with that cooking chicken. And
some days you can
even smell the fish.

love lost

poetry

i would admire your fresh face
in the grass in your back yard
and how you could make something
out of nothing
climbing a big oak tree
that they had to cut down,
last summer
got too big for its own good

and what ended up lasting
or at least it seems to me
are the dimples on your face
creases left from the smiles
from last summer
losing balance
at least 20 feet high
too good to be true

second timothy two four

poetry

ha!
you filled my mind this morning with dreams
of sheer terror and loss only to find myself
waking in a cold sweat finding she’s still here.
she hasn’t left me.

i awoke – due to dread – overwhelmed with
thanksgiving and remembered my life’s call
is to hear from you. implement. move forward.

as a soldier to not be caught up in civilian affairs
but to seek to please you. my commanding officer.

knowing my dreams are too small and my pride
always begs for fame i pursue things half heartedly
fearful of the praise inflating my head like the
last helium balloon of the batch. you know the one
where they just keep filling it to see how long it can
go before it pops?

that one.

but lo! an old fashioned ha! you woke me from dreams
of sheer terror. and i stepped into the day
steeped in, overwhelmed with, wrought with,
thanksgiving

Last call for alcohol

poetry

The potential swelling inside a Saturday morning. Muted at the softness
of your hands. Folding and unfolding and folding again like your mouth.
The oceanic sound of passing cars, each corner taken; a tidal wave outside
the quiet of the room, but gentle. And always obsessed with nothing.
When we turn at the right moment, and a glance crystallizes, all the stillness happens.
All the sky turns white-wash and paints itself chalky against the city.
All the city lurches into a photograph of blacks and greys and blistering blues. You
are always, always, thinking.

Getting Gone

poetry

These places are few and far between
and between what? and oh so few and
I can never find the roads to follow,
and the darts I’ve thrown at my map
always bounce off, or stick in to walls
and now where do you go when even
the most basic system seems to fail you?

But I am not discouraged.

I will draw a line with a big fat black
permanent marker, from the dot that
says ‘you are here’ to the dart that
says nothing, but sticks about six inches
from the edge of my map. I will cross-
reference, and from there, I’ll book my flight
to whatever part of China I’m bound for.

At least I hope it’s China,
and not the South China Sea.

Lady in the Pink Hat

poetry

She sits a pew closer
– to God, I don’t know.
A sister, much older,
Enough to be my grandmother.
She wears a pink hat
Salt and pepper curls sprinkle her shoulders.
Passing her the offering plate, she doesn’t see.
I waggle to dish, gaining her attention,
Immediately feeling rude, irreverent and impatient.
Shortly she turns to show me the correct hymn,
Then before prayer, lovingly grasps my hand
– swathing blue veins on her aging fingers.
And I know all is well.

Short Walk Gone Bad

poetry

Cue cool breeze cutting
through the damp clothes and
knocking hats to flying
and men to running after
hats
and cue the lightening
just before the thunder in
the distance, and yet
always moving closer
to the running and the
flying and the cueing
and the cussing and then
scene

memoria tenere

poetry

there are at least 2,752
reasons to remember
never let our defenses down
to enlist to prevent to
cock the gun pull the trigger
let the end justify the means
wave flags from every window to
call for the heads of those who plotted
who plot who still thirst and hunger and strap
bombs to themselves in the name of some god
or another

but
there are at least 2,752
reasons to remember
that when the call devolves from
cry to battle cry death leads
to death
why can’t we remember it’s fiction that
defeated factions fall into submission and forget
their pain their hatred their revenge for the sake of safety?
why can’t we remember the man who’s lost his brother the mother
who’s lost her son the lover who’s lost love by bomb or bullet
breathes eats drinks
sleeps thinks speaks death?

so
let’s love without hatred
live without revenge
remember the lives of those we loved
without forgetting we just can’t go on
this way

A Monster and a selective little devil.

poetry

There is a monster in my bedroom
locked there every morning until
every evening when I let him free.

He is all the things I did not do
and every ‘I forgot’ and ‘maybe tomorrow’
and ‘I’ll find time this Saturday’
and he is a monster.

Thank goodness I have made
to lock him up each day, or
surely he’d have killed me.
He’d kill us all, I’m sure.

But he has not breached
my sturdy bedroom lock,
nor has he made to open
one of the many windows
(and just as well, for
ground-floor is not so
great a leap).

He is a monster, and he is
locked in my bedroom every
morning until every evening
when I let him free.

For A Limited Time Only

poetry

I’m not looking at the clock
except maybe on birthdays.
Working hard, but
for a limited time only.
For seventy or so years I’ll labor,
and then I’m going home.
And at home is where
I’ll shed my clothes,
shed my skin,
shed my muscles,
shed my bones.
I’ll sit at the table.
We’ll all sit around the table,
like a giant family reunion.
We’ll bow our heads and say grace,
and I’ll hold hands with my Father.

Rasputin

poetry

Rasputin stares at the cold cold ground
and Rasputin walks around
with a sword in his walkingstick
and a bottle-opener in his bible
Rasputin walks around on the ground

Rasputin cast a spell on his stereo
and Rasputin never lets a record spin
but he listens patiently
for the music he would like to see
Rasputin walks around on the ground