poetry

Portrait in Three Colors.

poetry

There is a pretty girl
in the other room

Off and on she looks at me
through the doorway,
and she smiles sometimes,
and some times she
doesn’t really smile so much.

There are lights and televisons
that flicker on and off again.
I see them flashing all about her
just beyond that doorway,
but I can’t see the lightswitch
and I’ve yet to really decipher
what I hear on that T.V.
(though sometimes she tells me)

Every few days we speak
about the banalities of life
or the things that are not
quite so unimportant.
Every few days we simply
do not speak at all.

I do not comprehend these,
the transactions that occur within
the confines of our little doorway,
Despite all the time spent speaking
waving shouting into the other room.
Though that never was the point.

But I keep looking through the doorway,
hopeful there will be a pretty girl to grin at.

I have not seen her so much these days,
despite the door being open,
if she has not closed the door,
She has certainly moved to a window.

Four Years Prior.

poetry

It was a flashback.
Too much noise,
not enough VOLUME
but everything was turned up
all-the-way-and
there you were just
slamming
but it was a flashback
and I don’t know where
the time went. and I’m
not sure if I’m wrong
when I hate it, or
if that’s just the way
flashbacks
are supposed to work.

Chartres

poetry

Aye, the fateful French
Never anticipated
That centuries later oui would have
Such perverse portmanteau,
Creating a word akin
To flatulence and excretion,
And markedly similar to their city.
So needless to say
But said nonetheless:
It appears something was
‘Lost in translation.’

trying to find the center

poetry

alone is different than lonely
but god I tell you I am both
and am walking ’round in circles, here
trying to find the center

and this is a true account of my days
written here for you to see
as usual, and of course
I can’t let go of the words, oh

what’s more is you can have all my stuff
i don’t care about much anymore
but i miss your dog, i miss your dog
yeah yeah, yeah yeah, etc

but if you wanted me (and you don’t)
I would’ve saved you yes I would
but your love is such a weighty lie
your love is just a sucker game.

Like ‘PIG’ or ‘HORSE’ without a basketball. It’s not ‘500’ either

poetry

Let me state obvious things.
I will speak your mind as the words
form in your cranium,
for I can read them from the gestures
that your hands make
towards your feet
all the way down there on the pavement.

I will work out a points system.
I will score when you have had your story
laid out before you before you can
utter a word. I will reign champion.
You will lose.
My points system, though,
is slanted.

honesty

poetry

on the ride looking for my home
there were so many things i didn’t say
the sun dipped low, our shadows grew
you dropped me off but i was lost
losing light behind the crooked horizon

after you left, i took a walk
and got back to the city by sunrise
through the lonely woods and dusk
and dawn and sterile landscape
where i waited in a parking lot

i stole food from the ants
i pretended to be superman
my soul flying through the clouds
i pretended in all honesty

In mourning

poetry

Everything around me
looks like a children’s picture-book now
and this is how it’s going to be
and this is how it’s going to be seem
until all the Pulitzer’s come back from Hawaii,
with their pens between their lips
and their suitcases bursting like the ocean.
This is how it is, in mourning.

There was a day when you smiled,
with your mouth that had two lips,
two peeled peaches, opening and closing
like the heartbeat of a hotel lobby.
There was a day when you sat perched, quite remarkably,
on a rung of the great wooden ladder,
that stretched upwards, like your arms, to the boardroom of Trinity,
where three wise men sat, and drank red wine very slowly.
There was a moment, quite suddenly,
when you declined their invitation
and stepped down from the slippery-slide to glory
with your hair a dripping mess.

Surely this makes the six o’clock news, I thought
But the novelists had already boarded the plane.

There was a day of endless superlatives,
of Latin and prefix and light.
Half torn now in front of me, the mundane are setting up camp,
so I’ll wait, until the real world that came attached to your hip
calls up its publisher and says, ‘’it’s time, I’m coming home.’’

Three on the Eve

poetry

That very morning,
Before the bell rang, I denied him three times.

Now sitting in a desk a peer turned to ask me,
“Hey, ‘carry the light,’ what does that mean?”
I don’t know, nothing, I denied.
But he asked again,
“It’s a cool looking shirt; you don’t know what it means?”
No, I don’t know. It’s just a shirt, I denied again.
“So it’s just a shirt then?”
It’s just a shirt, I swore.

Just then the bell rang.
Just then the rooster crowed.

a list of things which constipate me or give me the Hershey’s squirts (in no particular order)

poetry

green leafy vegetables and milk un-aged
or bowls of oily spiciness though with
most cheeses i’m in the clear. provolone
or mozzarella is seldom rotted enough
for me to get by but most swisses work
no magic at all. broccoli is not an issue
but a single slice of cabbage brings disaster
to an otherwise painless two hour trip in
my car. oh and while most peppers cause
no ruckus, the juice from cooked beans
bring me to my knees – from which i rock
back slowly onto the circle in my bedroom
which i call my bedpan.