poetry

Yappy sumbitch

poetry

I often wonder if talking to a dead man
is considered dialogue or soliloquy.
But I guess you’re not really
around to tell me anyway, and
therein probably lies the answer.

One day I’ll die and we
can continue that conversation
that we started a hundred times.
Until then, I suppose,
I’ll just keep talking to myself.

Not Fooling Anyone

poetry

Who am I kidding?
It’s impossible to keep contained
Or rather, the containers empty?
My fingers too busy to type keys
Of stanzas and enjambment
and end-stopped.
No inspiration?
Motivation?
Stimulation?
Where’s it all gone?
Lies.
Who am I kidding,
I’m just a lazy sob story
Preferring to sleep
And complain
Pretending there’s better things to do
than write.
And it should be noted:
by sob, I mean the acronym

Keep your blades sharp – A Cautionary Tale

poetry

He was just a boy when he bought his wooden
sword, and shield made out of plastic,
from a kiosk at a carnival.

Was a priceless prize, that weapon and its partner.
Security against every wolf and monster
and beggar and vagabond.
Life and livelihood assured.

He was a warrior then.

But time passes and, often cruelly.
The sword has broke, the shield
too small to strap. Was never seen fit
to buy another.

Defenseless.

Ripped apart by wolves and monsters.
Taken, by the vagabonds, for all he’s got.
Wretched and shameful.

Wretched,
and shameful,
and to top it all,
his car won’t start.

God Damn It.

condescension

poetry

walking along,
feeling alone
in the lost land
of American Idol fans,
constructing a generation of
lounge singer heroes,
reliving the glories
of innovative artists
who have now passed into
the general mediocrity
of the past:
free to be groped;
free to be grabbed;
free to be destroyed.

and so i sit here,
listening to my indie music,
looking down my nose,
secure in my intellectual superiority,
evidenced by my musical selections.

The untouchable

poetry

Our fate was sealed standing there that night
Like macadam, bolted down and tar heavy
Months later my thoughts are still there,
Standing like little urchins outside that same pub,
Sipping ale, wearing moth-eaten black coats and
Smoking charcoal cigarettes while glaring at strangers.
They go back there only on weekends now,
Looking for a sign- my thoughts do,
Looking for a logic-god in a white Mercedes Benz
To pull up by the side of the road and
Tell them to go home, that “it all makes
Sense now”. But you’ve got a spare set of arms
To body- double with and so do I. So for now,
And since I know you don’t read my poems,
How about we just leave this thing in the storeroom.

baja part deux

poetry

we pitched our tents on wind carved
sand pits and fought with ants the
size of mice. we woke and ran along
dolphins jumping just off shore as
curious at us as were of them.

salsa. oh… the salsa.

we took directions from crazy
ladies driven to their insanity
by their taste-buds after years of ingesting
the salsa. oh… the salsa

fish taco after fish taco we turned
right through a field on a dirt path
through mountains and passed in
twelve hours only one other moving
vehicle.
stopping for tacos in a village so small
the only restaurant was a hole in a kitchen
where 50 cents buys two grease balls

we stood on peaks no one should ever
have to leave and bathed under
blue skies, a sun anyone would have
worshipped had they not known better.

and then came day 3.

BAJA

poetry

We floated in
Warm muddy water
Calm and lapping on the
Gummy sandbars

Woke earlier in the night for
Reasons that I don’t know or
Reasons I forgot

Dark night scatter-lit
From above and we marched out
To catch the receding tide
Heels sucking in Mexican clay

I’m pretty sure
Cortez was an asshole
But I didn’t know the guy

His sea, though, is just
The kind of adventure that pulls
Some kids from far away

We floated in
black and starlight
and I can’t remember what
we talked about or
if we talked at all

but that night I was sure that
mystery was real and that
life was a stunning gift

it rolled over me in
tides of curling diamonds –
phosphorescence that
I hope Cortez saw too

gorgeous

poetry

only when lonely men
howl at the impostors
does the world spin justly
and thrustly it shall be
when on nights like this
i swerve and weave
through the traffic claim
a mailbox or two on this
evening of leaving and
solitude
thinking of leaving mount
pleasant, soon.
at night i rise to grip her
thighs the dark’s supple
trouble stirring my coffee
and ready to fornicate
with this nighttime i am
holding and riding the
best that i can like a madman
howling away at impostors
making the world spin
proper.

You me and an art gallery

poetry

A fat cram of color in front of us
Screaming like a flat footed baby
For attention. Or worse, appreciation.
You muttering something about
The brush strokes, as if they were
Exotic birds no one had named yet.
And me embracing the smell of oil,
Freshly polished brass, coffee, someone’s
Over-applied day-out perfume,
And the comforting muttering of
Museum voices, pressing their backs
Lightly against walls and pushing off
Again, to rest in softly lit corners,
Beside the gallery attendant, a
Mysterious beekeeper. A wise man.
You had found something on the
Seventh wall, something that itched
And amused in the way only a close-friend
Can. So I walked over to get a closer look.
There it was. A painting of the very gallery
We stood in, one hundred years before us.
So we took it in. Savored the snap-shot
In time. A chrysalis around us for just
A few moments. Until the bell rang
For closing and we left through the
Royal roof-scraping doors.

When shopping, make sure you read all the silly round labels on the boxes

poetry

Genuine is
leather, gold, sugar, diamonds, Kentucky bourbon,
You.

Coats need tailoring,
gold the work of practiced hands,
sugar only comes from canes
and Kentucky Bourbon is one thing only found in
Kentucky.
(check the label).

Oh, so pay the man and
buy that stamp on his degree.
Buy the gold medal on the
Barbecue sauce wrapper.

I’ll drive an hour and sit
singing loud enough to
wake the neighbors. And we
won’t say anything of substance
until we’re safely set away.

But we’ll say it.

And the only genuine I’ll pay for
is the only one I get for free.

cliches

poetry

minutes, hours, days pass
stretching into weeks
of glassy eyed starring,
just starring at the screen
searching for something
searching for anything
searching for creativity
but finding only befuddlement
in the never ending quest
for words and ideas
that i haven’t written before
and knowing deep down
that i have written this all before.

Alchemic

poetry

Sprigs of spring,
uncut, uneven,
twitch in the breeze,
I distribute myself in particles
abandoning anchoring roots.

As the oak watches the world,
stony in its indifference,
so I slip into the wind
airily ignoring.
Nothing is as quiet
as the blossoming redspire pear,
as the wisps of cirrus
reforming.

The surrounding red brick buildings
hold their tongues as they always have.
Infused in the soil, I feel everything.
The nervous skittering of the squirrel.
The slow shifting of growth.
The soft weight of supine bodies,
like fingers checking a geologic pulse.

My molecules
having drifted so far,
the shadowy rustle
of last fall’s leaves.