The Lyger

poetry

Lyger! Lyger! burning bright
In the midst of a fight,
What skilled artist tragic
Could draw thy skills in magic?

In what distant land or place
Did thy perilous form take shape?
On what inspiration were thee based?
What the paper could have thee encased?

And for the purposes of meeting a girl,
What maestro of pen could thee unfurl?
And when thy form began to take shape,
What the dressing of thee in a cape?

And to be sure thee did not suck,
What the pencil? What the fuck
Were the thoughts on his mind,
While he starred off, as if blind?

When he danced with all his might
Were thee only or a friggin blight?
Did he smile his drawing to see?
Did he who drew Pedro draw thee?

Lyger! Lyger! burning bright
In the midst of a fight,
What skilled artist tragic
Could draw thy skills in magic?

A Glimpse

poetry

A glimpse, through a curtained window
Of a family of parents and children in kitchen, around the table,
late on a summer afternoon—And I thought from my view
Of a time when those close, and whom I love, were seated there, and
Seated huddled over chairs, that they could reach the colored game pieces;
A faint giggle, amid the shuffle of chairs and chatter—of laughter and
Joy and company,
There I discovered, a truth undeniable, sharing life together,
Perhaps nothing else could be asked.

Fellas

poetry

I know three fellas
aint got a line to walk
aint got a line to talk
neither
but they’re walkin’
and talkin’
and damned if they ain’t
brand knew! But they are
and they’re fakin’ it
and they’re makin’ it
and baby, that’s just fine
‘cuz some fellas just aint
meant to talk no stuff
or walk no lines

bad fantasies

poetry

i knew that you wantedneededyearned to talk
but i had to go
and no entreaty could sway me from my course,
so you didn’t entreat,
nor did you cry,
but sitting there calmly,
in that moment i watched you die;
and what was you before
became cloaked in stone
and in statuesque grandeur
you calmly watched me walk away
because i had to go.

for fear you’re fearful

poetry

my nights were mostly sleepless
till hours after bedtime
where pictures of my third grade
baseball team slowly turned into
typewriters (something that at the time
terrified me) and fear was something
i grew used to. staying up nights
hoping tonight my door would be
left open to see down the brown
carpeted hallway to the light at the end
and hope to hear the voices of my parents
talking to soothe me to sleep
begging myself to pass out before
the voices stopped and i was left in silence

now i want you so badly not to fear
a thing at night or during the day i want
to protect you from anything you might
ever wonder is dangerous
to know your father is here and ready
to keep you safe. i want myself to feel safe
to call out to the One who really is in charge
and sing songs which bring comfort
in your ear as they remind me i’ve no reason
to be afraid even when your mother is
gone and we’re alone in a house much too
big for two people (really just one and a
munchkin). where the brown carpet is gone
but the lights stay on and i’ve no one to talk
with to soothe you to sleep so you scream
and you scream and i hold you and hold you
again knowing the longer i hold you the more
tired you become and the less likely to sleep
and you’ll have to scream yourself to sleep tonight
something i’m not wholly against as long
as your screaming from disobedience, or just
a lack of desire to sleep

but if you’re afraid i’m here for you
though you wont know these words till you’re
old enough to no longer fear the dark
and your sister will be there with you to hold
to hug and to read to.

and just so you know typewriters are really
wonderful things you should never fear
for anything which makes words is created
in the image of God. he used words after all
to make you and me and the sun above us we
never see.

Onward!

poetry

There is no final destination
on this itinerary
but if the
choice is
be tween
marking an X on the map
and riding someone else’s bus
why friend,
I think I’ll joyride
for the rest of my long life

Morning

poetry

When I go between the slippery sidewalks,
The snow covered battlefield,
Washed white like sins on the wooden cross,
Half the world still sleeps.

And when I come to the slushy street,
The hum of cautious tires,
Up from the slippery tug of the icy cement,
Is a wordless soundtrack

A sapling arches scattered branches,
But not a solitary leaf on any,
Peaceful, I think at least, for its picture
Comes colored in purity.

I have come full circle again
By the footprints impressed
Of my whereabouts viewing this scene
To keep when the sun comes out

Little Exercise

poetry

Think of a crowd gathering for an execution
like an explosion playing slowly in reverse,
listen to it inhaling.

Think of how she must look, the sentenced,
hands bound, chin set, stone gaze cast somewhere
indefinite on the horizon beyond gunmetal waves,

where a ship may be disappearing,
its sails filled with chilled wind, waving goodbye
beneath an overcast sky, bored and impassive.

Think of the blade, blood-stained and worn
impatiently hanging, suddenly revealed
as the child’s scapula.

It is quiet for a moment. Then it sighs, slices
comes to a sudden wooden stop–
mortal dam unstopped, her blood reaches short for the sea.

Now the people passionately cheer
eyes alight, fires in smoldering faces,
squeaking and gibbering into the midday.

Think of someone on bent knees in an empty church
hands held in supplication, quivering lips mumbling desperate prayers;
think of him as on a precipice, permanently.

Watching

poetry

I watched you fall
from the top of the world
to the bottom of the barrel

I heard the wet thud
as you struck the wooden floor
your body splayed out
and there you lay

Then blood started pooling
at the bass of your haired cranium
your fingers curled forevermore
and there you lay

I watched you fall
from the top of the world
to the bottom of the barrel
and I didn’t try to catch you

That couple, such a quiet pair.

poetry

Your mother would be proud, you know?
I told her all about it
and she’s written back a letter
said she’s on a train this weekend
gonna see you on a Sunday
with a bonnet and a bible
and she’ll take you out to dinner
while her gaze grabs you like fingers
and she’ll ask you all about her
when you’ll bring her ’round to meet
and you’ll say all the pretty things
you know she wants to hear
but all the while she’s just staring
her eyes grabbing you like fingers
and you’ll swear you think you’re finished
as she’ll catch another train
and just as soon as she came in
she’s out of town and life again
and she’s really very proud, you know?

officer buzz-kill

poetry

beneath the skull of a cop is stone.
he sits, staring, waiting for you to
move: to have the wrong facial exp
ression, to be sea
ted in the wrong position (weight
on the wrong ass
cheek)
and then he stands up, slowly, noticing
your criminality.
casually, he walks at any speed
he pleases, and begins the triviailty
of conversation which ends always
in the same way:
cement box.
he laughs about the game last night
with his friends while you sit in
the back of his car, which is always on,
losing your wits and your “savings”
and your life.
he shines his flashlights in your eyes,
inquiring into your soul with his long
stone gaze,
slowly paging through your mind and
your posessions, taking interest in
what he pleases,
fining you for what displeases
the fools on capitol hill,
laughing indescriminately at your
last free breaths.

yes,
beneath the skull of a cop is stone.
his pupils work tirelessly on the
unsuspecting public,
just trying to get where they’re going
to do what they want
often times hurting no-one but them
selves,
maybe the futures of their future
children,
and he wants to steal your vitality
to fill his quota. as long as he is here,
he figures,
he might as well get you if he can.
he might as well get the ones that no
one wants to see gotten and not get
the ones everyone would like to see
gotten due to lack of evidence/effort.

beneath the skull of a cop is stone,
and in the place where his heart
should be there is a fucking piggy-bank.
oink
oink.