The City where Bebop Was Born, more colloquially known as.

poetry

Kansas City
boy I’d love to shuffle down in
Kansas City
play them heartland blues and
shit, I’ll maybe hit a
jam or two

yeah,
Kansas City
that’s just where I’d want to be
where Bird still Lives
and thrills are cheap and music’s free
and Kansas City bound
I think I’ll be

i loved growing up in colorado. it’s probably about the best place on earth to live ever. in fact i hope heaven is like colorado because there is little to no hope i will return to such beauty in the life (despite what i’m sure will be my best efforts). why, you might ask do i love it so? i can give reasons all day long. but at the end of the day it comes down to 2 things. beauty. epic winters. mmmm….. epic winters.

poetry

winter makes life hard sometimes
the temperature drops daily
as coal dust falls silting the ground
in grey
black.
and drops and drops
reminding you there are forces bigger
than your work day
and drops and drops
you pile on more clothes and fight
smaller colds
and drops

till every man made blemish
is covered in virgin white
every sin forgotten

in snow.

i, too, pass emotive gasses from my buttox america

poetry

I am the shackle-free brother
they send me to flatulate in the washroom
when friends visit
but i laugh
losen my belt
and relax.

tomorrow
i’ll be in the dining room
when friends visit
nobody’ll dare
ask me to
“cut the cheese in privacy”
then.

besides
they’ll see how comfortable i am
and be humiliated

i, too, am america.

i remember being 12,

poetry

and i was enamored,
much like when i later got hammered,
and my mind was filled
with thoughts that thrilled
every part of me
as i watched the tv,
and i wanted so much to compete;
and I wanted so much to complete
ly leave behind the stocky boy I used to be
finding the athletic god ahead of me.

so i decided to go get myself a snack,
thinking that tomorrow i would hit the wrack.

6 Miles High and Pointed East

poetry

we used to
live here.
the soft and
indigo evenings were
ours.

we were folded
in the
valleys and scars of
the red rock and
the land.

we climbed and
we ran – we
strolled and breathed
deeply with

rich minerals in
our water and
warm sun on our
shoulders.
we absorbed all
we could.

but there was
more and
there was
less than

the fine grains and
glittering flecks
that accumulate and
weather in memory.

those that
are transposed in
pen-strokes are
often incomplete.

we used to
live there. and
now we are two
by the sea.

and all that glows in
dusk behind us and
all that anticipates in
warm dark ahead
is ours!

ours for the making,
ours for the building, and
ours for the taking.

Rondeau

poetry

When eventually there is a time that lasts
A time in which there will be no past
And in this time we will see one another
Where all of us will be united as brothers
When we reach this place unsurpassed

In a time of paradise so eternally vast
There is no pain, it all will have passed
This place we will see, is unlike any other
When eventually there is a time that lasts

When we finally reach this place, alas
Joy will abound, unending it will amass
Long sought embraces will we discover
Into the arms of our fathers and mothers
Where there is no such thing as greener grass
When eventually there is a time that lasts

vomit (imagine it’s a euphemism for writing, and then imagine that maybe it’s not. perhaps you’ll like me better in one of the two boxes. i considered the title ‘bulimia’ but the truth is i’ve never recovered from the high school psych class i had, the video they showed on eating disorders and the fact that i had known far too many women who had struggled with it to be able to process it coldheartedly as the teacher and video had asked. i’m pleased with this final title selection. i think you will be too.)

poetry

a few years back i learned to vomit
and over time i understood

should you pay attention to what you
put in you’ll soon better understand

just what exactly you’ll get out. and
lately i’ve learned to bring up blues

and greens. yellows are natural but
deep hue purples take focus, skill.

lately i cannot vomit enough. just to
stand back and see what’s come up

sometimes it’s poetry and sometimes
just prose but almost never a short

story. a few years back when i learned
to vomit, i never imagined the love

affair she and i would have. my need
to eat slowly decreasing as my own

vomit becomes my inspiration for more

Simple Mistakes

poetry

There’s a crick in my neck
reminds me
of all the cricks in my neck
I’ve had before
but I’ll still sleep on that pillow
because it’s still my favorite pillow
and I’ll sleep on your shitty couch
(I swore I’d never sleep on it
again)

and when
you wake me
accidentally
I’ll let it slide this time
just like I let it slide last time
just like it slides most every time
and I’ll be cussing at your couch
and rubbing out this damn
crick in my neck

the rabbit

poetry

A rabbit let us say
a brown furry rabbit

that hops through
the morning grass

returning to her mate
returning to her man

the one she truly loves
and shakes her bottom

almost never for his
sake and she’s certain

she’s never wrong as
in this way and that

she’ll raise her kids
on every continent

available and out she’ll
run to learn something

new and then to hop on
back the way she knows yes a

rabbit let us call her
a hot brunette rabbit

Sestina

poetry

The sun ascended early in the morning
Climbing hills and sky through a window
Breaking into dawn with golden weather
Stirring awake a child and her mother
And a new day begins in the small house
With the child finding her box of crayons

To the kitchen table she carries the crayons
Squinting tiredly at the dazzling morning
As the radiant sun lights up the tiny house
Spilling gaily in through the open window
And illuminating the outline of her mother
Remarking quietly, “what beautiful weather.”

“I wonder why we’ve had such good weather?”
She says, as the child carefully chooses a crayon
Then stops, and turns again to her mother
Still entranced by the picturesque morning
Soaking in the deep warmth by the window
“Momma,” she asks, “what color is a house?”

“Would you like to look outside at the house?
You don’t need a coat, it’s very nice weather.”
She watches her child from the window
Comparing from her box the best colored crayon
Drenched in the bright blanket of morning
Thinking how wonderful it is to be a mother

And then she began to think of her own mother
And growing up in the same petite house
When they woke early on Sunday mornings
Marching to church, regardless of the weather
But on sunny days she would leave out a crayon
That would melt from the heat on the window

And how she gazes through that same window
Imagining when her own child will be a mother
But now her child has found the correct crayon
Matching it confidently to the color of the house
As she trots back inside from the balmy weather
On a wonderful day that is still only morning

An unforgettable morning framed in the window
With extraordinary weather and a smiling mother
From a little house colored by a child’s crayons