Accidental Rubbernecking.

poetry

The accident in the street
may as well be the front yard
with all the bright lights
flashing
filling my
windows
tearing my
eyes to midnight shreds
as they’re not so used to
blues,
at so late an hour

The cruisers running block
after block
all around
my sweet, sweet
sanctuary.
Enough,
to drive someone
insane

But,
my soul is filled with birdsong
and other sweet music,
and my eyes will close
to better listen to it,
and midnight blues
are not so blue again.

Man (Remix)

poetry

There are many ways
In which I am a man.
Perhaps I can offer you a few manswers
And a little comandy as well
In my following mantra manuscript:

With feats of strength and might
I command the armies
Calling orders and making mandates.
But let’s be clear about that, I don’t man-date.
With unmatched skill I maneuver and demand.
I proclaim manifestos!
And I’m a maniac.
I’m mangy so stay out of my way
Or I’ll mangle you.
But don’t worry, for I still have manners.
For example when I’m not manipulating
I mail my letters in manila envelopes
Or play love songs with my mandolin.

I am a man with much to manage
As I manufacture tanks
And other mandatory and manly things.
But I take time off for my manicures!
I hate Monday’s but I love Mandays
When I can watch Manchester United.

I take my vacations to Manitoba
Where I eat mandarins or mangos
And sprinkle cinnaman on them
Chewing with my mandible.
While there I once saw a manta ray
And almost caught maningitis
While I was hunting for manatee

I never wear pants. I only wear mants
And I place important papers on my mantle
So that I’ll never forget my manniversary!

our governing body

poetry

i’d think you’d have
compassion
‘cuz you stole all of
mine
take off your colored
glasses
for all the hues have
died
the stench will kill your
olfactors
when your livin in a
stie
but i digress, you
progress
to make my happiness
fly
like a paper plane in the
summer
whose nature the ground drew
nigh

Bitter Recollections

poetry

A Mystery! A Mystery!
How many morns of merriment
may end in such sad sweet songs
of pleasing past pictures gone into putridity
of little lying lives – lifelessness
change consuming the creativity of childhood,
Until only an old oppressed imagination
exists to be blown below a bed
and adulthood advancing against all
the youthful yearning, and devastating
dreams of doing deeds destined to remain
restlessly for reasons reproduced generation
to generation, grandfather to grandchild, gaining
great gravity as a familiar family fortitude, flourishing
til the ghastly grave greets us.

In Waking

poetry

Lurch for dispersing clouds
Clutching insufferably at comfort
Or was it fear?
Trickling to archives of unconscious
Never to be seen until…
Palpitation.
Palpitation.
Palpitation.
Don’t go. Come back.
I’m tethered.
It’s warm here.
Don’t be afraid.
The shadow is shaking
Or a vapor still hanging
Onto to something that was there
I’d write every word down
A masterpiece. An opus.
But it’s all gone.

just under nine minutes to go

poetry

until windows update
overtakes everything,
crashing this;
crashing that;
tearing everything apart
with its awesome power
and the majestic way
that it closes programs,
completely on its own,
maybe asking;
maybe not;
depends on its mood.
and all that’s left
for me to do
is acquiesce,
because there is no questioning
and there is no disagreeing
once the update has began.

But it tastes so sweet

poetry

There is death in that water
I can smell it.
It reeks its odorous presence
through to my soul and there it
sits,

grabs hold,
just around the thinner parts
that aren’t so staunch
against the
creeping
terrors all about

Questions.
What if
questions are just
questions, nothing
more? but soon the
questions turn to
worries turn to
terror turns to
I-can’t leave-the-
house-any-more

But those are just the
little parts,
so I still drink that water.

And here I sit
breathing death
with every waking
instant

before we leave

poetry

i am truly taking the
last hits
of this bag
and am thinking
how i let you down,
and died at the
end of this dream.

i hear them knocking
all day,
these days,
but i wanna spend
my minutes between
you and the sad
winter sun
before i awake
and consciousness comes.

good friends

poetry

it might be slow to get going
but eventually it will
and when it does,
it will carry on,
ad infinitum,
and beyond,
for as long as we like,
never waning,
never lolling,
always good,
always too short,
until the time comes
and we have to go,
home,
away,
apart,
just when it started to get good.

In Boston

poetry

In Boston
I see boxy blue cars.
Tired blue buzzards.
On roads, I can’t
Tell if they come or go.
Parked, I don’t know the front
From the back.

They have flown cross country.
Seen deserts and
Churning snow storms.
Fine Swedish engineering
You wish would last forever.

But I ride the train.
I come and go.
In giant, clanky lunch pails
On wheels.
Peeling and rusting on rails.
Full of boots and coats and earbuds
And more blank stares.