Goners, the both of us

poetry

You and I will live,
just long enough to atone
for the crimes we have committed

We will be forced to
rise with the full strengths
which are requisite to be human

And when we fall, I
will probably go with Dylan
on my lips.

I never was big on Dylan
but I just have a feeling.
And things change,
you know?

gameday

poetry

practicing standing up before the
alarm goes off
tying, untying shoes
placing coat in correct position
arriving to practice 20 minutes
early to get the proper motiv
ation and the proper preper
ation so when the coach says
“KLINGER, YOUR IN!”
i will not,
not,
not,
not,
not,
fumble the ball like a fresh
man,
or sophomore.

hitting the field with extra
grass in my teeth,
even if i get that touchdown,
i must not waver.
do you think atlas wavers?
do you think a coach would
bench atlas?
or hercules?
or klinger?

Looking Back A Bit

poetry

I was just thinking
today
how we used to be
people
to eachother.

I don’t know where the
offense
was rendered, but
somehow
that’s all it took, and

I’d love to fix things
but
there’s no use
calling
a phone that’s off the
hook
all the time

I remember
days
when we’d be
more
than just people
to
each other, but
now
I find other
numbers
to dial

Run…ning…the… bl…ock

poetry

with each stride
your heart’s pounding ten times in between
your feet are numb
and the only way you know there’s
ground beneath them is cause
you don’t fall over
the air squeezes your chest like a vice
nostrils constrict
and you wonder how with a subzero chill
your lungs could still burn like napalm
curse, heave, spit
with insides about to burst
and the dull thuds of worn out sneakers
keeping strained
but steady rhythm to the pavement
to the swish of dead grass
on the frozen ground

last lap
ice stings your eyes like sand
wind searing frostbitten ears
one more block to go
one last thrust to drive out the damage
collapse, catch breath,
renew

Won’t hate the player

poetry

There are fifteen different systems
that I hate I hate I hate and
I could count them if you ask me
but I think I’d rather not so
let me stew in my annoyances
and hate and hate and hate
until the feeling’s passed, and
I’m back to ignoring all these
systems that I
hate hate hate hate

runnin’ the block

poetry

the oil gets thick in the motor
when it’s not turnin at 23 degrees
Fahrenheit after you been runnin’
the block on foot thinking “why man
i oughta get outta this place”
with your head all up in the sky
oh man, your so high. oh the lead
in your head that they put in the
drain they say if you don’t drink
it it makes you insane but you
gotta nervous tick like your
life’s down the drain so your
thinking you might stick your
head in the rain when your
thirsty ‘cuz you know that
shits
mind
control
aint it?
when it all comes down you
gotta pick up the dollars
and put them back down
or all the school children might
call you a clown so you pick
up your back and you walk
down the road towards oblivion
thinking “at least i’ll go there
alone” and man,
you are so damn high.

tall as a kite i just might…

poetry

never lost this twinge of mine
preceding an evening i know’ll
include cloves or a hookah
stale couches and a twoehyim
call to some delivery joint for
what inevitably isn’t muchies
but something like it
not quite high

we called it being ‘tall’

never lost that feeling i got
before i joined my friends for
a walk across the top of the
world owning every minute
spraying candles with squirt
guns and making stale couches

Running The Block

poetry

I warned you,
I swear to God
(if there is a God)
I did.
Didn’t you hear me?

I was screaming,
through the double-pane
protecting me and mine
from all the ice-cold wind
and beggars
and midnight peddlers
and cops
(the cops mostly)

You never should have gone
that way.
I see you’re going
the other way
and that’s just not where
you were trying to be.

But those cops,
they’re just out to protect
us.
They just want to
stop us, for our own well-being
and their own peace
(piece?) of mind
to make sure that my pockets
are empty,
free of the burden of illegal
substances, weapons, and
(coincidentally), money,
if I’m found not to be lacking
in any of the other things.

This living we tend to do,
it’s an expensive habit. God
(if there is a God) forbid
that all those cops, who
are only looking out for our
well-being, find it in their hearts
to, just maybe, help
keep costs down,
instead of us.

But they won’t.
They got you,
in the cruiser.
They caught you,
running the block.
They’ve got you on
nothing, and they know it,
but they got you.
And I warned you.
Didn’t you hear me?

Concerning Freshly Waxed Boots

poetry

I wax poetic usually
I’ll wax my boots instead today
and while I’m scrubbing leather
with the toothbrush that I’ll
prob’ly use on teeth again, I’ll
understand the value
of water-proofing boots
before my feet get wet

Well, we’ve only just a bit
of snow this season, unlike
other places, and even though
it’s frozen, at least the sun still shines.
But if you find yourself in Iceland –
four hours of twilight’s all you get –
just call and ask for sunshine
you can probably borrow some of mine.

all things considered, I
do most of my waxing night-times
anyway

Bleeding Brakelines

poetry

Why’d it have to snow?
Of course I’ve never heard that voice before
but then, I’m almost certain
what it means

Alcoholics in the breezeway
and the fuzz just wan’dring here and there
Of course I’ll hold your sister
and try to keep her from screaming

There’s never any blame, they say
though don’t let him get put away
it’s tragic,
but of course they’ll sleep it off

with sheer iced roads
and she, a wreck, there’s absolutely
every chance that things could get much worse.
A shame it’s not a dream

wally’s world

poetry

on the way to the
vee eff double yew
i saw dereks in the
cornfields
and i can see why you’d
not want to be here.
i hear they sent you
in to cash-for-gold
and got a settlement
from a white house,
overnight,
postdated for two years,
and i see what the govern
meant. side-note:
my baby she is a cow in
the pasture,
all four of her stomachs
filtering the asbestos-grass
(have you seen the commercial
for the new tree ants?
delicious, i hear).
my friend denny, see, he lives
on every corner,
he puts syrup on his bread
and sells you awful puns for
10 a piece.
and, i suppose, i’m glad as hell
you finally walked out of wally’s
world, we’re all still unsure
as to why any of us bought
tickets. ’till then it’s midnight
in the living section.