days when nobody posts

poetry

bring relief and reminders
that life isn’t only about trying
to find words to describe our daily
travel through death defying
skull and cross-bone warning
creaky, dusty, burned out, deserted
hallways and rooms of old

its also about friends and family
and life outside outside our own
box.

but then the publishers write
and i get confused again

(today i got an email from lulu
saying they wanted to put our book
for sale up at amazon – weird)

Hopefully Benign

poetry

The urge to wander
SWELLS
within one’s being, pushing,
coaxing one to tarry
just behind the line of
automatic people
that they
MUST
follow.

But, the urge to wander
SWELLS
so great, sometimes
it is impossible
to resist, despite
one’s own automatic
gearing.

The urge has
SWOLLEN
now. Throbbing just beneath
my breast, oh-so-near the
SOUL,

which I hold oh-so-dear.

I’ve since begun to tarry.
I’ve since gone to the shop.
It’s expensive, but they’re
changing my transmission
to a manual.

Same Old Routine

poetry

It’s been twelve days
Since you briskly exited the room
Walking through the ornately carved
Dark cherry coloured door,
A resounding click as the lever fell into place.
We could’ve had some great times—
Sip diner coffee at two in the morning,
Black, two sugars and free refills.
Cheer boisterously at baseball games,
You got so excited you spilled your soda.
Could’ve shared our writing,
My favorite was the one set in Boston—
If only I would have introduced myself.

Jazz Club

poetry

open the door and
take the elevator down,
down, down, down, down, down;

into the dark and
the smoke that swirls around,
down, down, down, down, down;

into the past where
that prohibition feeling surrounds,
down, down, down, down, down;

where the music pervades
filling every crevisce with sound,
down, down, down, down, down;

where heads grow light
as drink after drink goes down,
down, down, down, down, down.

the depths of silence

poetry

cast about for words
that don’t seem to come
because there’s nothing,
nothing on the surface to say,
and we don’t want to go
beyond the surface
because if we were open,
really, really open,
then everything would change,
and we would never again laugh together
because the shadow of the depth,
the shadow would always remain,
tinting and tainting our mirth,
striking it away;
so we’ll perpetually sit in silence
until only the silence remains.

At least until the drinking started

poetry

“It’s so nice to be together
but to not feel like we have to talk,”
I found myself thinking
whilst driving with old friends
to whom I had no idea what to say;

and I all but convinced myself
that this was how it should be,
trying to not recognize the probability
that our friendship had passed away,
and that only a faint semblance remained.

how you like them apples?

poetry

the ones with no core
because they’re heartless in a fruity
kind of way that lacks both pit
and love and every emotion
because while it technically lives
it lives in an “I absorb my
nutrition through a process call
photosynthicrap, you ever heard of it?”
kind of a way which no one even
in your vicinity appreciates
especially for someone that looks
like you
we just have less patience i suppose
because

Productivity

poetry

Productivity
Is relative
To the amount
Of work
Being done
In the first place.
Perhaps to feel more
Productive
The least
Amount of work
Should be produced
In order
To feel more
Productive
So that
When any progress
Is made
I feel much more
Productive
Than I had been.

Relatively speaking.

Dry Mouth

poetry

The glass isn’t half full
It’s not half empty either
It’s completely, dried out
Utterly bare and empty
I’m spitting in it
Scraping pencil shavings on top
Churning it into a moist residue
Caking the bottom of the glass
Charcoal mixing with saliva
I have nothing left to articulate
Rinse and start over
Tomorrow’s another day
Maybe I’ll care then, maybe I won’t
But at least I’ll have forgotten that I should

Haiku

poetry

Sunshine envelops
but for one last time today;
the night is coming.

…And away from home we stray
’till at last we find an old, quaint place
to gather near, and all but pray.
To garner our good graces
in between us, all together
and truly decide, one and all
to wait out foul weather
rather than attempt to sally forth
in to certain disaster.

Rain comes from the east
the tents are staked solidly
We will sleep in peace.

circles are infinite lines and circles are feelings

poetry

tilt the earth if
you’ve not enough shine
it’s dark ’round here
about half of the time
why, tell both sides to
give up the fight
make the nighttime
give back your sight
but if no concession comes
or you can’t even try
waste your time alone
and cry, cry, cry
feelings like circles
like infinite lines
an arrow pointing at
itself ’till the end of time
as life, itself, is
a perpetual crime
but you can’t see!!
BUT YOU CAN’T SEE!!
WE ALL CAN’T SEE!!
we must be blind.

Ephemeral

poetry

A life.
Fleeting.
Something so genuine,
so unique, like a memory.
A flash, a thought.
A tick, a breeze.
Brief.
Something so trivial
so minor, like a breath
Gone.
In an instant, a second
a beat, a blink
And I am lost.
At a loss,
for words.