Try To Speak To Eachother

poetry

when it feels like all communication
has broken down and every station
lost it’s transmitting power, we are
left to wait and wonder, staring at
a blank screen, listening to a
dead line, hoping for
a single word or whisper,
for a single note to sound,
for a single piece of proof that
we are not the only ones that
have been suffering from
mis-communication

but we always get so antsy
with the dials left where they should be
and no good thing to fix the thing but
time.

alas, at least
time isn’t cheap, but is,
in these such circumstances,
plentiful.

The lunatic

poetry

I am back, such as the unfaithful wife returns after deserting her home,
humble and small
I have gone to sea and come back with my head on my hand
Almost slain, almost loved
I can only confess half of my sins and wish I had sinned more
Both world and home move on and over my dislodged limbs,
expanding in words and invisible shapes.
I confess I resent you half as much as I love you
Having loved only two people in my life, all of you included,
I have certainly returned just as sane.

the scene

poetry

the children arrived first
on the scene, and seeing them
in impressive numbers sprinting across
the square we thought
they were playing a game
until we heard someone say, a grin playing
across her lips,

“kavon’s been shot!”

digust crushed me thinking
perhaps she savored this moment, anticipating
times she’d get to retell it.
others, smiling similarly, emerged in uneven sudden bursts
from their houses, like puss from popped pimples,
and rushed towards the anguished screams
of those i assume were his loved ones
(but i can’t be sure since i refused
to make a spectacle of sorrow)

but am i any fucking better?
my first thought:

this needs to be a poem.

The, the, the, the, the, the

poetry

Vonnegut said, English consists
Of idiosyncratic arrangements
In horizontal lines of about
Twenty-six phonetic symbols.
These letters forming words,
They mean less and less every time.
Pick one out and say it over
And over.
And over.
And over.
Two.
Two.
Two.
Sounds like a tutu.
Two.
Two.
Two.
Sounds like a semi-automatic rifle.
The words mutate until they’re meaningless
Only funny, awkward sounds
Squirting from my contorted mouth
Purple.
Purple.
Purple.
Pur-Pull.
Per-Pull.
Poor Bull.
Purble?
Purgle?
And nothing makes sense anymore.

dont act like you didn’t name yours

poetry

night ache from an unknown source
caused luigi more pain than he’s seen
since jr. high wrestling when a dinkus
named bob kneed him

morning came with neck pain to boot
thinking i’m too young for this i mounted
my bike and rode till everything went a
blissful noticeable numb

home and showering as luigi reminds
me he still hurts

Primates

poetry

“Woohooha, we’re monkey boys!”
We yelled.

Jumping up and
down
on the old tractor wagon.
Plucking banana shaped leaves
off the ancient tree out back.

The days were endless
in our magical ship
through the jungle.

Four years old and beaming
at our newly hoarded stash.

Then we became hungry,
racing inside for supper,
to escape the giant gorilla.

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.