repetition-tition
brings those things that
you claim you never
never needed or wanted
or hoped for.

those things that
like rhyme
like reason
like the phantom in that
phone booth
can handle words yous
cant otherwise use

like that and take that
and smoke that
and

with a beat or two
and a white rapper
you could be something
if you only had words that
you could throw down
in a pinch that
make people twitch that
scratch people’s itch that

um….
yea like that.

i’ve a brilliant idea
i’ll wait till the children
downstairs are most likely
asleep and then i’ll grab this here
rope and see how many times
i can leap over it in quick
succession and shake
these floors.

if these kids want to learn how
to sleep i know just the thing
noise. noise. incessant noise.

i’m really doing them a favor
i am.
teaching them to sleep.

Some will play those bleeding heartstrings
until their fingers bleed just the same
and no-one has a place to stand because
all the cobbled streets are awash with it

I played another set of strings, though,
down on the back of a hot small-block
and though they did not bleed,
they certainly had heart,
and all the burn was more than enough
compensation.

And when you tossed me those rags
to clean the bleed from my fingers,
Friend, I can tell you, Certainly
was the only way I thought
that all was right with the world.

Season comes again.

Walking, air stifles breath.
Breathe, absorb frost.
Autumn, but it’s Winter.

Icy air—mindful—you.
Scent unidentified—familiar.
Wafted from north.

Leaves whisked by same wind.
Take this kiss, blown.
Stretch—reach Providence.

Remember.

Oh, how the world
it jostles itself in to order
one way or the other

or that’s the way it seems
hit every red light once
and tell me different.
Hit every green and tell me
the same.

Like the time that you
made two pies and
ett the second one first
and then you realized
that the first one needed
to bake a bit longer.

You narrowly avoided food-
bourne disease that time,
too.

And now all your friends are over
and just raring for
a slice,
or two,
And you ett your fill already
so there’s plenty, anyway.

Funny how things work out
Or that’s the way it seems,
anyway. Bake a pie
and tell me different.

all of you deserve a song
or a sonnet at least
goddamnit some sort of prose
maybe a short poem
at least a couple of words

and the world, well
it deserves the finest painting
or some sort of modernist
abstract piece
one that would garner review
in at least the college paper
at least

i should mention this night
in my autobiography
or an essay, a memoir
my diary
at least

and all of the unknown
doesn’t it all deserve some
thought? at least?
an hour of life,
set a side
at least a moment
or two of reflection

but i?
i deserve nothing at all
not but a stretch of solitude
at least.

as self pity is one of the most disgusting forms of the sin of sins. pride. and you revel in it in new ways bringing insight, innovation, and a general new interest in the subject from the public. yea. i’m talking about you who re-invented the color black because hanging your head seemed too mundane to be taken seriously by those who effing should feel sorry for you.

yea my fingers ache to write
and i’ve lined my computer up
just perfectly with the right
software and setup to be what
i imagine could be called productive.

oh and my book topic is complete
even the ideas are relatively well
formed and outlined in my head.
sure a few minutes of mapping it
out might be useful to the process.

and it doesn’t matter what they say
i type WAY faster than i could possibly
spit this thing out in longhand even
with the constant distractions in the
background vying for my attention.

and though the motivation knocks
at the door every few hours i have
yet to pull the trigger. rather i keep
the book within the crosshairs and know

i simply cannot fail until the first
sentence is formed of absolute vomit
and i re-read and give up hope in my
unrealized vanity.

Famished, returning from the hunt,
Through the tenebrous stretch of forest
Into the clearing: Jacob’s bungalow in sight.
And from within, ambrosial delights!
The most decadent of delicious delicacies!
“That wench of a brother,” Esau spake,
“He’ll have a minivan in no time.”
But what hunger!
To discard birthright for a single bowl,
It must have been one hell of a porridge!
Though soon after, his appetite returned:
And “Call me Oliver,” he spaked,
“But I want some more, please.”

the leaves’ shadows
shift across the red brick wall–
an unseasonal warmth.

And the way you talk it’s where
dreams and souls and lovers go to die
while all the poison coursing through
your veins boils up and you spew it across
the dashboard and the empty passenger
seat, heartless and soulless and coughing
and choking and driving, always driving
southbound like it’s some kind of metaphor
for everything you do and say but really,
it’s just the fastest way home. Then again,
who says that’s not the metaphor?

fall clouds
my grey
filled mind
knowing they
thought the
sun far
different from
a star
for many
many years
before anyone
knew the
two were
one in
the same

I have made the mistake
and read too far in to you junkies
and you perverts and you wasted
shells with epithets aplenty adorning
your maladjusted beings.

I can not know the things you’ve seen
because I can not know how you’ve
seen them, Rose-colored glasses or
beer goggles or haze or whathaveyou.

But, however you find your beauty from
day to day, it’s always a hard smile
with your teeth so rotted that way.

when you’re sanitizing your hands
in favor of rubbed-hair-free knees
and slouching in lay-z-boys
in lieu of pumping iron

when you choose low fat
over tried and true butter.

Hopscotch or leapfrogging
At once, sturdy on two legs, at another, teetering unsteady on one
Arms flapping headless chicken 
Over under over under, up top rock bottom, hair on fire.
Always why and never why.
Swings hinging back and forth chainlinks groan to glee.
Seesaws precipice fulcrums iambic meter
One foot succeeds its predecessor unknowing 
What heights and depths follow.
A rubberband, taut and slack,
Slinging emotions; elated and overwrought 
Deviation peeling grip from constancy.  

Awaken my memory; crisis or carousel, you’re near. 
But while he was still a long way off his father saw him 
You see me. 
When I’m distant, draw me close. 
Warm breath carries over sandpaper chin.
Let me listen closely to your words 
I will never leave you nor forsake you.
Synapses springing ethereal pulses between our bodies 
A father, palms as big as ribcages 
Trampolines me up and down, up and down
Moon bouncing on his belly.
A promise: Daddy’s here. 

on the port i met her
down a bottle of spanish crown
i was just a child of the ocean
she was a pretty satin gown
it’s been a while since
i said that i had seen
such a beauty laid before me
she said this one would be free

this is not a summer dream

You’ll hang on every word like
a coat on an out-turned screw
and you’ll know all the gossip and
what else do you need? Certainly not
truth. Truth only starts trouble and
makes people angry and you just
don’t have any time for that sort of
garbage in your life right now. So
explain why you’re turning out more
screws.

they can claim your focus in life was worthwhile
after all you made millions by the time you were
twenty two.

but really? you gave individual names to collectable
stuffed animals. and you can sleep with yourself at
night?

i’ll tell you this. i cannot sleep with yourself. nope.
not a bit.

and who doesn’t like millions of dollars? not me.
i don’t not like millions of dollars.