The moon like an orange slice floats
over falls under the ‘anecdote’
category and no matter how fast
you drive it always seems to follow
the car on the right side.
It’s a swollen stone high above
horizons sending shivers down spines
and sending eyes to sparkling and
men to spying on other men.
Your neighbor could be a monster
in this light. Your best friend is
a monster in any other. I for one
can not see either of them.
johnny’s in hell
opium was his heroine
his fleshy little actions
putting holes in his veins
his blood like water
just a-dripping into
the night
a pumpkin’s grin
sags with mold–
cold air stings cheeks.
You must have missed the memo.
It’s October 26th, but there you are
wobbling over the reflection of my face in the window—
squeezing out intermittent bleeped blinks of morse code.
Does your light keep you safe from the cold?
You must have thick skin, or exoskeleton, I guess.
Poor firefly, head south for winter,
go stuff your tiny belly full of firefly food,
go hibernate or go do whatever fireflies do.
Whir your wings feathery fragile to where the rest have gone.
It won’t get any warmer.
There are perfect intervals
but they don’t work so well
when stacked by way of precision
(so much for perfect).
So we coerce them.
Change the temperament.
Fudge the numbers.
Now these intervals are imperfect.
And now they work alright.
Close enough for jazz,
anyway.
Commoners surround
snorting gasoline boxing jaws
running the better parts
deep in to oblivion
no concern for humanity
no concern for empathy
no empathy, not to be confused
with the emphatic snorting
of gasoline and boxing jaws
and annihilation of goodness
but if my friend is really correct
they won’t stop before
all good things are
annihilated.
What a thrilling notion.
a rumble in my tummy
breaks me from the norm
bringing me to knees
where cheeks meet seat
and magic is born
they dont make aluminum balloons for just anyone
but rather they fit a specific niche
an
“i want a balloon that takes for ever to deflate”
niche.
but guns will fit the hands
of any man
with fingers enough to embrace
while triggering a mechanism
designed to fire.
gunpowder was made
by those in search of eternal life.
The joke was crass and rude
but I can see her smile through
her shaking head as she turns
away, veritably fuming.
The sun was brighter before
the clouds blew in, but here
they are and here we are beneath.
At least we don’t need sunscreen
on these grayer sorts of days.
But cutting out remainders
like an elementary mathematics
course, we find ourselves divided.
What reason to keep standing
shaking heads, even if she’s turned away?
Or is the point half the joke?
where we soaked in pools of poo
for lack anything else to do
and you told of how your wife said
“i love you”
much too soon.
there was a mcdonalds there
and a grocery store too.
where we so soaked in pools of poo
for lack of much else to do.
but beer on tap can be be redemptive too.
the hands
the ticks
the metal parts
working in complete
unison
to all do
the one important thing.
Every once in a while,
(More often if you’re not careful)
It doesn’t turn out like you planned.
The pour misses,
The spout miscalcuates,
The cup teeters (and falls).
Worst of all there’s a crack or tear.
The waters sploshes along the tabletop.
The iced-tea splatters on the counter.
The Kool-Aid (of myriad colors) stains the tablecloth.
The orange juice slunks over the sink.
The Pepsi simmers on the linoleum.
But sometimes you just have to slurp it up,
Cause what’s the use of crying over spilled milk
When it’s still perfectly good anyway?
Invisibility,
a trick worth learning
for all purposes
excluding tax evasion.
You could abscond
with candy at a liquor store
or rule the roost at
Capture the Flag.
Back-door men and
Sneakerpimps would
benefit, too, but
the only two certainties in life
are Death and taxes,
and mark my long-winded,
erroneous words:
invisible or not,
the I.R.S. Will find you.
muscles clenched
eyes squeezed shut
waiting for the
punchline
waiting for the
point
and the
punchline
excuses for ideology
are excuses nonetheless
and rather idyllic to boot
Best wait for the
punchline
and the
point
and the
punchline
Sometimes,
it’s a long wait.
a picture is all you need
when you’re yearning for the past
like my bike ride to work
and the dim nowhere sky
the booze in the autmn
leaves
it’s been a year
it’s been a year
or the party with the crazy guy
the one who knew
your perverted friend
and the yellow colored
lights in their house
file errors
you can almost smell the
girls,
on your bed
flipping you off
on a laptop
or the ones of you trashed
by yourself
bloody-nosed
in the mirror
in your bathroom
all alone
followed by the dead foliage
pricker bushes
and nasty landscape
of the lot behind
the parking lot of
your hellish old,
whatever,
a picture is all you need.
Beside the stroller,
Petting zoo’s spectacles temporarily forgotten;
Wheat-brown palms find their destination;
Protuberant pupils slant in concentration;
Tongue set between taut lips.
No miner’s tools—no light necessary;
Digging deep with precision—cache in the offing;
Explores, pinpoints, delivers.
Bashful mirth—victory coo; a toddler’s smile;
He extends a stout fingertip, smothered moist, green algae;
Offering exhibition of his treasure, nonpareil.
the sun doesn’t set on
our love baby
but it’s dusk now,
so come on
get in the car
i’ll drive you home
and when the stars
come out
pretend not
to notice.
writing using words
folks far superior to me i know it’s hard to imagine
to request in clear but big words
details with the same hands that write poetry
about programs for which it’s highly unlikely i’m qualified
for further education you’d think i’d quit at some point
and hoping against hope
for acceptance when this same writer is rejected from just about everything
or at least and the least really isn’t too little to ask
for patience a seldom recognized saintly gift
in understanding clear communication is for writers of prose
Salty sea breezes
I’ve heard tell of such things,
though it’s quite a march to find them,
and March is half a calendar-year away.
Souls blow in, I reckon.
Whisping across cheeks and thighs
and other barer skins and through
the hair and through the heart
of things.
Confused, I imagine, for some
salty sea breeze.
Perhaps a bit less briny.
ceaseless pounding of flesh
against the ground as i beat my body into submission
bloody nipples the only casualty
the sieve and the sand 
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