the end is nigh

poetry

and i will not repent
my enjoyment found in
the sight of your leaving,
relishing the view
of your backside
metaphorically walking away
out of my life for good,
never to be met again
on this side of eternity
or on the other,
allowing heaven
to be heaven still,
secure in the knowledge
that you won’t be there.

Stay Dry

poetry

I saw three men standing
in the shadows by a swimming pool
in rags and coats from the
previous season, breathing
heavy fingers fighting open
pop-top beer cans whiskers
shaking under the wind’s slight
duress and I stopped.

there they stood by the pool
forlorn considerations of
jumping right in, cans and coats
be damned. Of course they
chose to stand and eye instead.
Only a fool leaps and leaves it
all behind, they said. Yet there they
were, with nothing but coats and
cans and rags and whiskers and
the opulent gall to say anything.

They did not jump. They only drank
and stood and eyed and sighed.

But I will enjoy this swimming pool,
for I left my coats and rags
in someone else’s town

French Press

poetry

When I said,
“God this is yours, I’m giving it all to you,”
You turned my world upside down.
Starting in my toes they tingled
To sensations ambling in my ankles
That tightened in my shins—
Taut Charlie Horse’s without pain
Pushing past my tensioned thighs
Swirling to the tip of my spine
Splashing into my tottering stomach
Surging around my quivering lungs
Ascending beyond my pulsating heart
Catching in my straining esophagus
Lifting my buoyant arms skyward
Pressure coursing to my startled eyes
And finally, though it only took a moment
Through my head you compressed
The last remnant of my resistance
And poured all of me out.

The Messenger

poetry

It’s hard to hate the messenger
even when he only carries lies
and lies and
bullshit in a shoulder-bag

Perhaps that’s the real message,
or the one worth hearing anyway.
In any case, I’ll try not to hate
the messenger.

But I will wait for him
to bring me some good news

jalopy

poetry

i drove this rusty bucket down
what apparently was the wrong
way on a one way street, i noticed
because all of the ladies with their
children were dropping their jaws

i grinned because they look funny
with their mouths wide, waiting

my grin says be prepared

i was having a wicked conversation
that stuttered and stopped like
my old jalopy, i’d keep going
over the same lines driving
the wrong way and eventually
they’d get me (i knew)

i had the gumption but not
the guts to just gas it when they
pulled up behind me screaming,
waving their batons talking
about one way streets and
their directional nonsense

behind bars i dream of driving,
still.

magnetic

poetry

lunate, you say, holding my wrist
between your practiced thumb and forefinger
ulna, radius, humerus, your light brown hand sliding
eloquently up my arm
clavicle, gliding up then down, scapula, resting now
vertebrae C1 through T5, your hand descending
like my eyelids

—

gloved hands held
we step down into the station
flakes of snow, finite emissaries,
clinging to your coat’s black wool
a man on a bench
plays the ehru to no one—
a string snaps
i lay my head on your shoulder
breathe in the scent of winters passed

—

bundled on the boat’s stern
we’ve been watching for hours
shielding your eyes from the sun and peering into the waves
you say, nobody’s there
a pelican, the sky’s sole occupant,
disappears over the horizon
and lingers in my thoughts
as i sip loudly from the juice box you packed
i wonder
what monsoons he’s seen
i silently bid him Godspeed
–there, you say, pointing
i struggle to see; but then see
sprays of water, fins slicing crests and troughs,
elemental black bodies
lifting and dipping in slow sequence

—

i am writing the last line:
the cat dives
across the page
i pick her up and replace her
on a window sill overlooking a red oak budding
find you in our bed still sleeping
kiss you on the forehead, return to my desk
brush hairs from the page
whose blank space now feels antarctic

Digital Rangefiners are often handy as well.

poetry

The line between crying in front of
-One Hundred-
people and inciting a dance pit is
negligible, at best

But the difference between your father
saying -‘man’-
instead of -‘son’-
when he grabs you by the shoulder on
your way off stage is
-about-
a million miles

This world is not a decimal system.
Our measures do not skew the same.
So, not so bad a thing
that my ruler has been broken
all this time

i attack in glory

poetry

grabbing spoon from drawer
and thrusting forth in practiced
choreographed high school weight-training-class lunges
i threaten eye gouging
i challenge you and your muscles
with fierce revealing of my canines
i turn spoon in hand back and forth
intimidation is my game
blunt object is my weapon
i will win you with my grammar
i will attack at your jugular
if i can remember my junior high school anatomy
you stumble back in fear as
i attack in glory

Yappy sumbitch

poetry

I often wonder if talking to a dead man
is considered dialogue or soliloquy.
But I guess you’re not really
around to tell me anyway, and
therein probably lies the answer.

One day I’ll die and we
can continue that conversation
that we started a hundred times.
Until then, I suppose,
I’ll just keep talking to myself.

Not Fooling Anyone

poetry

Who am I kidding?
It’s impossible to keep contained
Or rather, the containers empty?
My fingers too busy to type keys
Of stanzas and enjambment
and end-stopped.
No inspiration?
Motivation?
Stimulation?
Where’s it all gone?
Lies.
Who am I kidding,
I’m just a lazy sob story
Preferring to sleep
And complain
Pretending there’s better things to do
than write.
And it should be noted:
by sob, I mean the acronym

Keep your blades sharp – A Cautionary Tale

poetry

He was just a boy when he bought his wooden
sword, and shield made out of plastic,
from a kiosk at a carnival.

Was a priceless prize, that weapon and its partner.
Security against every wolf and monster
and beggar and vagabond.
Life and livelihood assured.

He was a warrior then.

But time passes and, often cruelly.
The sword has broke, the shield
too small to strap. Was never seen fit
to buy another.

Defenseless.

Ripped apart by wolves and monsters.
Taken, by the vagabonds, for all he’s got.
Wretched and shameful.

Wretched,
and shameful,
and to top it all,
his car won’t start.

God Damn It.

condescension

poetry

walking along,
feeling alone
in the lost land
of American Idol fans,
constructing a generation of
lounge singer heroes,
reliving the glories
of innovative artists
who have now passed into
the general mediocrity
of the past:
free to be groped;
free to be grabbed;
free to be destroyed.

and so i sit here,
listening to my indie music,
looking down my nose,
secure in my intellectual superiority,
evidenced by my musical selections.

The untouchable

poetry

Our fate was sealed standing there that night
Like macadam, bolted down and tar heavy
Months later my thoughts are still there,
Standing like little urchins outside that same pub,
Sipping ale, wearing moth-eaten black coats and
Smoking charcoal cigarettes while glaring at strangers.
They go back there only on weekends now,
Looking for a sign- my thoughts do,
Looking for a logic-god in a white Mercedes Benz
To pull up by the side of the road and
Tell them to go home, that “it all makes
Sense now”. But you’ve got a spare set of arms
To body- double with and so do I. So for now,
And since I know you don’t read my poems,
How about we just leave this thing in the storeroom.

baja part deux

poetry

we pitched our tents on wind carved
sand pits and fought with ants the
size of mice. we woke and ran along
dolphins jumping just off shore as
curious at us as were of them.

salsa. oh… the salsa.

we took directions from crazy
ladies driven to their insanity
by their taste-buds after years of ingesting
the salsa. oh… the salsa

fish taco after fish taco we turned
right through a field on a dirt path
through mountains and passed in
twelve hours only one other moving
vehicle.
stopping for tacos in a village so small
the only restaurant was a hole in a kitchen
where 50 cents buys two grease balls

we stood on peaks no one should ever
have to leave and bathed under
blue skies, a sun anyone would have
worshipped had they not known better.

and then came day 3.