pissed off

poetry

my fists are my sanctuary today

i throw them at:

the chinese clouds
raining their water-torcher

my box
and pet roaches and in
animate objects

cans of pop
indefinitely tipping

my own hands
knocking things
over and off

my eyes for their
tricks

every thing that
does not bend to
them gets broken
by my fists today

(i try so hard on every
other day but today)

and i hide in them
genuinely wanting to be
left alone from even
myself.

Drafting is so last summer

poetry

A bottle of wine sits on my desk
staring at me with those red, red
vinegary eyes.
Daring me to go on
daring me to sing along
to the tune of decoration
and endless elaboration.
“Look at me,” it says
“I’m patient and I did it,
You can do it if I can.”
It seems simple enough,
let the words stand alone for a bit
don’t be hasty,
bottle them,
close the door behind you
and come back in a week.
Things will be better then.
A nice body of work is
like a nice bottle of wine.
Or so they say.
I tend to agree really,
I just prefer to get drunk
sooner rather than later.

Nameless

poetry

And who I am
Abides in this Irish hand
Extending into a bottom
Of this collected basin
Is it any wonder
They cannot find me anymore?
Yes, I would agree.
But not all the time.
So much rests there
Shivering residue
Laying framework, I say
But do not listen
If the wound still smarts
It is only temporary.

The Nature Of The Unknown

poetry

You know what they told me?
They said that people die,
and they get wrapped and
dressed and burried and then
they’re gone.

Gone forever.

They said
you can’t talk to them no more,
can’t hold them no more,
all those long conversations about
nothing
only linger in the
expanses of
memory.

They drew a simple diagram
that looked a lot like a
connect-the-dots, to show
the differences between
where good people go
and where bad people go,
while omitting the
methods in place
to figure out who is which.

But the little things.
The small happenstance,
the vivaciously vivid dreams,
the picture they paint is
polished and clean and
clear as day. There are
faces looking in
through the windows.

But you know what they told me?
They told me poeple die,
They told me people
die and disappear.
And you know?
I just can’t believe them.

songs to never be re-peated, re-membered, re-played

poetry

we drunkenly drove
on long high-ways,
curving around the planet,
foretelling of it’s destruction
with no words.
higher and higher the
high-ways climbed,
and drunker and drunker
we all became,
until our car crashed
like the melody.
songs by candle light produced by
electric keyboard, drum machine,
the occasional bongo,
only to be played once,
are always, always, always
the saddest.
i remember thinking that
we all must be the same
sad,
so i painted everything
indiscriminately.
you reached for more,
but i drove us all home,
drove us all back to
the funny farm,
leaving sanity and
tunes to never be
recreated by the
candle light.

Madman

poetry

If you see me these days
you’ll think me a madman

You’ll see my lips moving
muttering beneath my breath

You’ll see me stop and stare
at things inconsequential
like branch of a dogwood or
a pigeon eating bread

(Annoyed passers-by will grumble
as they move past,
water over a stone)

You’ll see my eyes close, hands open:
press palms to grass granite light–
hold them there.

But what you may not see
is that I’m just tasting the next line
drinking vowels forming in my mouth
licking consonants skipping from my lips
savoring syrupy syntax

My eyes are mesmerized
interpreting intricacies of arboreal extensions
appreciating the finch’s purple plumage
–seeing what it is we fail to see on a daily basis

My hands:
search to sense the coolness of building shadows
the recycled life of upturned soil
the warmth of the sheets

    after you’ve left the bed.

The Kingdom

poetry

Tonight I heard God in the chords of the acoustic
He hummed a low melody
A barely distinct churn of a ceiling fan
Blending out pinks and white noise spoken
Intermittently nearby.
He said, I’m here.
He told me, just listen.
In the strumming of the guitar he
Clothed our naked hearts veiled under fig leaves
Balmy lakes like suede comforters and warm hands
Sweet, but still mild Werther’s toffees,
Butterscotch flavor clinking
Savored to the backs of my teeth and tongue

I saw him in the fractures of the broken glass
The climbing strokes of his pencil
Sketching infinitesimal splinters on transparent canvas
Sun leaking on his page
Flinging reflections to brown and sometimes hazel eyes
Depending on the season.
There was portrait in the fissures I couldn’t see and
In the shards one I could see with not yet hazel eyes.

A single band playing all I’ve wanted to hear.
Close your eyes, he said.
Bow your head, just listen.
Smooth calloused fingertips stirring back and forth
To and fro
To and fro
To and fro
Effortlessly to waiting ears like labyrinths.
This could be forever and I would answer yes.
Dark hair shading forehead and eyebrows
A reconciled smile and quiet eyes.

the regrets and pursuing the life i lead never last long. the temptations outside i remember are fleeting. i reflect on my single loneliness and give thanks for my wonderful wife. ah but getting smashed can seem so tempting at times.

poetry

like a child looking to his father
i take what i believe you’ve told me
to take
to enjoy
to pursue
to love
and all the while the media tells me
‘spoil your appetite’
‘try this candy or that’
‘ignore your daddy, have fun’
as though my dad doesn’t know fun
when he sees it.

like my daughter looking to me
content to climb up and down the stairs
ignoring my calls to find and enjoy
the slide

like a child looking to his father
i take what i believe you’ve told me
is worthwhile
believing you know best

trying not to
spoil my appetite

Facebook

poetry

Kate spent most of the afternoon
Reading over and over the letter

Michael took the trash outside
And noticed he was getting older

Sarah just baked a chocolate cake-
Her cooking is getting better

Your glare got me like battery acid
As you peered over your shoulder.

Battle Grounds

poetry

Overcast are the skies above our boundaries,
toeing invisible lines, locking
immovable gazes, trying
to pierce the other over naught
but a quick game
of hangman

Raindrops are scant but present,
dropping slow but dropping
nonetheless, a fool’s errand of flooding
these empty, overcrowded streets

Petulance be damned,
for none are ever the wiser

Not a lot of people in the world, all things considered. Even less like you.

poetry

I can tell you how many steps
are on the staircase in the back,
heading up to the office.

I know every little sound that
old van makes, from the whine
of the power steering pump to
the chatter of loose paneling

I can show you the boulders in
the park down the road, and the
foundation from some old pumphouse
that’s buried under fallen trees

But acute as I am,
with all the transitive guile
intrinsic to my family ties,
I never even saw you coming.

the highway to madness is madness

poetry

let us not be uncertain,
this map of ours is always
changing. let us run gallantly
towards insanity, headfirst, in
cart-pull-horse fashion.
let us listen with all ears
to our dead fathers and
contemporaries on different
parts of this path,
let us study their madness.
go now,
run,
dauntless till body gaunt
and thinner wire than current,
strung tighter than now,
let us get there because it
is the only way.
but how?
it is not the only direction!
let us first discern with
certainty the next direction
to follow from our map of
great confoundment.
let us get there or we,
gentlemen,
are all nothing.