Daily Poetry & Prose

"This passive stuff is for the birds, Michael," he shook his head slowly like a pendulum. The night was growing darker, and you could see your breath. Sam's sense of doom wanted for nothing. His face was dry, his chest hollow. The trees twisted up from the ground like Black licorice. "Mary is not going to like this," is all Michael said. The quiet hung in the air, like the wind between the blades of a chopper. It was only a matter of time before it came around again. The guys went inside the bar, the smoke from their cigarettes hanging in the air like a magic carpet.  Then it was gone.  The jukebox and the shrieking nightlife inside the bar overtook them as they went back inside, the pool sharks tapping their way to a win, the pick-up lines at the bar stools, and the bartender's worn but expectant face.  "What'll it be, fellas?" Sam put his fist on the table.

Clear a path through the chaos ever-tipping toward the rug the coffeecup and wide-eyed cats the window as it shrugs the stained glass plate the miserable fork laughing sinks somehow retort didn't you mean to do that, to your face? Let the laughter shuffle through your mind like wild geese in a V in formation yet mysteriously. Let the mystery unfold like a paper origami swan let the riverboat travel downstream like a Mark Twain movie let the Vegas strip go quiet for one night. That film noir man is lurking in the shadows ready with a gaze that will stop the criminals a daunting task for sure to be aware of the subliminal like wild animals we are in our furs, and our pearls. Damn movies, always keep me up late at night I found myself crying and wrapped up in a ball when the credits rolled and I suddenly awoke from a dream. It was 2:00 AM and not early enough to wake. I fell back asleep and dreamt of things tipping over the chaos that would await me in the morning light. But when it c...

I don't feel like writing today.  My boss is up my nose, up my armpit. I don't want to write, I want to walk. I want to go to the Post Office to send  a letter to a friend. I want to dream, dance, drink juice. I want to lay down for a moment. I don't think I have anything to say. This, this is the time when you absolutely must write.

On the roof the shingles lay one over the other like playing cards.  The sandpaper spread out by the  magician  asking the sky to pick a card.

This is  6 of 10 for word swirls I am writing based on words from other people: as in things people said or wrote to me, or which I overheard. "It's good to have coffee, even if it's Instant." Funny how, instant is supposed to be so great, but we all know instant coffee tastes awful much less than the coffee that takes some time and the drip coffee that takes the longest tastes the best.

Somewhere someone is longing for peace and quiet, somewhere someone is longing for some noise and excitement, or the patter of tiny footsteps. The grass is always greener--except for those who choose to grind. Some go 24-7, until they black out, but it doesn't need to get that far, until you need to call the doctor. When you are your own doctor, when you need to be somewhere but you're not, even, close, but you keep going: you are the someone in your mind. Now you've arrived.

Lots of tiny lines, paper cuts in the skin doodles on the page where the ink sets in Draining out my blood these tattered lines like cannon balls they hit my gut and drop grenades in my mind How will I ever find my blood running through my veins again like a freight train when all this dead weight holds me down and makes me slumber far too deeply? Like dead animals in the woods from their bones tiny flowers creep It's a sign of spring and the tiny threads of creeping Jenny  cover the dry earth, until it rains.

I pulled the tiny feather off my sweater, the feather was from my down jacket. The jacket was a gift. The feather was from a bird. The bird was from the sky. The sky was from the Universe. The Universe is from the sun, somehow. The sun is hot. It's a very roundabout relationship, me and the jacket and the sun--but it sure is keeping me warm, that jacket is.  Image source

 "Let me know if this works for you" is 5 of 10 for word swirls I am writing based on words from other people: as in things people said or wrote to me, or which I overheard. I left the letter on the shelf, let me know if this works for you. I cracked open my sternum and left my heart on the plate, let me know if this works for you. I shot myself in the foot and am using the tourniquet as a turban. I will walk slowly backwards, toward the river and dunk myself in, let me know if this works for you. I will make the machines call us by name, cook us bread, and make reservations at the bed and breakfast, at half past noon. Spiders will walk across our hands as we get dressed, in long white gloves to go dancing. I will confuse the living shit out of you and call it art.  Image source:  https://remixvintage.com/product/vintage-ladies-day-gloves-pink-daisy-lace-pearls/

David Goggins said he used to be a clown, but sweet mother of Jesus, look at him now. Anything is possible once you decide. You just have to make up your mind.

The whispers of girls, lured into groups to discuss the fuss. Coffee constantly being bathed across tongues in the bathtub of the news. Silently staring at magazines, silently staring back at me. I feel I know more than I want to. Image source:  https://favpng.com/index

They say a poem is a little machine for remembering itself. These are more like nuts and bolts, in the bottom of a drawer. I might need them someday, that's what they say. I am not sure who 'they' are. I write poetry only to know who I am.

Subtle trips and falls my eyelids rattling like a tea kettle flirting with the fire Steaming up my dreams like a hot shower leaving notes on the mirror Rolling off the tongue like timeless lies while the truth is hidden in a box under the bed. Ice skating on the thin pages the paper money in the can at the coat check Tatoos bloom on the tear drops prison cells and goofing off peasant dresses and cowboy costumes belt loops and leather pants red tennis shoes and the autumn leaves. Image source:  https://emilyronehome.com/?p=764

My fingers fell onto the Casio keyboard and a blurting sound came out. The walls shook, and the landlord started pounding, kick drum style. He yelled a roaring yell, and I spun around. I twisted the doorknob and almost broke my wrist. I listened to him make his case, and he wanted to staple the eviction warning to my forehead, I am sure. I put my hands up to cover my face, leaving my stomach exposed. He punched me in the gut and walked away. His steps echoed like snare drums disappearing and I went in and sat down. How am I to write my symphony. I will have to burn it with fire into my heart. Photo by  Marek Piwnicki  on  Unsplash

He folded the clothes on the bed. The white t-shirts were stacked on top of the dark blue jeans. Rummaging through the pile, his hands touched the soft wool. It was her sweater. Green as emeralds, fuzzy, and small. Smaller than he remembered. He held it up, thinking of her body.  Setting it down, absently, he ruminated about the era of telegrams. He imagined what he would write if limited by brevity.  I have your sweater. Shrunk it. Missing You. Meet at... His mind trailed off. She would not want to meet to get the sweater. She would not even take his call. She wasn't talking to him at all. He would have to hold onto it. Could he bring himself to throw it away?  It seemed too valuable to toss into the trash. He put it in a drawer, underneath an old baseball uniform and on top of scattered matchbooks from restaurants across the U.S. that his Grandpa had collected.  He sighed as the drawer went clack. Image source:  https://www.vintage-retro.com/1950s-sweater/

    The Carpenter who needs a saw is different than he that needs a plan, different than he that needs to straighten out a nail. The Fisherman who has a net too wide to catch the smallest fish is like the genie in the bottle counting out each wish. The Politician who has the vote is the Writer who has the last thing I wrote, sealed in an envelope. The mailman will take it to the house that the carpenter built and this today is my riddle which I've spilled. 

What is promised and what is bought what is a cheap laugh for a bit of rough dimes what is tendered what is got whooping an' hollering for the thinnest of lines on your smile--as your cheeks rise and a smile erupts across your landscape, spraying ashes of laughter. I don't doubt he means well. But laughter isn't a topical ointment it's not icing on the cake, it's the plate tectonics of your mind as what is unseen collides with what's possible where the absurd runs rampant and chaos is out of its cage there for us to look at in all its peacock glory this life this vain attempt at understanding  one  another.

No matter your age there's still the same number of hours in the day The rural pearl that unfurled and curled was hurled over the hill where my freewill turned to clover and I rolled  and rolled.

Watches tick, watches watch me. Watches watch me wash my hands of all of this. Clock tick, clocks clock me in the chest, my heart beats, each one like the timpani of a thousand turtles, tromping across the sands. Hourglass, where are your hands that turn you, when they shift back and forth like a steering wheel isn't time what we make of it, forwards, backwards, left and right, that's merely politics I was speaking of time. Each breath is wasted, each sigh is moot yet breath is the wind that connects us to the sea, the shore and the sand again the sand. I was out by Lake Michigan and it was a full moon the tide was low and the moon was shining down like a spotlight on the stage of the water cooing and rustling as gently as possible like bubble bath foam overlapping each bedsheet as it was folded again and again in the washing machine of love, of awe and wonder.

The new dawn spilled over the land, the dark trees grew light. The air became alive with fire and small birds started to chirp. Animals rustled in the underbrush, rooting for berries and fallen pears. Meanwhile I was floating, levitating, just waiting for the dream to end.

The guru will put you in control of the oil well of your inner potential. All her clients have shared testimonials about how they've scaled their business and caught the big fish, destroyed the competition and built a pyramid. The large fish are in nets made of impermeable plastic that will never rot. No fear, all your challenges can be overcome. Thankfully, you can avoid magic panic as you shift from urgency to a new mindset letting go of old ways there's a new thing you've just got  to try to shift to  from drift to shift...to shift from drift to shift perspective lift shift from drift to shift... click to buy. Image source:  https://medium.com/bapssatsang/need-for-a-guru-94156cf7c51d

                 Take each avalanche of advice with a grain of salt but don't get salt  into the soil that's where plants need to grow so they can hold back the erosion. Photo by  Noah Buscher  on  Unsplash

Diffused lighting backdrops and props, the young playwright arrives arms full of thrift store costumes. The actor is moody, brooding and nervous preparing for his monologue. Who will make the cut? Page 17 of the script went missing and no one knows how to end Scene 1. Let's keep rehearsing. Opening night. Footsteps of the prop master as he places the fishes in the bowl. Koppa the actor will take one by the hand when the curtain goes up. The audience has no idea that the script has been crumpled up in balls, heaved against the wall, sobbed into, and flicked loudly when it was crisp. When it was a gleam in the director's eye when he was walking along, thinking  the shadows and sun between the trees looked  like an untold story. Photo source:  https://www.thestar.co.uk/news/retro-sheffield-actors-first-on-stage-with-iconic-play-459002 Photo caption:  The ground-breaking Sheffield amateur version of Waiting for Godot with John Furniss, second right, as the slave Lucky