Chilly

"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.

Clearing a Path

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 came, I felt serene

and merely thanked God for my fingers and toes

over coffee.

Image source

Writing

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.

Pick a Card

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.

Instantly - Things I've Heard 6 of 10

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.

Arriving

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.

Rain in the Field Full of Creeping Jenny

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.

Gift of a Jacket

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

5 of 10 - Let me know if this works for you

 "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/

Goggins

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.

Gossip

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

Nuts and Bolts

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.

Thrift Store II

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

Hands and Heart

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

Sarah's Sweater

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

    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. 

The Stand Up

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.

Is This What They Mean by The Hill?

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.

Speaking of Time

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.

Dreams and Dawns

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.

From Drift to Shift

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

The Errors Erode Away

      

          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

The Told Story

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