Daily Poetry & Prose

If I am to ever reach my goal, I must start running, I mustn't stroll I must believe myself to be a writer of non-atrocities of aches and pains and gold and lead of theremins and cellos If I am to ever reach my goal, I must start reaching, deep into my soul I must pull forth the beating heart of this soliloquy and know that it's all just one running book of the movie in my head. If I am to ever reach my goal, I must redefine what it means to be a writer, and stop short of it only when it is the dream the zenith of it is not in my hands it's in the process of painting each color each word, a hue If I am to ever reach my goal, I must be distressed each day I miss, and remain distressed enough to bury myself in poem

The pitter patter of my tiny feet, I am a mouse, and I retreat The sopping hair after the shower, I go down the drain with what remains of my power I live inside the wall, I sleep on bits of hay I gnawed out my place in this world and now at night I lay until I smell cheese and then I start to sniff and I go and start exploring the whole house bit by bit but then SNAP! quite unexpectedly I'm trapped I'm flattened just like that.

My whole life I had been making tea and not allowing it to steep.

I'm going to be silent. Silent as an old black rotary phone gutted from the wall. Silent as a movie before speakers. Silent as a dog waiting for its master. Silent as the Spring after chemicals. Silent as a man kneeling before a mountain. Silent as a fish in a tank. If I am going to be that quiet, I better start practicing now. No more metaphors.

A terrific time was had by all the lion tamer made shadow puppets on the wall The ice princess and the dragon had a date the dragon was late and made her wait when he showed up he breathed and then she melted

I'm not sure if this will be right sometimes I get the idea for a poem and half write it in my head and  it sounds great there but when I am here well but I'll try The flower I picked and placed on a dead leaf it's sounds unromantic but it was epic the deep red hues against the light pale yellow green I wanted to draw it and thought I will wait for tomorrow but then realized the flower wouldn't be the same tomorrow it would wilt that's the different between nature and the digital age on the phone, it's always there just as bright as it ever was,  but in real life there's something to capture--  something to not take for granted.

Pushed to the brink, that is brinksmanship where there are no tattered handshakes.

I'm going to write a poem to relax. I've never done that before. Usually, I get myself all keyed up. I try to squeeze the orange. I get a drop or two of water from the stone. I wax on and on like peanut butter on the sternum. It's really a bunch of horseshit. I had to insult myself at the end just to make it  have a punchline. Why must we insult ourselves? Is it some cheap, super cheap like Motel 6 on a rainy night cheap form of humility?

Did the milestone I reached mean something? Did it make me better or was it each step I took  on the journey-- each rock in the shoe each grunt.

The notebooks are messy strange how the lined paper is an attempt at organization the tea bag in the mug droops  into the stained well Oddly shaped plastic made into communication devices and charging those communication devices so we can all talk at once and solve every problem The Native American knows silence.

On the glorious elucidation of the cloud soaked thread airborne and evaporating and presenting all at once that magic mile between stars and outer space collapsing into my collar bone as I lean in for a hug.

 I've found the seance to be quite moving the sheet above the body levitated I saw the dead hand fall from the window stuck fast with rubies Poison? How else was it that she died? Ribbons still in her hair Leeches in her teeth heart full of pride I might as well get the words SOAP BOX tattooed on the bottoms of my feet my sweet may I repeat? I've stiffened myself to the possibility that she might, in her death, be showing me life lessons; and my heart is almost open to it the way curtains pulled tight barely open to let in the glaring sun.

It's day X and I can hardly wait to get to Y 

I happened to look at the shadow moving on the floor the flight of a mouse the thought of a bird a twist of the wind a kick of the shoe I never mentioned what I saw it happened so quickly that my mind only stopped a moment the way the setting sun seems to set upon the land  before sinking  behind the dark green hue of the treelined horizon yet we all know it's only a mere  12 hours until it's melting into the water like butter with the sunrise

 Forward

There's a certain air of importance or should I say error? of being the coat check girl at the jazz club It's different than being the coat check guy although I suppose it's not the time for gender wars but still there's something silly about it getting the little plastic tags and handing people coats one time someone called my name  I couldn't place the face and it turns out that someone told them Hannah will take your coat and I about barfed on myself as I realized it was like I was a butler and "Jeffrey will bring the car around for you now" (please add British accent) I kind of stopped and stiffened and laughed one thing I realized is people don't tip for how much they care about you-- they tip on how much they care about their coat. Sometimes I look at the coat hangers making cool shadows and think of it like sculpture sometimes I try to think of how many words I can make up starting with the first letter of each word on the restrooms sign like Ri...

I'm sick of a few buried rats in the garden they had gnawed their way in the cherry juice and the Philipino grocer the stories of New York which I am so sick of hearing the leather jackets and the subway Bloom me into full view for I am about to go lengthwise not dead but levitating greased up and ready for the fryer Place me in the palm of the hand of Jesus I've been needing to be seen as if I am a mirror and a misquito crushed into a parasitic relationship with time and space feel me until I am green as a new bud in the Spring but it's winter and I am looking for my ice skates

During the war  we slept  on the kitchen floor with jackets for blankets we used corn for rice and beans for pepper we used sand for paper drawing long lines with sticks  in the wet mud as the tide rushed out We used red for blue and yellow for green

The first twenty minutes of my computer day I sat in the corner counting algorithms and AI generated bot preventing pop-up windows in order to get to the core of humanity inside of our gut reactions like, smiley face, thumbs up, animated gif, emoticon symbol quickly and efficiently  spilling our collective guts to each other Meanwhile in another window another tab the guy with half a beard is telling me  that most of what I think is lies because I am apt to go to extremes when I am online I believe him.

 I dreamt I saw the ocean it was as big as a rock a mountain of water ticking like a clock sea creatures and runaway cats all caught up inside I tried to cover my head  I tried to run and hide But something kept calling me about the way you move inside the movie of my mind you are the star come and take me  bury me in your waves what you say? Now what you say? Come on and take me bury me in your waves

I dreamt I was sailing on a boat toward my former self I passed mermaids and dolphins splashing on the way beautiful coral underneath my feet as I walked on water I dreamt I had a beautiful baby boy as beautiful as you, my boy and I held him close like the man in the moon holds the stars I dreamt I played in the sand with a fortune inside of a sand castle dreams washed away with laughter as I let my toes sink into the wet sand I dreamt I sailed away then on a boat with big white sails it took me across the ocean to a distant land

A moment in the clock of the world The Buddha asks, "what is the sound of one hand clapping?" I know, I smile wryly. I've hosted songwriter  showcases. Has my job been to give you meaning am I a doll or a plaything? A rag doll a dress up toy, a hooker, a poster child for the purity you crave while at the same time you poke fun at it you pedestal it animal style

 I caught a train to Memphis caught a lightning bug in a jar caught a cold  then caught myself before I said too much I left my feet in bed socks rolled up like potato bugs left my worries and left my punches too I slipped into my slip silky and white as it was slid into bed next to the Devil and the Euphrates River slept until I was in ancient Egypt famous as the Pharoahs and eye liner to the stars

 I want to say "it's been a slice, boys" as I point my fingers like the Fonz and get hauled off to jail I want to be Turner tied to the mast I want to run my fingers along the jaw of fate I want to be a small bug in a flower pot and have nothing to worry about all day except climbing up on the next ball of dirt a small crumb to some but to me it's Mount Everest and that's all I need to worry about

The backend of the boat the slop of the canoe pushing out into the waters uncharted and unmapped I used to be happy before I got blue and you started talking to me about rap. The bones and the sinews of my whole being are built in rhyme Rhythm banged me in the head 'til I got blind and now I see so don't talk to me about the birds and the bees I got stung and climbed the ladder rung Dee Dee Dee

 I am thankful for coffee but who died to get me this coffee to bring it here to the United States the genocide capital the genocide kings Proud people perished digging for gold long before Kayne West and the beat long before newspapers and grief Gaza has got me thinking  'bout the Trail of Tears Cherokee nation returning to find itself burned on the inner sunburn of the skin of the cat the snake keeps on turning pushing up against the sides of the soapbox on the bully pulpit preaching to an empty room of Zombies on their cell phones one looks up.

The tragedy of being smug clicks in me like quarters in the slot clanking and settling with a thud. _________________ I was going to write a poem about the tragedy of being smug and talk about Katherine Hepburn's father  and the circus and the people that came to my work looking to get in  and me turning them away in my big black sweater and my migraine haughtiness and how I hated myself for that. I was going to paint a great painting on a 30x40 canvas but it ended up being a mess I was going to prove that I could write a long poem by drawing it out like a line in the sand far and away a stick in the wet earth I was going to talk to Nina Simone at the beach call me crazy but I thought maybe I could that I had a favor somewhere I was going to go to Bethlehem but I had a star stuck in my shoe a tack really a shiny little thing making it hard to walk I was going to lift more boxes and show that I was strong stacking hay bales in the shade of the barn and burning myself in the sun...

Tampa Red and Django by Ferro a cold rainy November night is on the way. The sequins and lace around my heart will be traded for burlap, my ears meanwhile will smoke peyote  and go to New Mexico.

I've heard that  gun stores now are like jeweled palaces Decked out and bedazzled I've heard of genocide and the Gaza strip Half toned in news bites and buried in the desert sand. I've heard of strange old men bearded and full of belly I've heard of skinny kids and women in parking garages all claiming to need this thing. I've held a bullet in my hand soft and slick, firm and round tried to understand it I've heard of people trying to change language to be less offensive and wonder if they've decided yet to change the word "bullet points."

Where yoga mats and mathematics sit Calamities like kittens calmly play Rusted through a car horn my rainy wit Wet silence says the things I cannot say My mind released the esoteric glance toward kite strings pulling weekends lost at sea the heights at which we engage in the dance of what's to be or what is not to be The golden rings I cling to in my sleep Give me the daily dreams on which I ride in a birch boat across the murky deep Gallant bouyant and with no place to hide Tie me to the mast like Turner, I cry! Let me feel the cold sea foam on my chest Onward, into God's swollen heart I pry giddy in this hidden treasure chest

Dynasties of bastards dim their suns The wreckage and the wanderer combine The bread we ate has now become its crumbs The knife we cut it with now draws the line Black plumes of smoke and fumes from the exhaust The war planes and bombs now sprinkle lead The Lords of Oil are stacking up the costs A thread hard pulled the hem now we must mend

In the mystery of mysteries, I fell on my knees and caught my breath The ribbons in the sky tied together clouds and rain  Like a child with a kite, I pulled on the sun I ran with my bare feet in the cold, wet sand leaving footprints and throwing my ankles sideways to see how big I could be.

It's hard to admit that I don't know why and it doesn't matter I've tried I saw the clock I had been sucked in like an undertow on the sea their foam was in my ears their music was in my heart my own drum was in the corner under the bed covered in dust will you put your fingers on it and wipe the hide clean set it up and carry it to the beach would you see me there eyes glimmering with sun beaming heart and chest sandy toes

I shout out to deny my mouth its rights to quiet peace I fist my hand to deny it the right to caress a child I slam my feet into the earth to deny them of their right to float lengthwise on a feather bed What are our rights? That's what I said.

To keep a diary is ultimately to remain curious... When I tried to understand why I can't write each day  I realize it is really a lack of curiosity about me, myself and I. A lack of curiosity about the world is a crime. The stranger on the sidewalk the gypsy at the store the Mexican grocery store  with the new shiny vegetables the whirring of machinery and ceiling fans the mysteries of human interaction.

Oh dreary dawn stuck in my nostril like a burning rubber plant Salted teeth facts are not friends when fire is ash Heart burning Kleenex all over. Late at night seething moods hurling adjectives at authority figures to pass the time Oh, sweet relief Where are my vitamins How do I kick myself properly for not getting enough rest for not drawing enough lines for not being the boundary between myself  and madness I'll walk in the rain think about coffee and watch my steps I will see the people on the sidewalk the guy in the nice shirt the woman sitting in the street like she's the monk who set himself on fire. Who am I to ask questions? I'll just pull my hood tighter around my head I'll call a friend who delivers ginger powder in a cup kind of like gunpowder I will be a samurai cleaning slowly methodically I will let my friend call  and talk me into spending $100 on a UHaul to pick up  free sewing machines. 

In the middle of the forest dark and dreary full of fog and dragon fury I stood with a sword and slayed the beast within my heart only to find myself woke and bleeding inside a wolf I dreamed of tenderness and goo Played my wheel of fortune and came through the other side of the needle  is as round as the bottom is sharp is there any more sense in having a needle as in having a sword I wonder with my thumbs I wander too sometimes.

Fast tracking the groping theme of mental health the stewardess gave me coffee and a small fortune cookie wrapped in heavy plastic I had to bite it to get it open meanwhile champagne was flowing in first class and the plane of my existence was perpendicular to my heart My forgotten rage is tongue tied Weeping in the graveyard for mastery

Three and a half oceans slipping on the side of the helicopter Cuban cars are well cared for

I pulled back the arrow in the quiver pointed it at the farthest highest point of light held on as long as I could until I knew that holding on any longer would affect the apex of trajectory held strong and then I let go.

The funny thing about a poem  is it doesn't have to be good it just has to be written. If it is unwritten it is worse than bad it is non-existent. If it is non-existent then you can't have your token existential crisis. And what would you do with yourself then? Go back to Zen Go back to backyard barbecues Go back to pool cues and railroad tracks abandoned cars and factories and  the elevator that they told you to never take all the way down to the basement The giant building on Pershing and 37th that used to be a place where thousands of people worked is now a little like a Ghost town and they rent out areas for companies like the sound company I worked for to store gear and I always took the stairs. I passed the little office window where they used to put in time cards and imagined the factory workers It was strange and so desolate on of many insane things I've done not more insane than not writing  a poem though. It's so simple. Why be scared? It's not an elevator...

Follow the directions exactly. The two cards look the same. It looks the same to me. It is exactly as I remember it. I need the same thing that he does. I have the exact ingredients we need for the cake.

Laid low by the lullabies  run through by the raspberries tickled pink by the jellyfish gunned down by the gumdrops I'm flat tire American beer can industrialist kangaroo hopping Socialist banging on the door Fun and games riverbed Mississippi marketplace Cab Calloway trampoline I get my groove bilaterally Iced with a garden hose Rocked to the apple core Gassed in the barbed wire Painfully remembered Fourth of July fireworks picnic fork tidal wave Fred Astaire bake sale Damn that is some good banana bread.

I am the asterisk, the amplifier I am the ambulance, the town crier I am the asterisk, I am the amplifier I am the am the attitude, I am the latitude, I am the gratitude I am the shhhh...she's talking  and the She gonna have to do better than that I am the black cat and the house fly the zucchini and the french fry the absurd and the serious but no matter what I claim to be I will never really be me for I  the true I I am the undercurrent I am the dust under the rug I am the space between the floor boards I am the apple core I am everything and nothing I am the always I am the sound between the passing cars Life is the ocean and I  am the submarine

I've been afraid to write hung over counting sheep and dogs we are living in the age of content but I've been quiet laying on  the cement floor

 Alright. I will ban together all the banned books, read each one, then lay here and think.

I walk down the blacktop path and memorize and mutter iambic pentameter. I have no plan to write them down, not here. I want to give up 100 to the Gods first.

Take 3 Her legs hung over the ledge of Heaven she spilled wine and sugar into my mouth like a riddle It came out of my ears a Robin's egg on my tongue when I opened my mouth to sing. Guided by the cherubs locked in her robes.  ----------- Take 2 The sweet wine hung in my mouth like a riddle as the song of the robin grazed my ears. Above me, angels sat in clouds, cherubs tugging at their robes as sugary crystals poured down from Heaven onto my waiting legs. ----------- Take 1 The riddle and the robin started out with songs as sweet as wine and burgundy the angels and the cherubs sat in clouds tiny hands sprinkled blessings sugary Yet darkness reared its ugly head in turn to join the dragon spitting at the mouth its body spinning like a rusty worm to fill her head with syrup sticky doubt He was unseen this dragon in the wings the symphony rose like the chasing tide the mermaid muse was just about to sing but then she slowly turned her head and sighed So who was she to act like such a...

 I watched a video on Youtube, so I became a student of the old ways and I realized I would like to spend my days in this way my life may be in tatters it all might be a hand basket to hell but it would not matter  if I could paint like...Raphael I went to the basement of my mind and set up a canvas, once then twice and painted from portraits in a book stealing ideas like a crook they call it copying and so I did, to paint like...Raphael The results at first made me laugh did I think it would be as easy as that?! The portraits to me looked so strange but had a charm I could not name and some trace  of a fool who tried to paint like...Raphael So I kept at it with experiments layers and mediums and turpentine I am sure the fumes affected my mind I watched more videos to crack the code all day in my abode and I see now a glimmer of hope although it's faint my previous paintings I thought were great, but ah, --I've not yet begun to paint I know it's a long journey full of cav...

You see me in the alleys you do not know my name the blackness exudes in me to me it's all the same yet in my heart I have a secret a beast as of yet untamed His mane is made of orange and red his shoulders pale brown and wild white electric light sits upon his crown he basks all day in black and grey and knows not harm nor blame and me I'm sideways on the steps the keeper of the flame My crossword puzzles do confuse the lines are drawn so straight that there is no suitable excuse when angels make mistakes but humans are not saints and there is a swinging gate and softer somewhere in the shadows of a summer lane I hope that he like me is still the keeper of the flame

I can't compete with the dirty pearls and the prom dresses from 1938 I can't compete, I can't compete My mind is supple like that coffee ripple on the way to my tongue between my teeth it's not as long of a road as it used to be Oh Lawd me

Southie laid a log in the living room the smell filled my nostrils upon entering like a dissonant note in an otherwise delightful tune I went to the window to see how to go about ventilating It's nothing too elegant just a poem about the cat pan I've got enough to worry about like who will be my man So I will sit with my stomach full of guts and ideas and instincts

In the quiet before the storm I've been deranged buttons undone dresser up against the wall coins spilled from pockets hurled into the night wind walking home In blasted noise I've sat in reverence quiet and unassuming I am sure to the naked eye while I am cloaked in amazement watching the musicians move mountains and calm rivers all with their hands sitting in the harsh wooden chairs like a tin soldier watching jazz at the club In somewhat pained memories I've sat running to the sounds of Sinnerman butt soaking wet from the grass where I played guitar  and small puppies came to smell my feet In caffeinated mornings I've begun stomach grumbling and lips sore from dreaming speaking in tongues of all the things I cannot say when I am awake In an unguarded and unjaded trajectory I have hurled myself even higher catching the wind one last time

The memories we share laid bare on the square the canvas is primed and ready for paint The memories we ride carefully steered last night I thought of the line, "with weary eyes I stare at the dragon."

There is a whole world in a cup of tea an ecosystem of every reaction which presides over the earth is there. In a cup of tea. The soap helps clean the pot. The water goes into the pot and boils. The dried leaves become alive again, evaporating into the water, the particles of the plant breathing and escaping into the hot water the same way smoke would escape  into the air.

Take 2 A lusty racket filled the air as the chest of the yellow bird arched up. Her feathers ruffled and she nearly began to sing. Then the woman at the counter looked down and another day began. There is danger in making up for lost time. It's an odd feeling I have this morning. I am not willing to make the same mistakes. I step over to the cage and open up its small door. The bird doesn't leave at first, until suddenly it does. The yellow wings are now somewhere out over New Mexico and the tiny bird is flying faster than a train. The sunlit fields shine and the gleam of her feathers is hard to see flipping back and forth so quickly that her flying is loud, not silent. ---------- Take 1 A lusty racket filled the air in the bird cage Her chest lifted up as if to sing the canary came out of her mouth and flew as if it were an ordinary day. There is danger in making up for lost time and there is an odd feeling I have this morning, I am not willing to make the same mistakes I am w...

The speech coming off my tongue is clouded by the trucks passing by their loud horns and diesel gas distract me from the kindness but give me a harder palm a callous and a hammer May I wield the wooden handle wisely as people are like nails and you never know how hard your words are as you slam them into the wood.

There is a map of my emotions right above the city of the South where the river meets its Delta mouth is a town so small almost unseen where there lies my silent streets at night with the smell of flowers and Northeast of there is the land of the damned though its not marked  it's easy to miss Way up high in the North there's the mountains of my mind and the forests among the stones 

Take it in your hand and hold it there a small rock, a piece of clay squeeze it for as long as you want mold it into any shape Put it in your pocket when you have something else to do but it will always be there ready to take out and look at any time you want you can draw a picture of it but don't hold it in front of a mirror Put it on your bed stand at night and let it sit so you can dream of a world gone wrong wake in the morning and stare at it while the birds sing their songs and think of happy days before the grudge took it away Now go to the river's bridge and bring it in your coat let it rain during a rain is even better a sprinkling rain where your hair gets wet and your face gets cold stand at the middle of the bridge and look out over the water reach into your pocket feel the stone. With eyes closed, reach in and grab it. Bring back your arm like an archer's bow and hurl it hurl it hurl it into the deep as the waves keep crashing and the water flows on your pocket...

I am Vacuum, Hear Me Roar the pith of my suck as I clean your rug I am Vacuum, Hear Me Roar You want everything to be perfect I will make it so running my fingers down your back as my wheels turn  as I moan You want me independent  bent and straight Pistons rushing the engine of fate Swords drawn and karate kicks stoic intellectualism storms of power it's what I am designed to do: suck. The bureaucratic  mess of electricity won't stop me from taking my cord to the wall turning my button to on and challenging the dirt of the world I can only clean when the world is flat Magellan and his round earth confuse me Karma and the wheel of fortune don't gel with my racetrack mentality I am a greyhound  and the gate is lifted  and I am trained to run As I round the bend and my legs break and my ideals crash from pedestals the sound of pots and pans drum kits falling from a ten story building a piano slamming into the cement floor. I am Vacuum, Hear Me Roar

The space between the lies the dust behind the door the shopping cart with the crooked wheel the sky puking up the sun

Do you read? Yeah of course What kind of books? What do you mean? What kind of books? None really. I thought you said you read. Yeah I can read. So like what do you read? The menu for the morning coffee, the special is on the wall. Sometimes there's a funny quote when you walk in like "all is not lost, but get found anyways," something like that. You read what's written. Yeah, like what I can see, I can read, did you think I was illiterate? No we can all the read the writing on the wall...I meant do you read for enjoyment? Like for pleasure, the pleasure of reading? Yes, the pleasure of reading. Well, I do enjoy finding out that coffee is $2.83. Books. Books? Yes do you read books? Well, it's clear I read the menu, and the writing on the wall, why would I need to open up a stack of paper, and pour through someone's ideas.  Well, it might give you ideas. It might be fun. I find it fun. You do? Yes. You like to read other people's ideas? What about your own?...

Running through the center of the sun is hot my feet feel like asphalt and the tips of cigars My heart has burnt a long time ago a candle wick dipped in wax who is your love for, you may ask? Surely the armor blackened by blacksmiths and the swords molten and then sharpened know Surely the white dress of Ophelia has gotten dirty in the snow Hawks and hippos both subdue one to the sky the other to the pond from high to low my chakras bend not knowing like a blind man bending down over the table about to eat.

 I feel like Pinocchio laying in a pile of my own sawdust Juliet conceived in the blood of Romeo

I grappled with the question I heralded the pain of not knowing what I always thought was accurate and the main reason that I covered it up was that I was afraid of the way that you would look at me if you felt that you got played. The mayor of the city of the beating of my heart is out to lunch and his desk is full of papers and layered stuff while the secretary is burning up another cigarette I went into his drawers and found the money to make this bet, that I would rise and remember the fear inside my heart and crush it like an orange peel each time that it might start. I focused on the fading light at sunset just to see the tiny bit of hope that is still alive in me. 

Grim reaper fairy tales soup chills ships sail free money draws glances feet tapping silent dances monster rivers carve canyon green trees breeze abandon Young tumble dirt face sigh heavy win race

I don't need poetry prompts I am a renegade queen I am never stumped I am a team of green dragonflies soaring into the cloudy valley the bog of nonsense is my home. How dare I try to make sense? How conceited, how vain I should only wish to spew loose pearls into the rain I should only hope to grind the saw blade and all into the wood.

Panting panthers passed me by while I was sleeping on the jungle floor my back against the dirt and a thousand plants bent down for a bed The paintings on the caves will last for tens of thousands of years my bones for slightly less In them is the story which time cannot erase the clay hand the shaman the girl in the tunnel may I be her one day.

 If you are a good singer you can sing in the rain you can laugh with the birds open mouthed  you can dance in the thunder and slip underneath the rug where the dust lies If you are a good banker you can save your dough you can count your change in your back pockets and never give a thought to bills but you can't wait for me at the corner to trade out our free will If you are a good singer you can find your voice tell him how you feel and raid the pantry for rice at your wedding you can take the team of horses to the bitter winter where you can live in the cabin far from anyone  and sing

Waiting in the hungry morning for the sign of life in the cemetery waiting for the bees to start to buzz and the fog to lift waiting for the shoes to shuffle waiting for the bus waiting for the door to swing, small hinges covered in rust waiting for the stream to turn  waiting for the canyon to form waiting for the comet to take light years to cross the universe to become a smudge of a star waiting

When hanging by a thread the thread twists and the needle burns When skipping on the sidewalk the rock gets stuck in the bottom of my left shoe The dream when dreaming  is the language of the Gods many headed hydra watering the yard

She's doing tai chi under the bridge as it's raining. I'm snipping six pack rings in half,  seagull safety sounds subtle yet fierce. Her position is of the crane a tiny book she made of men drawn by hand She loves to have tea and smiles so sweetly like it's an effort to break free.

 The chasm I can fathom when I close my eyes to dream The canopy of shady branches shaking leaves breeze The magnitude of earth and sky moving as it does To escape the greatness of what never was Alas dear reader weep and dream And with a stick In the sand paint a line on the beach for me 

Canyons of crayons made these colors speak

Loaded down with leather aching in the sun another round through the canyon carrying rum and guns The adobe walls of the mission in the distance the reverberation of the bells in the sweat-stained heat the tower the stark light the dust the hooves what burdens is he asked to carry? he does all without question In the same way we carry our worries through this whole world without a word

The rest and the in-between sunshine The trees and the distant sand Stone sculpture and liquid scripture Swirling in the sky while the plane lands Stars and sleep the meaning of dreams The ouija board with my fingers pressed Eyes closed thinking of the answer As another wave crests 

 The moment when the woman is on the side of the stage snapping to the beat with a look of stagnant exhilaration. The black piano shiny under the lights. The saxophone player sounds like money. I watched the Maxwell Street Klezmer Band perform under the lights. I controlled the lights I made them lavender or amber. I wanted to take a picture. Then I thought to write a poem. Why capture everything in some digital way, some photo that will sit on a thumb drive for infinity. Why not capture the moment. Some good old fashioned rhapsody. Some intelligence built in. 

Straightening as I stand aligning chakras, folded hands ___________ This is the only actual poem I have written in a very long time. I chose the words from options. It has clipped language that tells a story. Language is actually being used.

A stout, robust orange-breasted robin hopped a lot along the ground. I passed him by as I moved, taking long strides in the morning. The grass was long and fell across itself. All the better for worms. A light rain had soaked the earth and the air smelled fresh. The leaves whispered on the trees, shaking off the dew with each breeze. The dark red maple tree was remarkably bright. 

 I am so glad to have found a new thing to find a new thing is a puppet on a string I am Pinocchio rolling in the deep To find a new thing is a gun on a wing birds shooting bullets in the sky Word War II planes why did anyone have to die I have found a new thing a furry hat bling a fur coat with a moat and a cash register going chingachingching Pinball machine high wire act grafting my skin back where it was burned I will be OK.

The body compared to the heart, the mind, and the soul is like a bird compared to the sky. How do you even begin to weigh? The crossing black feathers of the crow flying over the field of poppies.

 I've realized my poems   are just conversations  with myself   where I know all the answers. 

Take 2 What if instead of a baby in the reeds it was a radio and as my hands fumbled for the dial the surface of the water caught in waves an unseen audio signal and I communicated with the face of the deep What if I was shallow but longed to speak in the  language which has a word for the calm surface of a lake  being mirror-like in the rain ________________ Take 1 Radio in the reeds floating towards her hands fumbling for the surface the exposed wires and the shiny metal making peace with the calm surface of the water there is a language which has a word for the calm surface of a lake  being mirror-like in the rain

Speaking in saltwater pirate speech 5 miles left to go before we crash curbside sparkling in Seaspray tipping over in the waves and dancing with a dolphin hit the coral reefs  and spill Rum Messages in bottles, hearts buried in the sand  Men don't find women on desert islands he said with his eye patch gleaming under the Cuban sun

Today is a great day to make hot water on the stove I will make hot water on the stove with the hot water I will make tea. Today is a great day to have some infinite epiphany on the origin of mankind I will have some infinite epiphany on the origin of mankind with this epiphany I will have tea. Today is a great day to look out the window at the trees. I will look out the window at the trees with this mindset I will finish the tea.

     Some mornings I don't so much as wake as rise  like a snake from a basket upon hearing the music                 out of the corner of my beady eyes      today is going to be a good day jazz is playing in the brothel classical music in the symphony hall all    is as it should be          men in hats               are winking                    at strange girls                        with silk purses                             lined in lime green lace                                                     and tiny bells     ...

The ice cube broke like glass in my hand and struck out a shattering sound making the act of getting a glass of water seem downright dangerous What a flight of fancy to have ice it must have had  a layer of water and a layer of  air and the water froze on top of the air but logic doesn't belong here

Poetry doesn't have to pretty Pretty doesn't have to be pink Pink doesn't have to be pale Pale doesn't have to be slight Slight doesn't have to be weak Weak doesn't have to be lame Lame doesn't have to be soft Soft doesn't have to be squishy Squishy doesn't have to be blobby Blobby doesn't have to be mushy Mushy doesn't have to be sentimental Sentimental doesn't require a poem sometimes it just requires a look a gaze, one hand on the shoulder of the other, silence.

This is a series of poems I wrote over a day or two or three ( April 2023), and finally turned a "corner" in my mind. I didn't want to publish them but now I don't care as much, although later I'll likely read them and think 'oh yeah that's why I didn't want to publish them' and nowadays I guess we are responsible for our own censorship. The reference to anatomy on a statue is related to someone in Florida allegedly finding the statue of David, a canon of Western art, offensive due to the nudity. Without drapes, without leaves, here's the naked poetry. I think when we finally stop censoring ourselves we feel free. At least that is the "corner" I felt I turned. Tea Leaves I The tea was weaker than I meant to brew The leaves were tattered and that is what is good for flavor Nature is always on the loose Paper was once a chunk of wood On the wooden cross there sits the savior. Could you, and me, and Jesus have some tea? Whatever wo...