Movie in My Head

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 Story of the Pancake Mouse

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.

Hot

My whole life

I had been making tea

and not allowing it to steep.

Sealed Lips

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.

The Ice Princess and the Dragon

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

Granted

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.

Tattered Handshakes

Pushed to the brink, that is brinksmanship

where there are no tattered handshakes.

Relaxing

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?

Grunts vs. Milestones

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.

Home Office

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.

Hugging

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.

Repetition and the Glaring Sun

 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.

Day X

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

Sinking Feelings

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

The Only Way Life is Aligned

 Forward

Name for Sale?

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

Ribbon

Estuary

Simon

Trial

Ruby

Ocean

Overt

Mother

Simple

Sometimes I look at the shadows and think of the colors,

and of art problems I am working on.

Sometimes I get tea.

Sometimes I listen to the band.

The music used to be so moving to me

I could just be whisked away

now I think if I hear one more moving ballad

or burning solo

I'm going to 

move to

Omaha.

Thicker Ice

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

The Kitchen Floor

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

Belief About the Online Experience

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.

Bury Me in Your Waves

 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

The Land of Happiness

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 w/ Extra Questions

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

Egypt Dream

 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

Slices

 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

Feed Me Seymour

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

Snake in the Soapbox

 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.

Where I Was Going

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

that tiny little sunburn to show I am alive

those pained muscels drawn into shape

like Stubbs horses

decomposing in the barn

and Louis the Sun King

and his palace

something

about horsemen

and equine therapy

and Delta Blues and Piedmont Blues

and everyone having their own personality

I was going to die in Gaza

hand on my heart and head at the sky

eyes rolled back

I was going to fist bump the bus driver

for giving me a ride

so late at night

and not looking at me too hard

when I fell asleep 

after putting the quarters

into the dollar slot

New Mexico is in my Travel Plans

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.

Bullet Points

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."

My Treasure

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

Middle Eastern Hem

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

Big

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.

Sandy Toes

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

That's What I Said

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

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.

Poem for People with a Cold

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. 

Sharp

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 Master

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

Slipside

Three and a half oceans

slipping on the side of the helicopter

Cuban cars are well cared for

Highest Point of Light

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 Stairs I Sleep On

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 going down to a boogie man

it's not a strange basement in a whore house

covered in blood and grime

and salesmen with smiles

and frozen handshakes

It's not a rotten deal

It's not a politician's crime

It's just a poem

it's just a line.

A Long Story

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.

Banana Bread on the Canadian Coast

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.

Submarine

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

Quiet

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

Thinking.

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

Blacktop Path to God

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.

If She Were a Pill

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 pill

A fish on land with heaving seething gills

On this sandy beach, we have surely learned

You can't escape from hell and not get burnt

Paint Like Raphael

 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 caverns and pirates

but I'm sure to grow

that is all that I can tell

as I try to paint....like Raphael.

The Keeper of the Flame

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

Hot Coffee and Memphis Minnie

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

Cat Gut Strings

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

If I Was a Kite

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

Dragons

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."

The World in a Cup of Tea

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.

Louder

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 willing to move forward in new ways.

The yellow wings are now somewhere out over New Mexico

flying faster than a train

louder somehow, too.

Hammer Tongue

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.

Map of My Emotions

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 

How to Hold a Grudge

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 pockets will be empty

and you can walk on.

I am Vacuum, Hear Me Roar

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

Red Wheels

The space between the lies the dust behind the door

the shopping cart with the crooked wheel

the sky puking up the sun

Coffee and Conversation

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?

Well, their ideas give me ideas.

Ha, that's like coffee filling its own cup.

For $2.83 I'd buy an infinite cup of coffee.

Hey Jack

Yeah Moe

Have you read Ulysses?

No, that's a huge book.

Well...

I thought you didn't read books.

No but I know of them. I've heard about them. I only read them by listening to what people say about them. If I hear about a book, having never read it, then I know it's a good book.

Well, how do you know it's good?

Good? Well, the words travel, beyond the page. Like space explorers. Words, letters in tiny space ships, blasting off the page. 

Right, because someone read it in the first place.

Yes, of course, someone did.

So someone has to be reading.

Now, I'm not knocking reading, I am just saying I have my own way of separating the good books and the great books.

Yes, ok, I see.

You don't believe me?

Well--I just don't think that's what makes a book great. A great book has an effect on the reader, it's full of great ideas, and can make you think of new ideas, ones you never thought before?

Ah, it's just regurgitation.

Regurgitation? No, it's intellect.

Intellect, regurgitation. Like a bird feeding its young. It basically is just puking you know.

Oh, come on I'm eating. These are good egg sandwiches by the way.

Yes they are. Did you see the barista in the brown hair? 

Yes.

She writes the signs, the chalkboard signs. She does a good job.

Yes, yes. 

I am saying she does a good job because she's deciding what to write, it's facts, it's prices. Like the cup of coffee costs this much, or that much. They set the price, and it's the price.

Yes.

So that's not intellect, that's facts! I like facts.

So do I.

No you don't you like ideas, because you read books. And you don't know if it's any good, you just get all the ideas, and you think more ideas, and then you talk my ear off all day.

Well, you seem to have a lot to say.

That's because I am trying to get to the bottom of it.

Who

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.

Sawdust

 I feel like Pinocchio laying in a pile of my own sawdust

Juliet conceived in the blood of Romeo

Grappling

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. 

Heavy Sighs

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

Nonsense

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

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.

Singers

 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 for You

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

Hydras and Water Sprinklers

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

Tai Chi in the Rain

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.

Beaches

 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 

The Grand

Canyons of crayons made these colors speak

The Pack Mule

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

Beautiful

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 

Jazz is Yiddish

 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. 

One

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.

Morning Time

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. 

A New Thing

 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.

A Bird to the Sky

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.

My

 I've realized my poems

  are just conversations

 with myself

  where I know all the answers. 

Mirror Radio

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

No Woman is a Desert Island

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

Mankind & Me & Tea Makes Three

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.

The Basket

     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

                                                  for earrings

                                     the clarinet player

             makes the melody

old and ancient

wild and free

and I rise

from the

basket.

Icy Logic

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

Non-Sentimental Poetry

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.

The Corner

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 would we talk about?

The Philistines and rapture and the flood

Mary Magdalene and the color of mud

Could we just grab a gypsy off the street

And get our fortune read instead?

My palm is hungry for the opportunity

To know.

Plastic Panthers

His answer is a plastic panther on the wall, after the man and her

tattooed the whole movie on their palms.

Blue tea cup is almost teal in the bright  sun.

Windows up, misery levels are down.

Tea is being consumed, and Tea is from the East.

The West is never won, don’t even try.

Just stay by the Lake, drinking clean water and holding a pound of salt in your palm.

You didn’t understand it the first time and you are dangerously close 

to exposing the sand to the sea shells.

Bits of broken glass have been weathered to a sheen

Why can’t it be the same, for us?

Sheets and Shadows

A simple sheet lay on the bed, white and tight and clean. The mystery of how I will ever get to sleep, with all this pain in my head, is not for us to decide today. Let us bounce a quarter to prove a point that the sheet is taut and the bed is ready. Let us meditate a bit to prepare ourselves to wind down, to fall slow like kite does miss, slowly, a gust of wind, and just lay still until our blackness overtakes us. They say to know your shadow, but does our shadow long to know us?

Reasons

Manganese is a chemical in a weld, the chips of this can be consumed, the doom of razors and the balls of mercury we played with, I remember getting slammed to the ground, and I never stole money again. 

Summer

Planets spinning and it’s hot up in the attic.

Mastery

The mastery of words is mastery of the self

Mastery of our own mind

Mastery of the thoughts that make us human

Mastery of our hands and ideas

Choosing the right word and the right time

And letting the sunlight dance on the curtain

To find that unexpected moment

That is art

Chump Change

I had to work out every odd moment, each spin on the singing bowl

Reverberating in my mind, money didn’t matter a damn bit.

You could come at me with a million dollars

It’s chump change for what I got in my soul

Oh, your attitude is so useless, you don’t even

Mute the channel.

Failure

It’s not okay that my words are failing me

It’s not okay that my words are failing me

It’s not okay that my words are failing me

Lifetimes

A lifetime of grime South of the state line

My mind is finding a fifth of gin

Leads to rapture and a looney bin

They’ve got me there all day,

Just waiting for the lights to go out.

Quiet Disco Revisited

Quiet disco I recall the quietness of being me 

and the slow ride into stardom

kissing the tree

This isn’t helping, dude

you’re going to have to read

Shakespeare and then practice speech

Watch how the actors roll

each line off their tongue

Drink kombucha and dive headfirst into a tire

spinning on the highway

toward a noisy destination

I suppose I have spent so much time in quiet

Now is the time for the noise

It’s so distracting to need to change each letter

To have grammar check with I waaaant too mussspell things dfor effectte.

The Plane

Oh, do not revisit that plane

It’s flown in the sky

Yet there is something there

The stars behind the clouds.

My Legs in Vegas

Rock solid and hollow

Thought leader and shallow

Masked bandit on gameshow

Lowdown barber stepson

Razor candy suicide death watch

Yellow hearted son of a gun

Stepchild reading at a fifth grade level

Mastered by the moonlight sun

Pride freedom fame and gunshots

Plows horses felines and ducks

Games blisters sunburn and woodsheds

Pennies and pristine sense of luck.

Okay

Meningitis freezeframe dildo

Pressure wash groping 

Hunted by gremlins and dimestore grannies

Praised by the leaders and award show contestants

Pleasured by biopic arms making cuts

Soundless and binded by corsets and rust

Pillowtalk Sunday on April new showers

Crimes on the dripping paint

My grape jelly roll

Men who like candy

And women who feed them

Grumpy old queen

Pissed off dogs

Cranes titling up to the sun

Sunlight dripping down on the moon

Radiation nuclear twist fuck

Funk groan window to my god damned soul

No profanity please 

There are children sleeping

Rock my grape jelly roll

Liberals and Expectations

Thought you’d see me sleeping

Making mindless liberal touchpoints

Caressing the statue until it got hard

And welcoming Bernie Sanders to dinner

Me and him have already had a long talk

And I’ve raised his flag on my back porch

While feeding children with a ten foot fork

It’s no wonder I own a ball of yarn

All the better to wrap this up

Colorfully and softly

Just the way you would have wanted

Hollywood is the real criminal

But I don’t have time for that here.

Please pass the peas.

Pass the fleas.

Pass your worn out dog.

Loyalty to the cause has become

A fun way to make new laws

And now you’ve scared every conservative

Into going into a cave 

And they’re on the crusades again

pretending like it’s 1230 A.D.

Please show me David’s dick.

I want to see it.’

Michelangelo isn’t on call

He did his job

And he wanted to be a sculptor way more than he wanted to paint.

The Sistene Chapel was like his living hell.

Oh praise him, don’t get woke and tell.

Is it true that you

Actually like pissing people off?

Well then all you’re going to be

Is writing Howl-type poetry

That doesn’t even land well

We all need 

Someone in a buttoned up shirt

Telling us how to think.

My Voice

I am finding my voice. And not my cute little women in science voice with pink guitars and purple wrist bands. Nope, my actual voice caught in the tears of plastic and shipwrecked faggots, grimy with radio grease and painted with pricked fingers and chasing wabbits. Let me hear the damn thing sing, rip the dress as the 80-year-old aunt gets on the table at the wedding, and let me out of my cage, and then the cage within the cage, let it be like a fractal on a druggie 70s record cover, let it keep going and going and going and going and goingoinoininng.