Somehow

I have my mom's eyes and my dad's bones. I have my dad's mechanical reasoning and my mom's creative juices. Somehow through sheer miracle I am here, and it was a double delivery to boot, two of us like shoes in a shoebox. 

Litterbug

The trash scattered on the flat earth curved as the wind blew and it swerved upwards.

Forget Which

The belts are made of leather with seven holes wrapped around the stomach of the body and the soul.

The crimes are made of passion, held together stitch by stitch, on the shirts and the dresses, I forget which.

The seances are held like a light bulb, in a dark room.

Shine the light! Every bell is ringing. 

Starting a Band

I'm just a one man band

Oh is that what they call it?

Ha, yeah well I'd like to see one of those rounders play a tambourine

A tambourine?

Yeah, strapped to my goddam toe!

Well

Well, what, and they can't touch this. I got this contraption around me, so I can play washboard and accordion at the same time and how many places you see that?

Well, not ever not around these parts. Say, what kind of music do you play?

Like a tin can mostly. Like a tin can caught up in a windstorm.

Well they call me Tornado Girl, maybe you and I should start a band.

A band? Why do you say that, honey, now you look good but I am a ONE MAN band.

Well, I can play tambourine

I bet you can and shake the roof too, but you hasta understand me I travel a lot and it's no place for a lady

Who said I was a lady

Well you sure look like one, what do you think I am a fool?

No I told you I am TORNADO GIRL

Oh

And I say that's not to say I am not an actual tornado, like a wind goddess

Oh now you talkin crazy you taking that reefer?

No I just feeling breezy. I think we could do it, you know, start a band. I play the tambourine, free up your feet and you dance. 

Rules About Eyes

The unsupervised rule spooling out like a foolish eyelash, crossing my eyes 

as I bend my lids to blink when I meant to stare, to take in every curve of artifice 

every Baroque glass candle and carved staircase

now I am out on the curb, its raw cement making its own curve

much more simple

and Proletariat.

I guess I like that.

It is so hard to stare at the grandiose

When I am truly in awe of something

it's almost like my eyes are closed.

Image source: Wikipedia

ART

   Art is not always art, sometimes ART is an acronym. So, just be glad for him that he gets to accelerate through reasoning and time. You know?

Lake Michigan Again

 I am back with this strange black circle, this logo that has become me and yet is not me at all. I am back to tell stories, back to raise the dead, to cough and keep on keeping going. I am here to talk about the dangers of youth, of hugs, and vomit and a few more things, of playing cards and cotton candy, mescaline and boxing gloves, metaphors and premeditated arguments, being ready at the start of things, with a pile of stars shaped like arrows and a very large bow. Orion, he is seeing all these things, laughing as the rubber bands snap and crying like a tiger in the middle of the windy jungle, so strange, to have all these waterfalls crumple on top of me at once, to see I do not want to make "swirls" at all... swirls make me think of tornados of thought, I am a windy beach, sandy and icy, winter time on the shores of Lake Michigan.

A Windy Day

Pulling the hair out of my mouth the wind was whipping through my face

the tile on the floor which I counted to see where I take up space

The anchor lifted it is not light it's heavy as a lead pipe

The orange I squeezed at the grocery store to see if it was ripe

The keyboards pounding and echoing in the information symphony,

the sparkling fish in the wishing well spinning silently.

It's so dark down there, in the center of the Earth.

The Role of Poetry

I'm waiting for the words to mean something for the poetry to characterize the experiences which mere thoughts cannot explain. I am waiting for these words to transport my brain into another plane, where things start to make sense, or a place where, at least, I can watch chaos from a distance.

America

The phone rings again it's Scam Likely,

it's America, that makes sense.

In December, nativity scenes now have GPS

implanted in baby Jesus.

The plastic doll is the most often stolen item

from a nativity scene,

according to news reports.

The GPS allows Jesus to be tracked down.

Only here in the Christian-ist of Christian nations

is the baby actually

stolen,

people must be

really

religious.

I'm waiting for the cops to show up and say, "we need to search your house for Jesus."

People talk about cults like they are crazy

but surely the Jesuits showing up in boats

talking to the actual Americans

and asking them to cut their hair 

and carry a book

was a little odd.

What else can we do but dance with superstition

down in some voodoo love child of New Orleans

bathe in the snake dance and the Navajo drum

the sand castles and the gliding eagle

the mountains and the muttering

the peaks and valleys

the lost wagons the lost ways

who is anyone to tell you where to go

to find a light.

It's not a plastic Bic lighter, cheap and reliable

it's not a headlight on a train, a flashlight on an iPhone

nor a big fluorescent bulb waving from the ceiling

like a flag.

Tie Me to the Mast

The time has come to wring out the rags

covered in mud and sap

The time has come to rebound the ball

grab it from the air 

The time has come to face the facts

to trip up the steps

to catch the propeller from the

maple tree as it falls

spinning

The time has come to turn the doorknob

and enter the painted room

to peer across the threshold

and spread the curtains

The time has come to draw the water from the well

to gaze into the telescope

to note the distant planets

to run across the beach

with our canoes

ands dip the bow of the boat

into the waves

at last

Church Ceiling

In the middle of the mayhem a guiding light was seen, flying forward in a dream state a state of mind of grimy rhymes whining tires on the highway of hard knocks--did you look inside my box? Pandora asks you at midnight right before you become at one with the darkness, a meadow lark in rapture singing in the pews, raising wise daughters and sons, lifting voices up through danger to the highest cracks in the ceiling.

Sort of a Sonnet for a Saturday

The snare drum sitting on the dirty floor

the trumpet and the temptress counting knees

the kick drum pedal and the glory bang

the register for cash it clangs to thee

clinging on the sheep we cloned for sleep

to count them once before we start to weep

my shattered glass an hour two or more

tick ticking until the last 

Dice in the Air

In the company of catharsis, her hat slipped off over the shoulder

she gives you glances, but never chances

you'll have to hold that Ace closer to your chest

you'll have to

Her high heels are pointed

pointed with a point of view

you might have trouble talking to

after the boxing gloves come off

and it's brass knuckles and bare fists

caught in the middle of a crime

just a Sunday afternoon

ice cream cone

with a caramel twist

Busy city streets blinking stopwatches and railway cars

greatness lurks underneath the sewers

with the swerving nerves of the masses

seeing rats but looking past

carrying their suitcase

swinging their arm in time

shiny black shoes

marching off to fight

their foreign war

is just a battle

over romantic candlelight

she set the table

as long as you're able

but don't stay the night

She blows out the candle with a "poof"

and asks you to find your shoes

never mind the neighbors

they've already lost their minds

laughing with false teeth

and throwing dice

the nuance of the silence

gets cooked medium rare

the gambler knows

this line of prose

her heart rises

when the dice

are up in the 

air

Pictures

A picture worth a word or two is few and far between

most are worth far more than that

believe me I've seen

the others, those worth a prize

as visions gleam 

in front of my eyes

colors collapse in a kaleidoscope of rain

the movie mayhem and clicking film strips

spinning until the end

the bright madness I see in the corner of my eyes

and that one bright light

far away in the fog

the streetlamp

of the gods

The 32nd Floor and the Umbrella Hand-Off

She figures it's not for the faint of heart. This life. This softly cooing head rocking in a fetal position while looking out the window life. This breathing through her nose so as to not make a sound, while she's gritting her teeth and wondering when the phone will stop ringing. This madhouse is full of cats and animals, she wishes we could all be more like kittens, and that the plastic phone on the wall would stop its ringing. Here on the 32nd floor hospital ward for those who haven't had their meds, she blends in like a kitten at a window, waiting for lunch, waiting for God, waiting for a god-awful hamburger. 

She goes to the hospital each November, some kind of hibernation of sanity, just under the mud, like a frog, waiting for Spring. 

I came to visit her once, and I brought blueberries. I still remember the way the skins stuck to her teeth and how I nodded even though it didn't make sense.

Later that day I was out in the light rain, holding an umbrella, and realized the family next to me with a small boy didn't have an umbrella, and I handed mine to her, the mother, and she didn't know what I meant at first and I pointed to the stick of the umbrella and then handed it to her, and she grasped it.

We waited for about five minutes.

A gypsy girl was in the doorway of the store, she was naturally shielded from the rain, in her striped stockings and boots. Not an actual gypsy, mind you, just in fashion. She didn't have an umbrella.

I waited, letting the rain spit on my face, feeling like a man.

Then the bus came and she handed it back to me.

As cold as I was, and as wet as I was, I thought to myself as I sat into the blue bus seat, at least I am not on the 32nd floor. At least I have my facilities at least I am making my own choices, and my mind hasn't turned on me.

Sometimes I close my eyes and shake the world like a snow globe, hoping it will all just land back in place.

Writing in the Sand

The only journal I want is the one that is not a journal

because in the lack of a journal is the promise of productivity

and the slaying of the dragon of the forever-writer

that wistful whiny goon. They are selling the journal and it

is black with white pages, and I could also just stare at the sky

and write in my mind

or go to the beach and write 

in the sand.

Serving Coffee on New Years Day

An honorary reprint from 2017....

If I could have any job in the world it would be

serving coffee on New Years Day

to the homeless and the middle class

the chimney sweeps

and the cleaners of the glass

the mirror-makers

the pigeon-takers

the lions on the steps

If I could have any job in the town it would be

serving coffee on New Years Day

riding a horse into the nearest mission

and ringing the bells slowly

hearing them echo through the mountains

dipping my hand into the river stream

washing my face

with cool water

to drink

If I could have any job in the house it would be

serving coffee on New Years Day

the world will get smaller

type writers will get bigger

and we will all carry around the world

pressed up against our noses

on the night train

the CTA is full

of homeless people peeing in the corners

and sophisticated fools

pissing away time

on Facebook

If I could have any job in the room

it would be serving coffee New Years Day

making up a poem

about the world being a better place

and rolling up my sleeves

to grab the silver kettle

and pour hope into glasses

and leave tyranny

in the saucer next to the sink

If I could have any job in my heart

it would be serving coffee New Years Day

I want to give you something to look forward to

world

a sip

a taste

knowing everything will be OK.