Gratitudes

I sat again and looked at my feet. The blood had stopped. I had farther to go. 

I slept and dreamed of nothing, but I had wanted to dream of outer space.

As a young girl I watched the stars and always felt I could go there and back. Now I now my feet are much more valuable than those shining lights.

I woke up and shook my heart like a bookcase, the gratitude falling out like many pages of a book, like the cleaning of a canary cage, debris flying everywhere, my gratitude, my gratitude. Falling and landing in space.

Is my gratitude merely platitudes?

It's an armor I started wearing to protect myself from the dark.

I keep seeing those damn lights, though. 

From the Sacred to the Simply Looked At

The sacred art:

the statues that were made by the basket weavers

the pots that were made by the statue-makers

the baskets that were made by the pot people

in the jungle on the plains

these statues came together

covered in semen and blood

they meant something

about the survival against the lions

Now they are in a tourist shop

built out of cardboard 

and I buy it and put it on the shelf

when on vacation.

The sacred writings:

Created in caves by candlelight

in dungeons dug by man

people died carrying the stones

to make this small coffin in the ground

where the monk writes

over and over again

These writings on animal hide

with ink from the eye of the octopus

and fine colors ground from 

the sea shells and the clay

painstakingly applied

with a small brush

made of animal hair

and attached with an animal glue

rabbit or egg

I lost track.

I see the images now

on a computer screen

as I glance for five seconds

before returning

to work and cat videos.

Life will go on

Life will go on

whether you write a poem or not.

It's Weird

I no longer 

want to be a poet

based on

writing a poem each day.

I, now stronger,

want to be a poet 

based on

how I see the world each day.

Profound Yet Effortless

What am I doing with my art?

Am I actually creating something beautiful or is it just garbage in garbage out?

Am I taking time to create utmost beauty; am I intimately involved with patience and skill?

Am I focused yet in the flow in order to make something which is actually profound yet effortless?

Can of Tobacco

Dear God how did I ever forget I've become a painter?

I must be unwell

call for the horses and the damned street signs

I am going to get a can of tobacco and make a run for it.

The Levis Strauss company has shuttered

the green girls are counting ice cubes

I am left on the dust-filled prairie

with the sheep and the hogs

docile and ferocious

unable to speak clearly

to the dreams that I had

full of fruit punch.

Dissidence in Black

The Ethiopian coffee is dripping then it starts to rush

when I move the filter and suddenly it cascades with noise

and I am waiting on it to unfill

so that I can calmly wipe the plate

and then enjoy a cup of strange dissidence.

Mass

When six days long a lifetime seems to pass, a bomb held like a kitten in a glass.

The second glance becomes a look that lasts, while fat cats count the vowels during mass.

Tiny Feet

The feline crept along the wall the ivy brushing up against her fur

she was seeking a small mouse which she saw run

in the shadow along the wall

The garbage trucks and puddles splashed

but it did not dim

her determination

in the street light

she could still sense

the rumbling of his tiny feet.

The Rats

I totally get that figure of speech

I get it like a fig being eaten by a monkey

and lost to the rats...

Next one is my call. 

Peachy Earth

The Earth has just split the apple in two

down to the molten core

as it turns out

the world is a peach.

Looking

I looked closely at the coral, each tiny hole and divot

imagined the diver that picked it up from the sea floor

then put it on the shelf

I looked closely at the book, each letter and curve of the b

imagined the writer that slaved over his desk

then put it on the shelf

I looked closely at the tiny box

full of jewels and designs on top

enough to make your eyeballs spin

opened it up and saw that it was empty

turned the tiny clasp to the left

and put it on the shelf

I am a curious soul

but as it turns out

I should stand in the wind and just look at nothing.

Another Bird

Your passionate attitude will need to be curbed

we've thrown it all away like sawdust

Your mindfulness retreat will need to be postponed

it turns out no one needs your advice

Your cunning methods to manipulate the mindset

have turned a good heart to stone

So long, so long

another bird takes flight

into the starry night.

Ode to Shiny Cats

Deep in the valley of the mind

Far away in the shadow of the soul

Near to the nuance of the night

Towards the faucet to get a drink of gin

Push the handle back to get a taste

Throw caution to the tornado

Hurl the Bible at the broken glass

Toss the nickel into Buckingham Fountain

Holler to her as she walks past

Mutter something made for magazines

Swallow the bitterness 

Saunter like a shiny cat

Pillowcase Pirate

The pillowcase on the bed is smoother now

than when the moon shone

stoned in the sky

reckoning me before I even knew what reckoning was

now the ship is sailing

into the black night

I had no idea I was the pirate

gold tooth and all

put an eye patch on St. Therese

the whole building is about to fall down

Permission

The permission to flip the found objects into art

the allowance to shop for the shoes that will sit on the shelf

the soiled letter I wrote and then ripped up

The toast I made to his health

The floundering fish underwater so bright and shimmering slowly

as she swam into my mind and I swallowed

under the cover of darkness

the pirate swims out to his ship

Forgotten Jewels

Where are the jewels? Have you forgotten them?

   Strewn around your wrist and neck

   The pearls and rubies from treasure chests

Where are your shoes? Are you going to walk around in bare feet?

   Those yellow silk slippers, your leather boots

   Your shoelaces tied tight with truth?

Where are the clouds? Where is the sun?

   The billowing majesty breaking with light

   The glaring lamp in your eyes

Late at night as you read French literature

melting into your chair 

the Jell-O of your soul wobbling

with each breath

do you remember her?

Genocide Games

Inside the inside ring of fire

outside the torch bearing running shoes

amidst the flames of glory the fanned

fainting fans

and the heart pumping jumps

there's a darker side to the game:

When you look at the stance of nations

with their colorful leotards and spinning gymnasts

there's this nationalism

which can get so dark

there's no color

it can get as dark as the shadow in rubble

as the night falls

and a child half alive 

keeps thinking of the bombs

and remembering the home

hoping someone will come

is she the hero?

Or is the gold medal holder

on the podium among the cheers

what we prefer to think of?

Oh, nationalism on display.

Wisdom of Words

I call myself a poet but why use words? Words hurt.

Why spend time, weaving them like blades of grass into wreaths?

Words hurt.

Words hurt more than anything else it seems, 

although bombs and bullets likely are worse.

Still, there's something stinging and ringing about a harsh word,

a harsh phrase. 

It's more than the pen being mightier than the sword.

It must be wielded more wisely.

Pull Back the Curtains

 The sunshine is kind of a necessary thing. 

When She Became a Star

It is a historic day cloaked in black velvet

moving across the landscape in a hearse

she is covered in white daisies

wild Native men chant and blow smoke

from peace pipes and renegade cowboys

sit on horses in the distance

it's no big deal

just a twenty mile canyon

We can take this in one night with a pig bladder full of peyote

Come on now, there's plenty of stars in the sky

She'll just become one of them.

Fame

 In the interest of brevity, I will add that I had no intention of making you famous. 

The Modern Pyre

I am Big Brother, I am Facebook

I am Musk, I am Bezos

I am Apple.

I see all and pick the ripest photos

I show you the people you love and admire

I show you what you hate

I show you what you cannot stand

I make you gasp

I control your emotions

I feed your impulses and wreak havoc on your sleep

I make you scroll and scroll

I turn your mind weak

I give you moments of sun

motivational videos

and ambition

improvements in self care

which you can purchase

and have shipped to you 

instantaneously.

I am Big Brother, I am Facebook

I am Instagram and Amazon

I am smartphone internet

carpal tunnel eyeballs stare at the altar of the self

you think you see your own humanity

but it's behind a mirror--

meanwhile the real you is

burning at the modern pyre.

A Short Screenplay Wrapped in a Myth

The juniper bushes are thick and fragrant with their small odd berries which are smoky on the outside when I try to rub them. Hard and purple, their sheen is a periwinkle musky grey that comes off with a little effort. 

There's about a thousand rabbits hiding in there, and more on the way, just give them a week.

My radiating sunshine was forever telling me the truths about wildlife.

I stood on the front porch, not going anywhere.

It reminds me of the time I stood by the Irises, their dark purple penetrating my retina on a day when it was eighty six degrees. I was about six, standing out there in the culdesac. 

Of course, many years later, I have to remember not to confuse Iris with Isis.

Turning of the Coin

I hit the ball over the fence--

I failed in every conceivable way

I roared with the crowd's thunderous applause--

I looked the other way

Our mind is like a coin

turning

turning 

turning

Beg

Beg your beauty 

beg the sky

Beg your leg

break the line

storm cloud coming but it shall clear

and the blue sky

is the bright one

gleaming 

Shapeshifter

Coins and pickles both turn. 

They both shapeshift.

A pickle cannot become a cucumber again--

but a coin can keep going back and forth

as long as you like. 

Flying Fish

The jelly in the belly of the genie

shook when he laughed and asked me my wish

I longed to be a free riding soul

a flying fish.

How the Internet is Glowing

One of my goals is to be more political and more informed

but for now I will throw apples at trees

and then shoot a gun into the glass ceiling.

I will wonder about the war in Palestine

and the apartheid state but not for too long

because I have memes to make

about how progressive I am. 

My sarcasm will fall on deaf ears

stuffed with ear buds

and echo chambers.

Seance of Regret

Seances where ouija boards are drenched in wine and bread

laughing at the savage masks we wore upon our heads

Rage is paid for in advance it paves the weary road

where we walk across it with regret, our steady steady load. 

Politics

They are jailing the terrorists and straining to see

God among the trees

They are throwing stones at the bricks 

and bricks at the stones

Mud at the dirt and dirt at the mud

spitting through their teeth.

Rose or Time Bomb

It might take a genius to quell the Middle East 

are you one?

It might take a genius to stop the guns

are you one?

It might take a genius to bring the poor up

are you one?

It might take a genius to bring the rich to the mountain top of common sense

and the gurus to the seat of humility,

are you one?

Are you a genius, a guru, a poor man, a rich one?

Are you a gun or a stop sign?

A fist or a bed of nails?

A rose or a time bomb?

Lifting Your Spirit

Sour patch ruffle time tested misfit

gold hammered dunk tank hip cat flippant

So longer stronger red yellow blue rodeo

marching to sunset Wild West voodoo

Masterful meaning rhyme ribbon and fury

fists drenched in ink plastic Barbie doll broken 

long hair and dreadlocks stereo pumping 

like a gas tank

spilled all my alcohol

trying to lift your spirit.

The Speed of the Hem

I am noticing a theme in these recent poems 

They are talking about thread and waterfalls

as if I could sew up the movement of water. 

Maybe it's the same in the sense 

of how a hem can come undone. 

You pull the thread and it starts coming apart suddenly, by itself,

and so quickly you can't stop it. 

Yet it could also be about the taut line...

pull a piece of thread up and follow it with your eye.

Silence in the Mind is a Terrible Thing to Waste

There is a silence inside my mind.

I like it there. It's not like a Hindu temple, necessarily,

it's not like a monk's cave.

It's not like the inside of a mirror-sphere

or the envelope of a tear.

It's more like the canyon echo,

the waterfall rush where you can stand

underneath, behind the tumbling waters

and the rushing infinity

and not get wet.

I Am Caught

The fade is on fire the braid is on the head

of mine as I brush it out

it gets caught

I tried to revive it

like ant hills crawling up a piece of yarn

Refreshed

Refreshed in the breaking dam of my soul uncurled restless river spinning like wrought cast iron

handles spin, rusted but worn smooth canyon

how I love thee--Damn, OK, got you.

Take my knee my hand my fist

wrap it up in an angry kiss didn't you know

poison and perpetual motion go

hand in hand to the medicine land

where rabbits run to and fro

baby zebras zipping across the plains

chased by lions

once again you know

I held you in mind

half twisted like that wrought cast iron

a tiny flower peeking through the gates

stop don't make me wait

there's a giant river a waterfall about to fall over the edge

I'm in a raft

a small thing

a tiny kitten

a ball of string

fling me into Niagra Falls, baby.

Continuum

What is this business of excuses

of rainmakers and tidally winks

Lincoln Logs and Fred Flintstone

Red coats from Britain

and the long suffering narrator/

What is this business of ruffians

pirate plotting goose neck hobos

dream stopping kill switch gobstoppers

what is this renegade reaching

sorcerer continuum.

Restitution, Superstition, and Mercy Walk Into a Bar...

 8:59 PM

When Restitution's weary legs are bowed, and Superstition's wounded whispers call,

the blank checks that Mercy writes are uncashed, ten grizzly bears are growling in my hall.

Here all the polar opposites attract: becomes Gray: playing, spinning yin and yang 

between the Dusk and breaking light of Day:

Here I try but cannot tell the change slips. 

In Poetry, I'll hide from icy winds which blow through my thin coat and leave a chill.

I'll find the summertime inside my mind and reconnect with Dreams of my Free Will. 

Ode to Life Coach Scam

Earn a living helping others believe

in the spirit of their syrupy soul

when their pain departs and they start to grieve

the pits of cherries left inside their bowl

As you look at your million dollar hem

and listen to their sob stories all day

for you know the fault only lies with them

you take their money then you go away

The Mumbling Thief

The bones inside my hand are turning loose

like horses in their pens unblocked released

rushing mad rampant tidal wave to truth

and laughing like a secret mumbling thief

I grab for the phone to dial a call

a curtain lifting off the veil shroud

to see myself as I can know it all

beyond what's traditionally allowed

I will learn the jazz, the jones, the hot meat

and sweat inside a tiny club with lights

the neon plate of silence that I eat

the just dessert between the horse and hype

St. Therese is Stoned

 If power lines could run across the moon--that's the phrase which is steering all of this as it's correct iambic pentameter (and a good line if I do say so myself).

The prostitutes and rosaries align

unhitched from their strings, rolling through the night

the silhouettes of cigarettes and gin

reflecting in the ugly neon light

The hounds of Baskerville run through the fog

he tightens the black tie around his neck

the lipstick on the collar of the dog

the hand around the fattened rooster's neck

Behind the tall Cathedrals peeking through

Forgiveness rushing like a waterfall

the stained glass windows streaming azure blue

and St. Therese is stoned among it all

The sliver of blue sky I dare to cut

Like Miro with scissors lying on the bed

To create beauty from oh, God knows what

(Not the best but there's some rhythm to certain lines)

The Sky Itself

If thinking men lay just beneath the sun

with gods above and demons down below

The hot air balloon rises just for fun

just underneath the beak of the black crow--

It soars like an old witch across the moon

that stretched pale skin is scarred from wall to wall

below is the reflection of the spoon

The mirror lake, I see the crystal ball

The neon light is hanging in the night

The sky itself seems to be taking flight.

My Silent Final Wish

If ribbons and the mermaids stopped to rise

where Poseidon stops to overlook the waves

and misfits wrapped in cellophane agreed

that seaweed was the currency of fish

Then I would want the clocks to all strike twelve

so I could make my silent final wish.

Mane

A dim light shines from the street light 

it has been covered by foggy glass

a dim moment shines in my heart

some memory of yesterday

it has been covered by the soot of a fire

I held the flame in my hand

I held the flame

long time coming

in the rain

oh train, gain, sane, mane.

Apples

The apples which I've been cracking haven't been through the smoke and haze lately

why not procure a cherry bomb and throw it

don't ask--it's a dumpster fire inside of a structure fire

being hurled out the window

with an old piano

and crashing into a pit of flames.

The Eyes of the Wolf

A peculiar moon rose in the sky, the last night we were together, him and I.

The black wolf sat in the corner, staring at everything with its blank yellow eyes

I had miles to walk and it felt like years until the sunrise.

I kept going, with a rose in my teeth, a pirate on a sea of soil

The wolf came behind me, I could hear the patter of his feet

but just barely

because he is a hunter

and is used to walking quietly.

After some time had passed which I could tell by

the angle of Orion in the sky

I came upon a small stream and glanced into it

and took a bath in my reflection

my ego rising like the moon

my face wet and stoic.

The wolf stared at me, unmoving.

I dried off and kept going

through the brambles of the night

when we came to thistles and swamp

too thick to move through

I closed my eyes and said a prayer

and rode the wolf like a Pegasus

into the darkest corners of your soul.

There I held a mirror to you.

Do you see your face?

Your shoulder? Your jaw?

I set the mirror down.

I began to write in a journal.

Its words like sinews spread

like vines and roots

ink into the abyss

There, in my mind

dark waters bleeding into 

the clarity

until all rational expanse was covered

in small explosions and all that I could see

was a glaring white light

the day came

and then it was relief

to find that I held it in my heart

a small locket

I opened it and there

was the starry night

and the silent moon

and the eyes

of the wolf.

Baby Teeth

The wrapped up trap of crap stuck between the gaps in the teeth of the talker

The grimace of the bear clawed man who didn't know nature was a stalker

Pressurized tent kept me holy in the last days of my youth

I sat inside the belly of a whale and wiggled my last baby tooth.

Emancipation

Banana peel slightly unreal go funk the bra of Lady Liberty

Sensual garage tire iron went sideways on Loyalty's Holiday.

Your Surprise

Blankets wrapped around my ankles, shackled in warmth 

Hankering for the slow-cooked meals of home

while under a muddy tarp

Thickened ground from rain that will not stop, coming

Sunshine is light years away sweet nothings

whisper to me silent

Famine is my friend, spook me sudden

Dreams of graveyard ghosts with sunset eyes

Dripping honey to the beehive mountain

I've dropped my gun and fell for 

your surprise

Touch my Apple

A burnt piece of art

in a freestanding frame

press me like a button

on a gas tank

A great work of art

in a gold leafed frame

turn me like a knob

on a white door

A sloppy work of art

in a dumpster fire

bleed me like a stone

in a gravel pit

A true work of art

in the heart of God

touch me like an apple

in a garden, man

Elevator

Basket case, string me together

like a line of pearls

You asked me to be mad

but just for about five minutes:

long enough to write a poem

and then catch the elevator. 

Long enough to catch a train

long enough to hail a cab

long enough to watch the storm

from the 15th floor. 

Avoiding Life

As if the death masks on the walls could talk 

a tiny beetle is crawling out of the eye socket of the skull

The ska checkerboard takes a King

wicked into the dawn

she asks again and again

for a light

puffffffing slowly on a cigarette

avoiding life.

Avoiding life is not the same as suicide

to jump in front of a train

is not heroic but there's more action there

than inside of her

as she dances with delight

rings a tiny bell

I hear an echo of this chance at freedom

boredom and ennui are her past times

I picture her with opium 

on a Friday night.

You Had Me Going

There is no sense in firing him, it's been a long distance relationship

between the Sun and the Moon for many years now, anyways.

No sense in asking the Janitor for cash. 

The film in the camera and the film on that old dusty piano

have all become the same thing.

It's his attempt to go back in time

and call the music back to life.

In those old bars, the Grey Ghost played

shapeshifter each key whether black or white

and howled into some bitter majesty in the pitch black night.

Prostitutes and war veterans with prosthetic legs hobbled together

as rats scurried between the fences and the cans

the sharp edges of aluminum

and the dirty nylon stockings

wrapped up into balls on wash day

and the bright white linens slapping the sky

on the clotheslines

between the tenement houses

1939.

Fantastic story, really had me going there.

Calling Me

Testify to my magic eye

I got the apple pie and the war bride

I got the taste test

and the steel vest

I got the insect and the butterfly

Genuflect to my intellect

I got the right suspect

I am lost in pain

up to my neck

the sea shatters me

underneath my glass feet

sandy toes

drowning

Capture my rapture

I am done speeding by

I am slow train coming

I am what you can't deny

I am found in the hallway

the mission bells

and monks walking

I am dust on a mirror

car salesman

fast talking

I am ripe like a cherry

from the long lost tree

I am lost in the seance

I am calling me.

Golden

If silence was as golden as they say

her dancing lips were lead and alchemy

Particular Rainbow

 I often walk under this particular overpass

of steel beams where the train rides above

and there's a mural and shadows and pigeons

so I know the stickers and the graffiti well

I had seen the black marker

that said FREE GAZA

and weeks later I saw 

where someone wrote it

FROM HAMAS

This particular morning

I saw a Streets and Sanitation worker

with a power wash water sprayer

spraying water at such a high force

that the graffiti and stickers were

going to be removed

the spray from the water gun

dispersed into the air

making a rainbow

in the sunlight

on a Monday morning

Removal by force

is ironic here

Isn't there a better way

like writing in--

FREE GAZA

FROM HAMAS

AND THEN FROM PAIN

--or something.

The rainbow told a story

I wanted to capture it in this poem

and not on my phone.

As I write I don't know

who the rainbow was for. 

Language is Real

There's some kid named Liam who wore a shirt,

and it said there are only two genders

and it's this serious issue

and I'm asked to #standwithLiam.

Language is real.

You can't teach someone that the sky is blue--

and then talk about how actually, when it's night, it's black

and expect them not to be confused.

Branding Racket / Drawing Breath

The manic stamp of my poetry will not go unnoticed.

It started with the ego and then it turned into empathy.

I saw the photo of the children crying, their eyes wild with confusion.

I repeat: their eyes wild with confusion.

Holding, each other and bloody small arms.

What was my problem again?

Do you really think I care if your art organization gets funding?

Do you think I care about your branding racket on NPR?

No, I do not.

I care about the moon, spinning in space.

Half dreaming and stupid as it hangs in the air.

I had a thought like a basketball, suspended in time.

The panthers that Delacroix drew still haunt my mind.

The river of the Old West is spinning too

through the canyon of my heart

in a late night text LOL was I really to be the angry bride

bent like a fender on an old Ford

crying and moaning with curlers in my hair

and a frying pan to boot

with leather pants and a sword

trying to take back your heart?

OH, hardly.

Again, the moon in me shifts.

Was the well-timed turd that Amber Heard laid

did she know that that moment would be her undoing.

Could she have possibly known.

I have a friend who sends me pictures

of Marvel Comics, people larger than life

but I am small

I am a mouse in the wall.

I want to be big, but I am small.

A tiny in utero child

Cloaked in sour milk and winging it

on stage

kissing the lion

and coming up to draw breath.

Bicycles and Earrings

Her earrings fly through the space from the moon to the landing on Jupiter

when I turned and missed the call I found a fallen angel shattered in the mirror

Did I ache to ask her a question? Echoing the shadows against the muddy walls of the well

I had a cave inside my heart and a small temporary tattoo of a bicycle in my hand. 

I had tea with my grandmother, two bags worth, and wondered what my Dad would think

if he saw me smoking with hoodlums. I longed to taste the cool night air on the back of a Camel

and walk through the pinhole of Africa into the Blues-soaked rags of the Sahara

wake up in Egypt with eyelashes longer than power lines, full of soot and chalk and nail polish

in the realm of a frozen tundra, where Russia meets the West.

Alchemy

 Hell, isn't it all alchemy?

The Tale of the Orange Roses

The old man with the wide nose covered in hard red warts oversized and awkward

blind with thick rimmed glasses yet talking quietly shuffling while pushing an empty wheelchair

there's suddenly water all over the floor at Jewel

right by the flower section 

I stand in line at the bank teller, artfully placing a cup of delicate, delicious, expensive

espresso in my hoodie pocket

daring myself to place it, with the lid, in my pocket, upright

while I do my transaction

As I wait in line

the man brushes me

The man with the wide nose covered in hard red warts oversized and awkward

blind with thick rimmed glasses yet talking quietly shuffling while pushing an empty wheelchair

and I look and see he has oranges under his chair

a bag of oranges surely

and I step aside so he can get by

I catch myself acting like he is a leper

but I steady myself as I hold no ill will

I just didn't want to be touched by a passerby

and of course I then see

that the oranges are not oranges

they are orange roses, and a black plastic container full of three bouquets of orange roses

is being dragged under his wheelchair as he pushes it along

rather pitifully at this point, slowly

I look back at the floral section and it all makes sense

He didn't see that he had tipped over the black plastic vase of bouquets

and that is why there is water all over the floor 

and why he's moving slowly

as he pushes his wheelchair along

with the orange booty underneath

Against my better judgement I stop to help

He had moved aside and I say sir, you have something caught under your chair

and I bend down to help

the saint that I am, and awkwardly pull out the flower tub

and in the process I spilled my delicate, delicious, expensive espresso

in the cute cup with the plastic top

and I go back to the floral section, with the orange roses and place them there

Look at the checks I was going to desposit

Important money, rent money

and I see the coffee stain spreading on the biggest check.

I sigh and deposit the checks.

The teller takes them despite the coffee.

God bless him.

I go outside and I see some poor sap, a woman, not unlike me, 

has taken it upon herself to escort the man to Clark Street

but they are at the gates of the store

standing in the hot sun

on the wide black asphalt parking lot

kind of like the middle of nowhere

the middle of time

and he's wasting her time

she's trying to be patient and kind

asking if he needs to get to Clark Street

but he doesn't really need to be anywhere

and she probably does

and I feel sorry for her

because in her I see myself. 

Bloodhounds

The ping pong pachyderm the pseudo suicide with the butter knife

the ripe kite reeling kneeling on grapes to make wine

The sing song sassafras wrapped up in the trapped gas mask

the green beret he wore to war grimy and deranged

he returned with PTSD up to his knees a blank stare and a wad of cash.

The newspapers said it was all a sham blasted in group texts

pressurized in fountains of bloodhounds

sitting at the bar when no one was around

talking to the mirrors on the blank walls

talking to his war bride

about his role in the genocide.

Song Theory

No song is bad song.

No song is a good song.

A great song knows itself.

Your closest friends don't know you.

The quietest place on earth is the place to play.

You're not telling a story, the story is telling something to you.

 

Wormholes

Silence the long lost friend

the quiet breath of the earth

as she sighs

giving me all and leaving nothing behind

cream colored wall paper

falling off in chunks

to show the wood underneath

with all its wormholes

Kiss the Earth

What is stopping me from writing bad poetry?

Absolutely nothing.

War machine

stop like an overloaded washing machine

can't turn

can't burn cities

can't turn babies into bombs

Your Barbie fueled demon sunshine slaughterhouse

Rafah dumpster fire sickening sirens screaming in dead of night 

fun house mirrors you see righteousness

capsized in the sea of war

all drunken sailors

high on pillaging

sucked deep into the 

dead of night

in the silence

when the bombs stop

and people pray

their headache overloads

the mind

the neurons fire

kiss the earth

kiss the earth

kiss the earth

Spring in Palestine

There is definitely a madness to the earth I can smell it

like the dirt of spring rich with earth worms and decaying leaves

Primavera rises like small green shoots

rudely piercing the dirt to reach the sky.

In Palestine there is rubble

the Spring is augmented by the hurtful rockets

of bombs and debris

why, the girl cries out, is Spring not for me?

We've all heard the story of Hind

Heartbreaking it makes us want to scream and cry for her

so we block traffic

trying to unblock minds.

Photography

Some days I am taking photos of shadows,

and then the sun moves.

Pleasure Seeking Sundial

Bermuda shorts bicycle cyclical idiocy chanting

Ramadan restitution hopscotch

Hillbilly wine running down his cheeks crying

his sister played a joke

All thumbs funky hipster hunting rabbits 

Woke manchild flinging mud online

Red torniquet turns quiet my ideal deal where I deal with it

Wanderlust colonization Western expansion happened

Indians already knew the reeds carefully planted and sown

could not outgrow cosmos deck of cards

goose neck microphone garage

Pillage and rape the ramp for exercise

the handicapped rodents need exercise

Pleasure seeking sundial

Move Me

It starts with the stretch begins at the beginning

Time takes one step down the stairs

while I awaken

I'm barely making sense and I'm faking 

my fall

I skinned my knee

but not at all

Sweet child, I see your face

it looks a lot like mine

Sweet child, I see your face

it looks a lot like mine used to look

I'm timid in the fist

my fighting flight is all used up

steel skyscrapers cut my heart

as they erect and build

I used to be a boxer

high on the fight 

soaked in sweat

and summertime heat

full of ashes

of defeat

I looked across the horizon

to the sinking moon

the railroad tracks

disappearing in the sun

My hands pointing toward

my friends

wide open to love and 

God's changes

a handful of violets

I pray he wants to 

move me.

Fabulous Little Oyster

The anatomy of attitude the bones and the sinews of truth

The turtle speed of growth belies the giant tree the acorn will become

Tornados in Kansas lift the house and shift a life 

Meanwhile I am numb, in a black hat, getting coffee with espresso

trying to not look like a bum.

Age

I used to have a burning in my soul,

now I have a burning in my elbow.

Paradox of Money

I remember exactly where I was 

when I realized the paradox of money

I was giving all my power away

I lived in a house

I remember where I was walking

I lived in a dream

I remember what I was thinking

I lived in the sea

I remember where I was swimming

I lived in the sand

I remember where I was walking

the footprints

of Benjamin Franklin

all around me.

[Based on listening to a lecture by Bree Noble]

Distance

I guess I can be glad that I'm not him

but I guess I am too old to swoon

but there was magic in the air

I was there clad in black pants and black boots

the bartender was perfect

the curves on the ceiling

the lighting the magical night

walking under the stars across the miles

the distance I went

to get to 

the Green Mill. 

CAD Heart

The error of my ways are calculations

factual traction on the slippery slope of the xy curve

The perspective shift as the ball rotates in space

CAD Design, architecture of the heart

I built a railway station in my mind

every attitude leaning on the other

until I was caught blind

the pizza sauce of someone's ear

talking on the phone endlessly

while they shook me down

for money.

Drawing the line!

Melodic Attraction Between Notes

Sound is a wave and a particle--

all at once, one circle drives to be

connected to the next

orbits of sound

reverberations of mood

calling to my heart

in the middle of your canyon.

Can you bring me into the fire and the flame?

The campsite underneath the stars,

where we bled for our brothers

to mark the day,

put dark soot on our faces

and prepared for War.

Foreground and Background

The paint swirls in blue and red

the face I made is upside my own head

the black lines of the charcoal flesh

become the hair

become the mess

my neck doesn't look like his

my mind doesn't float

Stop the Genocide

There is another Vietnam going on right now and few people are noticing.

I saw a girl's burned face.

The U.S. is no different than its barbaric enemies, 

fully capable of poison and destruction,

disgusting

and insulting to 

free peaceful people.

There is no claim to anything:

people must stand up. 

This Could Have Happened

The big screen door slapped in the summer wind, and a storm was coming over the Midwest. I went out on the back steps and talked to the cats, we had about 17 of them, and then went inside. I was totally alone and there was no sound, just the tall panes of glass in the old windows of this house which was from roughly 1904. 

God on a Rug

Those bastards, she cried, as she held her side.

She couldn't believe that she was just shot on set.

Tie me down she thought to herself, as she turned cold.

Days later, when she awoke from the coma

she informed everyone that she had visited God

and he had enough carpet tacks there for everyone

and there would be no more television shows

with guns, ever.

The Green

I will write a letter with black ink

and let it run down the page.

I will stop at a traffic light,

and wait patiently for the green.

I am Heading to the Tropics

I'm going to Costa Rica

I'm standing in the rain

I am going to see my daughter

I have three suitcases of pain

I'm going to ride a horse

I'm going to pet the mare

I'm going to look death in the eye

and not be scared.

I will find the Voodoo Priestess

and drink water from her well.

I will know the stance of mercy,

I know her very well.

I will hold the baby in my arms

and feel my heart skip a beat;

long and languid tropics

my cold and aching feet.

Did I hear the parrot

in the jungle,

his cry echoing far and wide?

It sounded like this:

--------------  ----------- --------- --- - -- -    -     -            -

I moved back a giant leaf,

and there he is:

Beckoning me with his big beak

to take another look inside

this forgotten cave,

where the waterfall runs

deep within.

Man and Son

The man from Japan stared at the moon for a moment, before turning his head and looking at the water to find a reflection of himself and the moon on the same plane. 

His child threw a pebble                                                                                     the picture.

           into the water, 

                        not realizing that the ripple 

                                                            would interrupt (go up)

The Neon Sign Softly Glares

I crashed into the mind of a sign

made of neon glowing and

softly glaring

if there's such a thing

as to softly glare.

A Stove with the Eyeliner Blues

Sometimes I am concerned.

I am concerned that the coffee grinder,

which I use to make my coffee,

is too loud.

It's on the counter, right next to the wall.

The same wall 

which is shared with my neighbor's apartment. 

I sometimes wonder

when I am whirring beans at 7:16 A.M.

if it's not right next to his head

in the bedroom.

His pillow could be up against that very wall.

His sleeping skull could be a mere foot

from the crazy loud machine.

I think this as I whir the beans.

Then, I continue making coffee on the stove.

The stove I am not so fond of.

I had a wonderful, crummy old stove

perfect for making sweet potatoes

and then the landlord's goons

came with a brand new stove 

and insisted on changing it out.

I protested, but lightly.

But now, the stove just doesn't feel me.

It's white like a spaceship,

with bubbly black metal 

and it just seems like a giant

marshmallow

with a bad case

of eyeliner blues.

I'm in Love with a Statue

Take me home, sweet statue of stone,

your smooth skin beckons my hand to rise from my side

and strike your thousand-year-old cheek.

The stripes from my human sweat

leave a mark on the calm marble

while my heart races. 

The Gift of Improvisation

I finally figured myself out this whole shebang is an exercise in freestyling, or improvisation as the theater folks call it. I am gifted enough to know how to make a run-on sentence sound like I meant to do it, and it's truly a surprise to open the box and find out what I got. 

For the Sake of Sounds

Plastic attitudes wrapped up in caustic milk

Shank Hall Milwaukee ginger root

Fade flipper fabulous

gritty tooth

Hillbilly history hip mystery silk

Grease Fur Tumbler

Fried Chicken Stumbler

Preamble ashcan.

My Values

The sensual man is hot but even fire is slow to burn wet paper.

Physical Writing

Jack Kerouac sat back ran his bony fingers through his black hair

his body sober but his soul drunk, hung over a typewriter

like a sheet on a clothes line

drying under the sun

madly dashing in the breeze

gruff and grumbling gears

spitting calculated ink tobacco juice aims

thought pounds being weighed at market

slaughtered and shipped wrapped up in packaging

and stacked neatly in rows.

The typewriter

made each word important

an architecture of black bone

free-standing

finite mechanical physical.

People in my Head

I pictured two people 

behind my closed eyes.

I hung out with them as they ate a nice dinner

and stared into each other's vibe.

I watched them take each other home,

their reflections flashing in the big glass windows

as they walked.

The Glass Doll

The way the guitar fits together

a quilt of notes

sewn together by gentle hands

The way the frets turn 

from one to two to twelve

the synopsis of the octave

growing to new heights

that diminished chord

hits me like a descending bell

and crashes into the glass doll

in my chest.

The poem soaked in rusted water

drenched in diamonds

and dripping from dark room chemicals

as it comes into being

it slowly features

a figure coming into being.

The Little Red Book

I changed from chugging to channeling, from changing to cooking

I gleefully found the doorknob when it was time to go

I have been rocked into the timestamp sideways far gone conclusion.

I have been provided restitution by the State.

The name Pete came off my lips yesterday and I don't know why, must have been the Saint.

I worked hard until I worked smarter.

I dug a hole for myself, shot myself in the foot, then buried my shoe.

I drained my bathtub of all my dreams and all that is left is the silt.

I have dreamed of a thousand dreams, oh God, I need to read the KEATS.

The Furnace of the Universe

The Earth is hot and full of air

my hair is wrapped around my stem

my flowers find the sky in desperate time

the clouds are not the painter's touch

but the blast of the furnace of the universe

where the plastic cups and roughed up packages

find their way into landfills

and somewhere deep in our chests

is the black hole it all gets sucked into

What is this electricity

this tiny heat

inside of us

the furnace of the Universe burns in us

In three million years

when Elon Musk is on a spaceship tweeting to the Gods

and the no one in particular cares

my star dust will be wrapped up in yours

for eternity.

The News Gets Me Down

There may come a time when the rhymes

on these pixels

are forgotten and left to dust

when the cars in Cuba

even begin to rust

when the Great Wall of China

is barren and cold

summer is fresh 

only in the tropics

and the world is sold.

The Legend of Dogan

He couldn't take the cold, and couldn't find parking spots.

He drank heavily but that was in the 70s

He graveled and growled his way into Betsy's heart.

He sang Stevie Ray Vaughan covers in Texas.

He came back and still could hardly pay rent.

Him and the stoners, always short.

He went to the beach one day

on acid, he took it in the morning

the same way you and I

brush our teeth. 

The World is Full of Tiny Circles

 The world is full of tiny cirlces

smoke rings and coffee stains

coins for the laundry slot

rings on the fingers

of the haves and have nots

The world is full of tiny cirlces

spinning the spoon in the coffee cup

to stir in the sugar and the cream

going around and around

like an eclipse

The world is full of tiny circles

pebbles on the beach

too numerous to count

the tiny holes where the bolts go

on all of the machines

The world is full of tiny circles

I came back to a place I used to live

I swore I'd never return 

I was young and full of vigor

I knew I was right

and the world was wrong

I just wanted to hide away and sing my songs

Decades later I return

Looking in the windows of the empty cafe

where I used to play

the world is full of tiny circles

and I can't escape

Can I jump through them like hoops

Tiny hop scotch game

is it like ripples on a pond

if I walk across the two-dimensional water

and skip over can I jump through?

Politics

The state of confusion

The state of the union

The state of the separation

The state of the delusion

Joy is Boring

Joy is boring

the calmness you need to have

once you get it

is so underwhelming

compared to the ego blast

from challenge and conflict

joy is boring

as you walk in the morning

near the stones

and the cold Earth

as men hand you fliers

for the candidate

as you climb the stone steps

with gang graffiti spraypaint

and just see them

as colorful designs

joy is boring

You walk the circle at the top of the hill

you climb down

as your stomach sinks

with the sensation

of loss of elevation

and you see more spraypaint

this time it says

Defend the Forest

in capital black letters

and you walk the wrong way 

and you can't get through because of the ravine

joy is boring

as you walk home with Green Tea

and look at the old cop

sitting like Buddha

with a yellowed beard

and smelly nostrils

in his oily black jacket

on the porch 

smoking

you had smelled the smoke 

a house away

and didn't know where it was coming from

until you looked down

thinking that's a good place to sit

and saw him

glaring at you

with a star pinned to him

almost like he knew you were coming

joy is boring

the Chinese women

tending their garden

that looked up when they heard you singing

know.

Electricity Morning

Oh God I am not static I am radio I am reborn

I am the electrical impulse of the city in the morn

I shake with each ion and charged belief

to keep my pulses on the brink of shaking leaves

I rock each tattered wire with canary song

Lifting the AC/DC as fast as steam in bongs

Carried like ghost ships on the wired sea

These black strings hanging from buildings are home to me

Electricity Electricity

count my shaking fingers

1,2,3

Bring me into being

Electricity

But I shall not worry 

I will simply take flight

if you choose instead to live

by candlelight

Keep your own fire in your heart and flame

I was far from having a name

Look instead to the meadow

you will find me there

in the purple haze of yesteryear

It's too easy to fill the book page after page with rage

let us seek a quieter moment

within the cage

Align, align!

Shapes and colors unite

Let it all be simple 

with a ball of positive light

Glowing

Growing

to heights.

Zen Wake

Pressing pause on the ego

to wake up in a humble state of mind

a bumble bee honey hive

of gratitude forming flowers

in the mind

Muses in Unforeseen Circumstances

My words are going to come out in increments, like a jazz solo from the horn of a saxophone.

I waited with my eyes glued shut to hear the sounds of the angels: playing piano and finding their muses in unforeseen circumstances.

The Costume Shop

A costume shop has a distinct smell. 

The costumes hang in rows, with cheap fabric, mocking me.

God knows where they've been.

I try on a hat, or two or three.

I look at the outfits, the genie, the cowboy, the native, the milkmaid.

I appreciate the heavy, three-way mirror near the dressing rooms,

waiting for someone to truly see themselves. 

On the Ham Radio

It could happen to you: that's a jazz standard.

What could happen to you is of a major concern to me.

Are you alright?

Hideaway

Did you look into my pocket 

and find gold or love?

Did you look into my eyes

and see a man or a mirror

to see yourself as a thief?

My pain is not a promise to you.

I am going to hideaway.

Setting Out

 Life is over, she said. Yes, I said, over there.

Over where? she said, lifitng her head.

If we head that way we'll see it.

Get your hair out of the way.

Look over there, the hair is in your eyes

move it with your hand

Then move your eyes up to the horizon

with your eyes on the horizon you see

the distance

Yes?

Over there?

It's over, but it's over there

See when it's over

It's just over there

There's a new life, do we see it together now?

Yes I see it. Do you see it?

I am quite intrigued

even through my tears I see

the horizon's distant drawn line where the shimmering sun is setting there

and we are setting out.

Celebration!

Today is a day of celebration,

of joy and laughter and mirth,

of pride and peace and posterity,

of grasshoppers and frogs and baseball bats.

Hard & Soft

It's a hard day a day that is hard,

unlike soft days like fried eggs.

No, this day is hard.

Hard like a stone

and hot--

hot enough to fry an egg on.

This day is hard.

Hard like a handle of an axe.

Hard like the stone on the beach.

Soft days are soft like cushions.

Smooth like the lace curtains blowing in the wind.

Wet like a river running over rocks.

Color

It's hard to know what to say about color

It's a thing that is soft to express

It's a tangible part of my hand

It's a sharp idea

Color is basically a metaphor

from what I understand

though I've been taught

that grass is green

The likeness of one thing to another

is not as invigorating as the discovery

of differences

A gambler once said he was in love with

the moment

the 

dice

were

in

the

air.

I relate that to the moment we put the puzzle together.

Or the split seconds we spend

in joyful eternity

comparing this to that

and back again.

My Generation's Grime

I hit my head against the refrigerator 

like a boa constrictor wrapping me in a chill

it's not the words we use

it's the energies behind them

Calm and resolute

versus

jubilated and unrestrained

my

grime.

Rage

It's an odd feeling to realize that your country is doing something wrong, like killing people and hiding the truth. It's odd to be proud and then remember things like the Trail of Tears and things happening right now as we speak. It makes me want to drag a stick across the ground, sadly. The correct response is rage isn't it?

Heartbreaking?

Heartbreaking? You don't even know the sound.

You think a door creaking is a scar.

Heartwrenching? You don't even know the pain.

You've been pinned to a clipboard,

not pinned under a car.

I wouldn't wish pain on you

not a day in my life

But I feel you breathing down my neck

and you know that ain't right.

Who are you to knock on my door late at night?

Who are you to trespass into my swimmin pool

swim naked and prolonged

lift yourself up and approach the diving board

walk slowly to the edge

bounce bounce

then pirouette into a perfect 10

slipping into my deep?

Whispery and Yearning

I hear singing in the art space, and I'm not making this up.

Most of my poetry is completely imagined

but I tell you right now, I am listening

and someone is playing a radio

and the voice is high and melodic and yearning

and I can't tell if someone is singing along

or if it's just the chorus

whispery and yearning.

Old Lady at the Supermarket

She knocked on the pineapple like it was a door

She listened as if it was a radio.

I think she was seeing if it was ripe.

Her feet were flat I could tell because when she walked

I could see the bottom of her shoes.

She bought spaghetti and plastic forks

apples and a pound of cheese.

She held onto her crinkled dollar a moment too long.

I sighed as I waited.

I was only buying bread and raisins,

I had a meal to prepare,

and she had already eaten hers. 

Shores

I'd like to never forget you.

I'd like to fight in the right way to refuse you.

My fierce toes can dig into the sand

but it's not Malibu.

I'd tear apart a ferris wheel to spin like a falling wave

lost in what I used to crave

I've become a pebble

on the beach

of someone else's shore.

A Seance with My Higher Self

Oh, pass me by, I said, completely stilted and sniffing in the cold.

My ice hands were melting inside my warm jeans, I absently craved coffee.

What would become of my walk today?

A traffic jam had me held up and I couldn't get through.

I had been walking each morning, like an elephant I could not forget.

I was realizing that computers were not altars

and I really shouldn't be sacrificing my eyes and time to them

like I was killing goats before Passover, or whatever is happening these days.

The world is a huge mess, a basket of hornets

wrapped up in wool and about to burn.

Can you even imagine a soldier's life?

I toughen myself as I pull my jeans on over my leggings.

It will be cold out.

But I go.

Valentine's Day

The sunlight hits the red brick wall and I see your face

The darkness falls in shadows on the cold grey cement and, I see your face

The red ball of the sun falls behind the trees and, I see your face

The waves crash on the beach, in quiet rhythm and cacophony and I hear your voice.

Time Keeps Moving at Union Station

I must sit down. My tired feet are pressing into my shoes, on the hard linoleum floor. Above me, the giant ceiling opens up. There is a clock suspended for all to see. The heavy iron arms move by themselves. Many tiny people in black coats are running to their trains. Each person is on a mysterious path.

My eyelids are heavy, and I hear footsteps, but I stay still. I am sitting on the oak benches in the great hall at Union Station. My back digs in and I sigh.

The trains are on time. There are men working on the tracks to make sure the switches got flipped, flashlights in the tunnel, caught along the grey cement water-stained walls. There are ticket sellers and bathroom attendants, and people at the McDonald's and the convenience store.

I wonder what it's like to work somewhere all day, when everyone coming through is going somewhere else. 

What Ads You Gonna See?

The innovation of the algorithm the data mining thief who knows your every move

down to what color of socks you wear

Every click is logged in his big, dark mind

and the people used to talk about being judged on Judgement Day

but now it's going to be Google

reviewing your clicks

popping up gifs

and you won't be able 

to escape.

Grafitti

There is no pain in the world yearning for bright light

The darkness of the days burning down the mountains

has escaped into its own listless night

Fascist commentary subsumes the rapture

the blaring trumpets eternally demand justice

softly muttered against the wall

true love is always just graffiti

Paths for Rabbits

The saint is sewn into the tapestry with golden threads 

reddish hues of twisted yarn

fabulous to a chosen few 

she holds the Bible up to her breast

cajoled by the devil

but flat-footed and sure

she suffers to stand straight.

Misguided woe was just a path of wonder

rabbits mistook for a den

the grasses beaten down by feet

as we pushed through.

I slept sideways on the back porch for many moons

only to make breakfast one last time before my

breakthrough.

I had to break a few eggs, as they say, to make an omelet.

Holler

It is painful to think of the relativity

of the girls and the boys and the farm

the rider in the night with the red cloak

heading into the belly of the wolf

It is painful to think of the mystery

wrapped up in the veil

It is painful to think of the teepee

folded in the rain

It is painful to know that it's over

caught in the wind

like a holler

Slow Regrowth

I enjoyed walking by the lake and eating the sand.

I drank water from my hand,

and it tasted like the blood of restitution and slow regrowth.

Hands & Hair

My fingers have bones 

they are there, underneath the skin

My wrist has a rubber band around it

It's a black elastic thing, and it's worn out 

so that part of it is thin, and part of it is thick

I have it wrapped three times around my hair

which is long and greasy today

I had it dyed over six months ago

by a lady who whispered, "You're gonna jam" in my ear as she was looming over me

and she left the color in too long 

and my hair and bathtub was purple for days

and I sat under the dryer

my locks getting singed off and when she blew dry it

I didn't have my glasses on 

and I couldn't tell how bad it was

until days later

It's growing out now

and I keep it tied up

tiny tweaks of grey are all on my forehead

like tin soldiers

standing guard

about to storm my forehead to remind me of age

I don't care much really

and I rather like my hands

with their slightly weathered look.

Notes: written after reading "A Small Place"

Big Brown Shoes

The angel played the zither way up high

caught up in the plaster 

stuck there for all time

The nuns walked slowly by in big brown shoes

with soles as heavy as their babyless hearts

draped in the blond sunshine

of almond-shaped eyes

the angels continued to play their songs

Far away in the fields

a small boy with rough hair and hands

picked up the flute

made of bone

and with his shawl of animal hide

began to blow

The zephyrs swarmed in like a herd of rushing bulls

crashing through the parlor

of the forest

Artemis winked

and advised

that no one

challenge anyone to a contest

Yet in the wings there slaved an artist

intent on his oils and bathed in rabbit skin glue

in the bathtub of alchemy

rubbing gold into a pan

and smattering the light

Notes: Written after reading Vasari

A Poem for the Snow

The daily act of writing a poem,

how dare I think I have outgrown

myself 

when I am just a wandering child in the wilderness

bare feet in the snow

fox tracks 

picked up and sifted

as the whiteout blows

tiny arms of sinewy stems

pierce the air

with their 

ambition

War

All the war in the world has it always been there

never leaving always burning

like a fire in the core of man

Wise old women and wise old men

say this too shall pass

where there is shadow the sky looms

black with smoke 

When will the sun shine on the wheat fields

women weeping faces buried in their shawls

they had to bury their sister and her husband like dogs

The pain in the heart is insurmountable

like an ocean wave tidal and tsunami

How can we live with ourselves

humans

how can we turn away

Those of us that raise questions

Those of us that raise fists

Those of us that raise flags

what is it all for

the devil of War

is deaf to reason

Oar

The summertime of indecision is upon us.

We must cast our fate to the wind,

and put our oar into the water.

The Deep Waters

I started thinking back on the many years gone by

and flocks of seagulls swooping and screeching

I thought of sitting in the bleachers way up high

and standing on the dock thinking of leaping

The water is cold this time of year, it's never a good idea to swim

in the deep waters where you've been

Fear

How can it be hard to write a poem?

Perhaps I am afraid of what I'll say.

Instead

Instead of writing a poem today, I'm going to read some Keats.

Instead of worrying I am going to smile.

Instead of going out into the snow I will stay where it's warm, drink Red Raspberry tea and talk to my sister about the ways of things.

Music is a mystery.

The sound of a small violin permeates the void.

The pipes haven't frozen because I left the faucets dripping:

the snare drum of my sink

trading fours with 

my bathtub percussionist.

Instead of misery I will handle mercy,

dance it through my fingers like change in my pocket

before the washing machine eats it all.

Ode to 'The'

The mystery of mastery past through me time will tell

The golden seashells line the inside of my wishing well

The yearning for the years that drifted across the summer sky

The raspberries in the jar 

The curtains draping 

The mirror bending

The flowers bloom.

Dimensional Travel 1007

I'll take you to another dimension

through a dark alley and a hole in the wall

a ray of light which a rat chewed

a grain of sand

would fall through

to a supernova of gushing radiation

tipped back at an angle

a hypotenuse to the sun

flailing arms and

toppled bodies

we run

summertime solstice

toward the moon

suddenly we are in a pool

of dark water

reflection of the moon upon its surface where we brush our hands across it

and bring them to our mouths to drink

but it tastes like champagne instead

and suddenly we are at a jazz club

on New Year's Eve

and the woman is wearing sequins

and we are deaf

Water

Water is a gift of the earth dripping

from the rocks and the cliffs in the jungle

the animal bends down and cups his hands

liquid quenches his thirst 

like hunger

he throws it into his fists

Plastic

I often start a poem or song with the word plastic.

It's not that I like plastic.

It's that it's everywhere.

And it rolls off the tongue with an open ended mouth:

plaaaaaahstic

Then, it ends with a resounding tic

it's kind of a percussive word,

plastic.