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.