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.