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.