RUN

I am going to sand the edges of the board

They are so full of splinters

sharp and like a rose's stem

I am going to touch the smooth parts of a stone

taken from the beach the way a bird picks up seeds

hurled into the water

SPLASH

I am going to note the melody of the Thaikovsky violin

let it soar through my ears

like a clothes line

or a kite string

cleaning out all the wax

I am going to go to the wax museum

look at who I used to be

painted and in costume

push over the statue

and

RUN

I am going to catch my breath like a baseball

in a mitt

slamming into the ivy wall

then twisting myself into a ball of paper

thrown into a trash can

at the library

I am going to read the smooth pages

drink the coffee

ride the wave

of silence

ask propaganda to spill the beans

grow a beanstalk and meet the giant

and when he roars I will fade

like smoke

I will slip under the door like water

flooding in a mood

steaming up when I boil water

and then absorbing into the food

digested and removed

then sailing

around the world

to return like Magellan

all these character traits

I tried to strip of their color

removing the dye

that had been cast

and scrubbing it clean

the spots from the leopard

the stripes from my shirt

I ended up passing out instead

of changing the world.

Masterful at Something

The subsequent pain left over from the rain has found me in a bubble of blame

languishing in classical music grinning at the moon, drooling like a dog

humming a tune, ravishing a radish, masterfully minding my own business. 

Take This $20

Take this $20 bill and start a new life.

You are standing in the dark doorway 

of the storefront in the shadows

sheltered for a second from the rain

looking at me with wild eyes

fiercely 

like you are held in chains

Who are you and what are you about to do?

You stand still like the ground is holding your shoes

You are captured by the rain

in a cage

staying dry

So I say to you

Take this $20 bill and start a new life

don't do wrong, make sure you do right

start fresh

not in a mess

Take this $20 bill and start a new life,

do make sure you do right.

I'm not just giving you money,

I'm giving you advice.

Eggs Lead to Heaven

The excellent egg sat on the table unable to move

for it was the solstice and it was in a planetary groove

It sat still just for a moment, it couldn't dare to fall

Oh, if I could be that egg, when I'm challenged to stand tall

If I could find inside myself a true north compass trail

A magnet to guide me toward Heaven

a road where I can't fail

I would crow like a rooster

and shake it like a Hen

just to read that special map

again

I would go to Italy I would go to Rome

I would go so far that I'd never come home

Dipped in star dust wrapped in galaxy

moon dust in my shoes.

No More Promo

I am interested in self-development, not self-promotion.

The walls with the magazine images cut outs of me

plastered in my mind my Facebook celebrity

they can all be painted over with a giant roller

The small seance altar made to me, with fake flowers

and charcoal graffiti, dripping where it rains,

the buckets of notes from the misguided fan clubs

even the resentment for not being seen as a pyramid

by the Sheiks--

it can all be thrown out.

In the desert, on a camel, smoking grass, talking to the Pope on the phone, 

he roams, my other half, sweeter than the deepest honey

and taller than the greenest tree--

I will hang out in this desert,

improve,

and wait for thee.

Grow a Poem

I am not so sure that poetry is anywhere close to self-development.

It's not the same as picking up new shiny pennies off of the street

or even whole dollars, crumpled and stepped-on

and giving them to the homeless, although I would argue

that that isn't mercy but merely an attempt

to wash one's own karma in a non-threatening way.

It's not the same as pausing to think of those with less

opportunity, and being grateful. 

It's a rabbit hole wherein to bury the thread of ego 

follow it into the depths of soil and soul

plant it there and see what giant flower grows.

Poetry is much closer to gardening, for that reason.

Grow a poem. 

Impressionable

On the whisper night, that dark cloak

stuck to my back wet with rain, there

I hear the damaged raven gamble

to talk to the sky again

To his mumbles up in trees

I hum along a melody

not knowing of course

that what he sings

is a strange ode to me--

he calls like a parrot

to the ghost of my past

like a dirty white sheet

thrown over the clothesline of sorrow

to dry in a Camus sun

doesn't he know

as he mocks me

that time has already made me

come undone?

Kindess

In the boat of the world

kindness is the oar

Beads of Rain

The beads of rain on the screen above the air conditioner are spaced out like dots on dice.

The rain stopped but now it continues to fall.

I cheer it on like a losing football team I don't know why.

I just don't want the weather to be perfect today.

I want it to rain.

A single car honks, like an afterthought.

I hear birds, where in the hell are they in all this water?

The thunder carries on, somewhat in the distance now.

Fashion Face

A woman walked towards me

I was jealous of her curls

I looked away

rather snobbishly

with a straight face

Oh, her curls!

Another woman walked towards me

with a cool hat

large pants that flowed around her

she was a stylist with a sense of humor

and her hat was super cool striped light tan with a dark green felt brim

I looked at her with a grin and smile

she smiled back

she knew she was cool.

See how different this all is?

Thunder on

Thunder sweet sky, thunder on and on.

Thunder and carry me away.

Rain pour down.

Scare away all I hide from.

Wash away fear.

Water the plants of mercy.

Take all that I fake, all that I've undone.

Take all whom I've mattered to.

Take all whom have mattered to me.

Spin it all into one giant rain drop.

Land on my heart.

Less is Better

Break up your shapes

Use three colors

Take no prisoners

Don't think about the thing

Think about the shadow it creates

Match the thing to the shadow

Get to the shape

Remove the personality

Talk to the bone

Light the flame

Why not paint? 

Rather than be in pain, when I light a fire on my own bone?

Get lost in looking

Take your hammer

Smash the standard

Lift the spirit

Free the mind

Simplify the simple

Complexity the complex

Do all the details

and get your idea across, or just do one detail.

Photograph the half.

Freeze the frame

Walk the tundra

Wrap the cloak

Kill the horse

Sleep in its belly

when the cold wind blows. Or save the horse, for Pete's sake, get a rabbit skin cloak, freeze a bit on that one cold night, then you'd have the horse to ride another day, and be the Pony Express, traveling fast to deliver the message.

Coffee is a Boisterous Holiday

Adrenaline

Peppermint

Red Scare 1950s now my windows tint

take a hint

take a free sample

take a boisterous holiday

you've earned it. 

Sitting quiet in the cafe

next to a mini-vase of flowers, purple-green-and-orange 

overheard:

Yeah like I don't think that like coffee really gets its due

Like how do you mean

I don't know like tea is great but coffee you know it's got this kind of pick me up

Famished

I am famished, not for food but for fame. I eat glitter and swing madly on chandeliers, hoping for some attention.

My brain has been botched by forgotten fantasies, I lived the dream up in the streetlights.

Now mercy comes to me like a black cat, sleek and mysterious, angry from clamoring in the alley for food.

His eyes dart up at me, as if to say, do you think you know what famished is?

I light a smoke and walk across the Main Street.

The power lines here cast shadows.

Mercy and Hope are playing cards, I watch them through the shop window.

Meanwhile I am out here playing checkers with my mind, waiting for the man.

Blinking

The clock is blinking. It says 9:35. 

But it's not 9:35. 

The entire Earth spins in space at a set of degrees unknown to me,

its axis falling back and sinking into the blank slate of the infinite black sky.

Who am I?

My eyes are blinking, machine like regularity

along with my heartbeat.

The Blue Egg

There was a whisper on the wind

a quiet sound hardly begun

a leaf resting on the overlap

of the waters of the bubbling brook

Was it I who mistook love for rage?

Hate for happenstance?

Breath for beauty?

The robin flies away

I am left holding this empty blue egg.

image source: istock

Hands

Some hands are meant for hammers, some hands are meant for tea

Some hands are rough to drive the nail, some are gentle, delicately

Now I see

I have these hands myself, both capabilities. 

My Monarch

The monarch opens up her wings

to sing in this silent spring

my heart whispers winter

but she's having none of it

Shhhhh....she's sitting on the rock

a dream of flowers envelops her

amidst the rain

her beauty sleeps

a deep slumber

about to awake

from the cocoon. 

image source: internet

Masonite

Proverbs and metaphors

Symbols and hummingbirds

eagles and robins

rabbits and holes.

Shovels and syrup

coffee and lead.

Masonite and plywood

forces and hoods

wheels and wagon loads

pioneers and pimps

marbles and pool cues

strongmen and rooks.

The Entrepreneur and the Rowing Team

The entrepreneur sits in traffic

holding the steering wheel hard, like it's a dream of a better life.

The light above turns from red to green.

In a moment,

a whole thought was halved,

like an orange in the morning

and put on a plate.

The cars and trucks push forward

like a rowing team.

Baby Jane and the Passive Income Monster

My passive income has drained all the water from the sea

I wanted him, he wanted me, I flipped the switch on the silver screen

the moment he held his hand in mine, I went crazy, I went blind

lost to the world now I sit

Baby Jane

taking a hit.

The weed is harsh it burns my throat

I used to sing like a bird

now I just gloat

to the bare rose bushes as I walk 

in the morning

with a small dog

and a purse full of worries

I once had a giant castle

high in the clouds

hovering there

don't speak

out loud.

Tulip

The colorful tulip lost its petals, but it became somehow more beautiful in the 

wreckage of time.

The Love I Once Had

The statues standing in the courtyard surrounded by the bees of spring

have not thought once of renegade soldiers

laughing on the soot of angel's wings

singed by fires of impunity the hellish heat has made me mad

strapped into boots and on a horse to ride headfirst into the love I

once had.

Passions, Problems, Fears

Driving in traffic and waiting in line

mastering my emotions

managing my time

longing for love

and pining for hate

lastly my fear

of showing up late

to the champagne breakfast

tripping on flowers

giving away money

owning my power

falling into a pit

of real estate

and maintaining the tall cedar trees 

I planted for privacy 

on the property line of my soul

I am trimming back the rose bushes

and spreading the chips 

standing on the shoulders

of giants like this.

Thought Imperialism

I will walk the line of Imperialism in my mind

I will not conquer only coerce

I will not tread onto anyone's soul

only put footsteps on the sands of time

dragging a stick behind me

only concerned with where I've been

and never knowing where I am going

My Lake will be my ocean

my river, my blood

my heartbeat will be the sun

shining on the land of my thoughts

as I walk each word

a step.

My Ugly Face

I was walking back from work several miles in the cold

and was probably making a grumbly face as I walked

a friend texted me later and said, "I saw you walking!"

and I thought how embarrassing for someone to see me

in my grumpiest moments when I thought I was all alone

lemon-faced against the wind

with no color in my heart

at all

so now I look around with a face of wonder

because why not

relax the skin on my face

look at the flowers 

look at each thing like a miracle

the wavering ripple on a leaf

the fascinating rust on an old grey door

the way power lines lean against the pole

the movement of a jogger

the reflection in the window

the thread on the ground

the trees against the sky

a wonder all of it

all of it a wonder

and put the color back in my heart

and the relaxation back into my face

someone might see me

I might see me

I might see me

Hear me, O God

 Pasture me into a cowland glory digestive tract seance of goop

Genes are riding free on bodies into DNA sperm

and I am here trying to make sense of God

Pleasure me into the stench of plastic pansies bent at funeral parlors

for forgotten Gods

Mean and scathing like dog breath growling

in my heart's junk 

yard

Make me a martyr bake me a cake

make me a mixed media rake

come on top of me with all your dead leaves 

it's Spring time and the butterfly kneels

in front of the altar of renewal

and my heart lifts up in song

all these broken pipes

and psalms of rust

Hear me, O God!

Galaxies of Cherry Blossoms

I fold my arms, I fold the origami

I make myself a star

I cringe each time I hear my name

spoken in that sharp tone

the edges of my origami are soft

patterned by the rain

the edge of a flower

dropping and drooping

laid across the lawn

with tiny sparkling water circles

strewn about like galaxies

across the canvas of muted color

I walk on the sidewalks of Rogers Park

each path a new destination

each garden a new world

I Cannot Repeat Nature

In my right hand I held a small glass bottle with no top on it. I carried it carefully as I walked so as to not spill as it was filled halfway with homemade coffee. In my arms, I carried a brown paper bag with a canvas wrapped in plastic inside of it. It was awkward as the wind blew, threatening to lift the items out of my hands.

Moving off the sidewalk, like a small boat leaving the shore, I accelerated across the open asphalt where the busses go, the wind whipped through, making everything hard to carry. The wind also made a tone as it blew across the top of a bottle like a flute.

I lifted the bottle to my lips and blew, but I could not make the same sound. 

Invisible Ribbon

She came out of the air, a rosebud trampled into the dust of the sky

the bird flew like it walked along an invisible ribbon

Pigeons used to be doves, long ago

I see them sitting on the roof of the steeple

sunning themselves

when they land

Spring is Time for Movement

The red rouge on her cheeks

was christened like the Spring

running wild this toddler

so fresh faced

her tiny legs like twigs

moving madly she

was giddy to be running

in front of Daddy

she ran toward me like a dream

unafraid

of anything in front of her

just going as fast as she could

as she approached I saw

her jet black hair laying on her head

as smooth as her face

pure innocence

not even kindness could touch her

because she did not know even

what it was to not be kind

this was time to play in the mud

Spring is here

it is time to run!

I think of my own life

compared

in my thick grey jacket

trudging in old blue jeans

my only motivation is coffee

and here is this child

shining like the sun.

The clock has ticked and tocked

on my face

small wrinkles might appear

where smiles have been

where angry faces were drawn in silence

where tears were wept

where fists were pumped

where exasperated sighs once filled my lungs

now there is silence

and the sound of birds singing.

Leaves are glistening

gleaming in the bright white sunlight

blink twice you need to.

It is time for movement.

The Difference

What would be the difference, if I took a one foot by one foot square and roped it off

and filled it with flowers brim to brim

or if I filled it with fire and then ashes

and we danced shin to shin?

The opposite of marriage is not divorce

it's space

and I could take my mouth and fill it with stars

and never say another word again.

Coltrane Has Superpowers

Coltrane has super=powers

of this I am acutely aware

the bare face of God has returned

and my idiotic rampage of notes

has turned sour on the cacophony of greatness

My attempts to secede from the Union

have been met with Lincoln's hat

overturned and asking for change

on a Sunday my tithes are no good here

I will have to put leaves on the water

of the small rushing brook

and think of Walt Whitman

Native Jesus Vegas

Everything is completely flat

the earth is now a bed sheet

the Plains Indians the Native true Americans, are standing like lampposts

waiting to set my prairie on fire

the gun slingers out West have become

Silicon Valley

I might have to go to Vegas

not to be a gambler

but to be that stone faced pilgrim

standing on the corner

asking people

if they have found Jesus.

Word Play with Sound 1

Stevie Wonder and cigarillos

Willow windows and rooms of Jello

Scoops of ice cream

James Dean side lean

Hello

Jaundiced candy

dice and laundry in January

Handyman gangster

Plaid rug

Happenstance Dancer

Laced with fancy hamsters

Framed in damaged tantric

Yams on the Titanic

Frantic and handsome

he's coming back besides

bugs are stacked in back

cow hide

horses rancid

Rapt attention, queens

hacking jackets

with plastic acid axes

don't mention the mentor

the mesmerizing tin dragon unhinged

a tinge of the shadows 

pristine

Green

Gold

Heat

Who Owns the World

Who owns the history of the world

Its dodged bullets and its fireflies in jars

Its mad dog who-dunnits and the skyscrapers caked in concrete

breaking apart and me on my knees at a small desk typing

The angels are breaking apart her seance like an orange

The onion is peeled back

and I am a stark reptile

a baby bird yet to grow feathers disgusting as I craw for food