The Infomercial

I think we have to believe what is possible.

It's not impossible, it's possible.

Time isn't something to manage, it's something to leverage,

it has the ability to multiply and contract.

We've all experience moments dragging on,

and hours passing in a flash,

what then, is time?

When you are done pondering the fluidity of time,

turn your gaze to hope. Let your heart burn

with an ember of desire.

Isn't hope and desire dependent on our sense of mastery?

Isn't mastery just a leap of faith?

Belief is the last frontier.

Take a leap over time.

Take a look in a moment.

It's not day to day activities that take you where you are going

but the moment to moment habits

the access you give

the boundaries you draw

but most importantly

the dreams

you create.

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Summer Again

Soaking up the rain and whipping spit of the waves, as he stood next to the ocean of my memory, a fire hydrant in a red windbreaker, glaring in the midst of a water storm, how I wished it was summer again. Matching silver rings and glances over coffee, army jackets and annual cigarettes, looking at the stonework on the buildings forever, necks craning to see the falcons carved like gargoyles, high enough, on their third story ledges, to amaze us but not so close as to pose any real threat. Under the willow tree, I will always be, with his hands on my shoulders.

Fashion Advice for the Damned

Bashing one's head against a wall is only useful if the dent is meant to be an accessory.

Tip toeing around a topic is only good if the shoes are soft.

Heavy headdresses made of lead are best when paired with a bag of burdens.

Walking through mud can give your feet and legs a rather dashing shade of grey.

Holding your head high is always recommended, you never know what you'll see.

Stabbing your heart with a metaphorical blade, make sure its silver and not obsidian.

Your eyelashes are your biggest curtain, drop them with great gravitas.

4 of 10 - Lost in the Leaves

This is part of a new series of ten poems, where each one is going to be sparked by an exact quote from someone I know. The quote is something they wrote, said, shouted or whispered. It then moves beyond the quote and I make up my own story or add my own thoughts. Similarities to people real or imagined are real or imagined.

"I'm getting lost in the leaves today."
I smirked, as if nature's paint brush was scrubbing my cheeks.
I walked in a blue jacket, in the sun and took in the red and gold
the yellow the brown
the mint.
"Oh!" There's a dead rat in the grass
his eye is open,
I don't know if he's breathing or not.
I know someone will have to pick him up
with a shovel.
I walk on.
I can't shed a tear now.
I'm romanticizing
the colors of life.
Empathy is useless right now.
It's pragmatic, and comforting, more like a towel
to wrap around my head
after a shower.
I'm not here to judge,
I am here to dance.
Lost in the leaves
smelling the wonder
of Fall.

Relative Stranger

Hunched over a typewriter

fifty zebras swatting flies

laughing at the sawdust

wiping his eyes

It's how I picture

Charles Bukowski

violins playing and each time the

typewriter

dings

it's an epiphany 

again

and 

again

silent like a church

bells ringing in his mind

far away 

from the gaze

of critics

and fools

wading in a river

of his own creation

fish biting his toes

splashing

in the morning

rain

as the sun rises

burning up the forest

with each passing glance

The muses running through the trees

dressed in white

flowing dresses

as they scatter

and hide behind 

the letters spread across the page like grain

and the idea is eaten.

a new page

goes in.

3 of 10 - Well that was dramatic.

"Well...that was dramatic."

I didn't know what he meant until I saw the ink spilled everywhere

and the moths in her hair like barrettes

as she sat in the corner

unable to move

Your journals they are all empty

Your mind it is now full.

Girl with Moths Print 

Sabina Sinko

Image source: https://www.saatchiart.com/print/Painting-Girl-with-Moths/392678/2591166/view?sku=P210-U392678-A2781376-T2

2 of 10 - People Complain

This is part of a new series of ten poems, where each one is going to be sparked by an exact quote from someone I know. The quote is something they wrote, said, shouted or whispered. It then moves beyond the quote and I make up my own story or add my own thoughts. Similarities to people real or imagined are real or imagined.

"People will complain about anything," she said, and she's right.

The current issue is potholes, on the city streets and alleys

wreaking havoc on people getting to and from work

resulting in car repairs and expenses

unforeseen even though

they tried to swerve.

She talks about how she never wanted to be a Nordstrom woman

and how despite herself

she notices

mauve and grey in her wardrobe

and we laugh

and I agree there's stereotypes out there

and listen to the shrill reminder that there are

unheard voices, unmet needs:

it's time to start blowing the whistle.

We discuss artists and grants.

She encourages me to call my local Alderman or Alderwoman. 

I agree the community needs to speak out,

and it needs to at least be on their

list.

They can swerve all they want.

Tax dollars are their vehicle

and there's no bumps on the road 

for that.

1 of 10 - Looking Up

This is part of a new series of ten poems, where each one is going to be sparked by an exact quote from someone I know. The quote is something they wrote, said, shouted or whispered. It then moves beyond the quote and I make up my own story or add my own thoughts. Similarities to people real or imagined are real or imagined.

"It's just so fucking fake out there now. No souls on the row."

His transparent onion skin was clear for now.

His messages floated down the telephone wires like a letter wet in the grass, ink running

Covered from head to toe in tinsel with

dirty cowboy boots and a shiny gold record

moving like moths to light

toward Christmas lights and Miller Lite

in the bar downtown, the Bluebird where all the songwriters

go.

The spark and fire of busking is now just enough

to get from the couch to the stove in the kitchen

I am him, he is me, 

my Nashville connection

he has no idea

what that town has meant to me.

The difference is he actually went, he actually followed the muse there

all the way down Highway 51 and made it safe and sound

but now his guitar is quiet and his long hair is dirty

who knows

maybe he cut it off

I remember doing that

I remember cutting my losses

How strange it is to realize

that songwriting isn't buried treasure

it's lightning in a bottle.

You need to look up.

he said his mental health is better

now that he's not trying

to be

a 

musician.

I know though

he will keep writing and his muse will tap him on the shoulder

even though getting older

is a scary, strange thing.

Maybe an old leather hat, can tip to him at the brim

for never having to say, "what if?"

More Swimming

Every sunny part of the kaleidoscope is blinking and moving! Keep on keeping on, tomorrow is a bright day full of life and swimming. 

Decapitato

They say a man will blink thirty seconds after being

decapitated.

They say a snake will slither until sundown.

At least I am not at risk

of being beheaded,

I think to myself on this sunny day.

I am not royal enough for that, 

when the peasants revolt

I will be among them.

I was reading a book about Mona Lisa

and in the list of ancestors 

sometimes it would just be written

"decapitato"

for cause of death.

Dark stuff,

from the time

of "enlightenment."

Description

Undoing the visuals from the eye ball

the eye socket covered in rags

what I couldn't see

the onion peels and wet feet in the bathtub

losing every layer of dry skin

could not begin

to unearth

the shell

the tortoise

turning over