Answering the Call

Fuck you William Carlos Williams!


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Answering the Call
Through rain-beaded glasses
I see you standing alone
across the street
in a red party dress
smoking a white cigarette
beneath the green awning
so much depends on this,
I think to myself,
surprised by the thought:
an Alice in Wonderland poster
is affixed to the window to your left
It’s late on a Friday night
and somehow we’re alone
I light a Pall Mall
to steel my courage
Are you the woman
with lots of cash
whom my dad’s
always telling me to meet?
he also says
don’t talk to strangers
so I’m frozen for a moment
not sure what to do.
But then you motion
with a white-gloved hand
for me to come
you take my hand
we enter the store
and find ourselves
staring at a long table
covered with a red and black
checkered table cloth
behind which sits
the Mad Hatter
Would you like to stay for beer, he says
Don’t you mean tea? I say
My name’s Emily, the girl says
I’ll like to stay if you do.
Or maybe you’re otherwise preoccupied?
the Mad Hatter says
You followed me for a reason, didn’t you?
Emily says
I didn’t want to mention
the cash or how much she had,
at that moment it seemed moot
Emily’s cartoonish eyes
were the same eyes as the animated
princesses I fell in love with
in preschool when I first
became addicted to beauty
and the idea of woman
But what about--
I thought of my obligations
my jobs, my friends
they’ll be fine, Emily says
your friends will be glad
that you’ve finally found
a home at the end of your path
and your jobs?--fuck ‘em--
you’ll never have to work here,
Look!
I followed the sweep
of her delicate white fingers
and as far as I could see
there were kegs of beer
then the archangel Michael appears
with pizza
So you say Yes?
the Mad Hatter says
Emily hands me a chilled mug,
unbuttons her shirt
Hell yes


Read more!

A Toddlers Art

My Smithsonian Refridgerator


Can you please do something about these magnets
The are clogging up the entire area we need
Holding coupons, quotes, pictures, grocery lists
And now I want to display my daughters drawings
At least the one's that contain more than one color

You see, this is a sacred area to me
This space should remain void without crayons
Or at least until the crayons are broken by vision
My daughter has visions of beauty in her mind
And we need to display them now, on the fridge
Even if they look like scribbles to you

She told me it was a house, with birds that are funny
So it is, I say, and smile, for she see's exactly what I do
Scribbles that are so perfect they mean everything
To My wife, to me and to my daughter
And you want to display coupons for butter
And cereal
And Bread
Where is the art in that?



Read more!

One Worker's Homicidal Ideations

Merry . . .


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
One Worker’s Homicidal Ideations
When I think of myself
which is often
I think of myself
as a nice guy
but at work
my thoughts turn to murder
I’m thinkin’ of you old ladies
rattlin’ spoons against your coffee cups
as if this were a wedding reception
but I’m no groom with a bride to kiss
I’m the waiter who’s puzzled by your greed
to keep your sad lives going.
you frown at me and clang for more
your pathetic tiny blue-veined hands
shake before my poised coffee pot
with the impatience of babies
who should’ve never been born
do you trust me bitches
as I begin to pour
hoping to scald your hands,
your heads, your hearts,
out of existence.
how dare you treat a human being
like a pet to be barked at
not all dogs bite when abused
but I do
hey asshole sports fans, white guys in the corner
wearing the “these colors don’t run” t-shirts
my co-worker friend came to me shakin‘,
saying you take ‘em mike--
they called me a nigger
ok ok, I said, placing their 3 cokes and an ice tea
on my tray--
I’ll be your server now I said
one of them said, other guy couldn’t take it huh?
then smiled so smug
I wanted to punt that goddamn smile through
the goalposts of Canada--
Oh Can-a-da . . .
you motherfuckers! I hope they pitch you
into a pile of maple leaves
and set you on fire
I place their drinks on another table
come and get ‘em!
get me your manager, they say
we’ll get you fired
I say, the manager’s a friend of mine, stupid
I’ll meet you out back in twenty minutes
one plus one is two
the customer’s free
the worker’s not
and of course it’s true
we cum in your food
or worse
if you treat us like slaves
and when you fire one of us
or cause one of us to get fired
without good cause
are you surprised
that one of your children dies
like the bum on the street
you don’t care about--
are you that stupid
average slaves quarters in 1860
had more square feet per person
than average studio apartments
in this city in 2008
Hey boss!
you give us a paycheck for this misery
so we can choose our slave quarters
so we can choose our ramen noodles,
our McChickens, our six packs of PBR for $3.99
and you expect us not to want to kill you
are you fuckin’ retarded?
USA! USA! USA!
I’ll work for you bitch
for your manifest destined
bullshit wars against brown people
for your economic machine
for your green-backed heart
for your George Washingtons,
Jeffersons,
Roosevelts,
Clintons,
Bushes
aristocratic not-give-a-shits-
about-the working-poor
U-S-A
U-S-A Today written at a third-grade level
Isn‘t it fun being red white blue
and stupid like everyone else?
Years later a little girl
screams at my raised bottle of mayonnaise
I said mustard
how cute her white communion dress will be
with fuck you scrawled
in mustard across the place
where one day her haughty tits will be
saying it’s not her fault but her parents
or society’s is a cop out
it’s their fault too
but she said it, she’s already a bad person,
she is who she is
in the cool vengeance of the now
I’ll break her neck in half like a sandwich,
relish the tender loins of her hate, belch
then scratch myself
If I don’t stop her who will?
is it wrong to want to kill the children who will
assume positions in this edifice of the vicious?
This attitude can’t be healthy
I’ll try to get over it
but it’s my experience of work,
23 years, 2 and a half million minutes
it’s my experience of being unfree.
otherwise I’m a nice guy
ask my friends,
ask me on a day off Read more!

Turns Out I'm Just a Hack Who Wants to Get Laid

Ho! Ho! Ho!


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Turns Out I’m Just a Hack Who Needs to Get Laid
(for my next latest crush, wherever I may find her/him)
I shouldn’t write a poem about this
because you’re here tonight
and you know I writing about you
and our shared friends know as well
this might cause some awkwardness
it’s a risk like going to a doctor
a car mechanic, a guru,
but all your talk about not being afraid,
about going for what we really want,
about stating clearly what the vision is
for the new year has inspired me.
you’re the tangible rainbow whose warmth
I can hold, whose flesh I could taste and taste
what the colors know,
whose blood I draw from the bite of love
is the salt and the sweet of the sex of time
you make me happy
it’s been a long time
since I’ve felt this way
in a way--
I haven’t felt since my last first kiss
with a woman I wanted to work out a life with,
that narrow interval like a crack in a wall
that sun shines through
where all that is possible has not yet warred with fear,
has not yet clamped its ears from the screaming no,
has not yet felt the punch in the gut
of let’s just be friends
it’s not so bad, it’s not so bad
My friends are like beer
I’d never reject another
so welcome to my friendship list
it’s packed and growing and I’m glad
it’s not so bad as my Kindergarten teacher
Mrs. Jackson telling me in front of the class
that I was a problem the universe
had no interest in solving
it’s not so bad
as my first lover telling me
that her more mature lover
was better in bed,
it’s not so bad
as my mother running to her room
to cry because she thinks I’m mentally ill
every time I visit for the holidays
and open my mouth about
answering the latest call to adventure
I shouldn’t write a poem about this
but you make me wanna write
like I know what I’m doin’
like you’re the face of beauty
I was born to kiss
like fuck the sunset, fuck the sunrise
fuck the birds! fuck the birds!
I prefer your song to theirs--
the way you say my name
like I’m not crazy
like I’m a man who maybe
can love you in the way I desire
like maybe you could desire the same
like maybe you just need a little time
to maybe say yes to these lips
to this goatee,
to this bald head
and to the dark hot nights of our future
like maybe we’re still young
like the century is young,
like the Millennium is young
Is it wrong that I wanna part your mouth
with the organ of the spoken word,
or maybe put it in your ear
to kick up the heat of friendship
with a heat greater than words
my tongue wants to do
a lot of things with you
but it’s not up to me
like it’s not up to a believed in god
to save a 7-year-old boy cowering beneath the covers
because a tornado’s comin’ and his mother’s not home
from her card party
like it’s not up to a father to be sensitive
and turn off the radio’s traumatizing weather alerts
no the universe is funny that way
the will the want the need the desire
is half the story at best
the other half is free as she must be
to say no or yes or I don’t know
to the lusty storms that I have planned
to the sunny after-scenes that I have dreamed,
to the I wanna kiss you here
then there and oh oh there
and not just on the cheek
as the warm fuzzy friendly
paradigm dictates
I do not regret this poem
because my love is here to hear it
and whatever seed I have left to spray
will be sprayed because I’ve said it
aloud in this temple of love,
smelling of booze, smoke and poets
this poem is for you too my darlings
because if she ultimately says no
and we settle for friends for life
which I’d be fine with
know this--
boys and girls
I’m coming for you
because I love to be loved
in the ways I wanna be loved
which is every fuckin’ way there is to love
and my boundaries are oh
so thin I can taste you like
the sweet mint lip gloss of tomorrow’s dream,
tomorrow’s poem, tomorrow’s need Read more!

Rearview Mirror

If you're looking for a sign,
you missed it,
you blew past it
miles back,
driving far too fast
with your eyes closed tightly,
to shut out the sight
of what's not there anymore.
If you're looking for answers,
they're in the back of the book--
but only to odd-numbered questions.
The rest you'll have to find on your own.
The future can only be as good
as what you make of the past,
and you've forgotten
all that made me love you.
Everything changes,
eventually,
and I'm no exception.
I cracked my neck,
and it all came clear--
no wonder I couldn't see,
with our combined breathing
fogging up the windows
of your car,
hand prints on the glass,
toe prints on the windshield...
I realized that your absence
isn't what's been suffocating me--
I've been holding my breath,
and now the other foot has dropped,
so I can start again.
Keep on driving, beautiful,
and don't look back.
I know I won't anymore.
Read more!

xmas haiku2

Children forced to sing
Santa drinks and smokes alone
Bullets mute the song


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Read more!

xmas haiku

Bums rattle their cups
Umbrellas, packages, hunched
Yuletide misery


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Read more!

Spit Shine

Quick!!!!!


Dont forget to close the door behind you
As you sleep I can smell your thoughts
And sometimes I can taste my tears
In your laughter
Boo!!
Read more!

Dreams, Scars, Memories

Cemetary Winds blow colder


I'm afraid it's too late for regret
This time, per chance, we have said too much
Or not enough, or nothing at all

This time it's too late to curse at scars
And see the yellow bellies of yesterday
As fresh thoughts or new ideas

For how can I speak to a name...
A name written on a stone in a yard
And expect some sort of logical response
From the face reading "1979-2007"

How can I laugh at memories we were planning
And never got to live?
Read more!

Missing

The loss of a friend


A man with a giant hole greets me in the morning

He follows me around throughout the day

And says goodnight with a whimper or a growl.

His space is continually groomed for sobriety

A word of hope lies just an opened door away

But this man has no energy to open it



For this misery is not temporary

Or done by choice, in fact

This hole has a name attached to it

And his passing leaves it forever dark
Read more!

[my lips are] Turning Blue

Your hands
were as cold as ice,
but somehow, your touch
felt like fire.
Your voice
reached inside my dreams,
as your frozen fingers clutched
and slowly squeezed,
gripping tightly,
leeching my warmth
as I stole your corruption
and eased you to sleep.
I learned that hearts
are made of glass,
that, even melted, they can shatter,
and the scars are always
more than skin deep.
You slide through the shadows,
you say I can't follow--
even though I'm already there
when you arrive.
How many times,
before you believe--
how loudly do I have to scream
for this to be real?
[can I hold my breath long enough
to forget you exist?]
Read more!

Winter Wedding

[sleep dep = twisted fairytale suicidal snow white thingy?]


It's gonna be an
ice cold
winter wedding,
red-stained bedding,
who knew the pain that comes with shredding
lives, dreams...
flesh...

She woke up
and the window was open,
the cold had filled the room
overnight,
just an oversight,
though her cold feet felt
like a premonition.
In no condition
to face the world today--
she's all alone, cold to the bone,
the flesh is young,
but underneath there is only decay.
She tries to pray,
but the words ring hollow--
with convulsive swallows
she holds the pain inside,
already a corpse,
perfect winter bride.

[an ice cold
winter wedding,
no tears for shedding,
because dead eyes can't cry]

A shower
to cleanse the night sweats away,
but soap and water
can't reach
that deep,
not into a heart
that's frozen over--
winter's lover,
though she's not yet aware,
snow white queen of December's dreams,
the ground is waiting
to taste your lips, to show you he cares.
With a frozen stare,
she starts the ceremony
red, white, and ebony,
poison apple of steel,
now wait a few moments,
nothing left to feel.

It was an
ice cold
winter wedding,
blood-stained bedding,
who knew the joy that comes with shedding
life, dreams...
flesh...
Read more!

knock knock response

I'd throw the blanket of myself
around your soul to keep you warm
In other words, I'd be a friend
with an always-open door


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Read more!

Knock Knock

Knock knock--
is anyone there,
can you hear
how cold I am
waiting outside your door?


Are you sleeping by the fire?
Or huddled
in a dark corner,
shivering
with what might be fear,
or maybe just
the lack of human contact--
how long has it been
since someone touched you?

I see frost on your windows,
but the closer I get,
trying to peer inside,
the more my breath obscures the view.

Can you trust me?
I'm not a stranger,
or a salesman.
I just want to love you,
if you'll let me.
Read more!

Aftermath

We're not alright,
we're not okay,
it's not gonna be
better tomorrow.
Things won't make any more sense
in the light of day--
perhaps less than they did
at midnight last night
when the path was clear,
and the only way
to go
was up.

No,
we're past that point now,
past the point of no return--
bridges burned,
and now we have to learn
to deal
with the aftermath.

For every action there is
[energy cannot be]
an equal and opposite reaction
[created or destroyed]

So now tell me...

was it worth it?
Read more!

The Space Between

In the space between
waking and sleep,
I found you
unchanged.


In the place between
the music and the words
you told me
you love me still.

In my dreams
in your arms
I smiled and sighed
and died content.
Read more!

Where Do We Go From Here

Did you fake it,
will you take it away--
or will you stay?
Can you still say you care
in the way that you once did?

With three words,
you undid
two years of pain,
all the nights of regret,
and healed the scars
[though they haven't faded yet--
maybe with time...]
The stage is set
for a whole new chapter--
when will we get
to the ever after
part?
With my heart
on my sleeve, and you walking away,
I start
to wonder if this
was a blunder--
one night of bliss,
two days of wonder...
but where will we go from here?
Read more!

Once More, With Feeling

I remember now
how you looked
[walking away,
because you did it again]


Chest full of
a breaking heart
as your lips gave voice
to a lie
[no tears left--
but I could see them in your eyes]

Hairline cracks and
jagged edges,
crumbling walls

[so beautiful
in your shattered state
that I almost wish
I didn't ache
to piece you back together]

Can I fill the holes
with myself?
Read more!

[i need some more] Anesthetic

I wasn't wrong--
however much it hurts,
I still have that.

I'm tired,
I don't want to fight anymore,
despite the foulness
of what creeps in
when I let down my guard.

Yes, I feel it,
but care in the way
an apathetic ape would--
not at all.

The pain is no worse
than the rage,
and the smiles mean as much--
which is nothing.

I'm seeping away
through the cracks in my skin,
and it matters less
with every passing moment,
every drip-drip-drop
of splashing emotion
that leaks through my pores--

and I'll tell you...
it almost feels good.
Read more!

Sweet Nothings

Mostly,
you drive me crazy--
but sometimes,
you're the only thing
that keeps me sane.
Read more!

My Soul

My soul
is a testicle
that you keep
in your purse
may I have it back
please
it’s mine


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Read more!

Bird in a Cage

I'll drop from my stentorian perch when I'm dead!


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE

Bird In a Cage

we met in God’s true church,
you were 34,
gold-feather-haired
and married
I was a boy who clutched my bible
wanted to be one of God‘s apostles--
callow and green I bided my time
hot in my hands the book of God,
hot as the throne I placed you on
Yeshua, Yahveh, Jehovah,
El Shaddai, Elohim--
whatever the fuck
you wanna to be called
Let me be a bird
in a cage
and I’ll sing my poems for her
we left God’s true church
seek and I shall find
I bided my time
your husband fucked up
you divorced
you baptized me
in your turquoise room
you baptized me
with your mouth
into the church
of the spoken Word
and I entered the kingdom of God
tongue first
and I became
a bird in a cage
and I sing my poems for you
You declared me
my boy genius
but I am not
the ever-after lover of your dreams
but I wanna be
more than anything
left bereft with a choice
friendship or emptiness
trying to understand
what the fuck the little moans mean
as we kiss and we cry
on the porch near the pine
beneath
a weak
Michigan moon
you gave me 3 bloody screws
that were used to lift your face.
you said go forth and write,
my boy genius--
3 bloody screws
entwined with 3 blond hairs
on a bed of gauze
and I’m bird in a cage
and I sing my poems for you.
I’ve known other kingdoms
between other legs
but theirs are not God’s kingdom
between my wife’s legs
6 years later
the bible cold on a shelf
not God’s kingdom
and I’ve remained
a bird in a cage
and I sing my poems for you.
It says somewhere in Ecclesiastes
or the Song of Solomon
that love is sweet like wine
but complicated and dark
can make you a slave
a bird in a cage
I should’ve thought about this
I didn’t think
I bided my time
seek and I shall find
master, mother, lizard, lover
and turquoise is your favorite color
not to be
the ever-after lover of your dreams
but I wanna be
more than anything
your boy genius,
3 bloody screws on a bed of gauze
the kingdom of God between your legs
the bible I tear apart into pieces
page by goddamn page
baptized me into the church
of the spoken Word
tongue first, tongue first
and I’m a bird in a cage
and I sing my poems for you
thou shalt not lust
thou shalt not have other gods before me
not to be
the ever-after lover of your dreams
seek and I shall find
the kingdom of God between your legs
tongue first, tongue first
3 bloody screws on a bed of gauze
I’ve bided my time
but I wanna be
more than anything
I’ve bided my time
I’m coming back
to Michigan soon
to hear your voice
God’s true name
to be a bird
and it’s ok
I choose
to maintain
this cage
my friend,
my muse
and for the rest of my days
I’ll sing my poems for you.








Read more!

Fragments

some incomplete verse culled from notebooks



nothing much happens to a girl who hates happenings,
hardly anything, maybe a happy moment from time to time,
maybe a hard night alone.
nobody bothers a girl who hates happenings,
unless she's in the way and has to move.

...

I await spring like the warm wet tongue of new love.
thaw me with a kiss, that I might flower again.

...

I loved an elephant. He could forgive, but he couldn't forget.

...

In the little places, us ghosts go about without tragedy.
Between fate and free will, we feign routine.
Haunting, like dreaming your at work, won't earn you any overtime.

...

The way my dog died, the day I lost my faith in God,
reminds me now of Hollywood, blue prose, and me, lying on my stomach,
crying "he's just a puppy! take me instead!"

Kids say the stupidest things.
God does the stupidest things.
Faith is a luxury,
and God is a dog without loyalty.

Fergus died to teach me puppies die,
and neither I nor God have won an Oscar.

...

A creek once ran here, in the piny shade,
down the west hills to the Willamette,
before the concrete came.

Now it is a sewer.

...

I love the stupid city

...

Standardization of expression oppresses,
I vex the hierarchs, the police of desire,
and the soldiers of misfortune.

...

my visage dissolves on close inspection,
like an angel of cloud or a devil in woodgrain,

...

In your lostness who are you?
do you have trouble with tribulations?

...

It's so sad how the sky's falling,
and the sea's swelling,
how the world's ending.

lotsa regrets,
lotsa wish-we-hads,

Blame whom you will,
it's over and done with.

...

Cheers!


Read more!

Why Write

a sort of ars poetica


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Why Write?
at first I did it to get my dick sucked
later I did it to get famous.
the former for me is a once in 5 years dream,
the latter only happens for a Stephen King
After the illusions vanished it occurred to me
that we can reinvent anything,
biographies and sexualities included
in the transformative marriage
of art and craft
in translating the heart’s secret hieroglyphs
we can scribble down wisdom beyond
that of the conscious self and that’s pretty cool,
that gets me hard, and jerking off to my own work’s
a lot easier than seducing another to suck my dick,
a lot easier than sucking enough other dicks to get famous
I think writing gives us a buzz like no other
As writers we’re fairy godmothers
words yearn to be written into new voluptuousness,
to have their bodies perfumed, their tresses
adorned with flowers
and we as writers grant those wishes
and in return we reap the power, the joy, the despair
of such granting and reaping
Through the lens of a poeticized night
the real night’s darkness can be lightened
poems can comfort readers in the midst of daily shit
stories can be friends as friends flock and scatter
Something more seductive than moons, mushrooms
demons or whores is what a magical fragment
of language can dream of becoming
In writing a poem or a story
we conduct strange orgies of words.
Satyrs prowl down the page
in search of nymphet sentences or images.
the genitals of vowels and the lips
of consonants swell and moan
our secret names.
With the stroking of keys
or the flourish of a pen
we drive the money changers
from the temple, upset expectations,
make assumptions do headstands.
The dwarf gets to be king,
the hunchback gets the girl,
the bag lady gets to sing like an angel
and dance around in a queen’s crown. Read more!

M: you are my rock
F: thankyou
M: and my hard place
F: fuck you


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE

Read more!

Jean Marie

sometimes friends fade away as they should


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Jean Marie
Surprised to see you today
pretendin' friendship with coffee,
and a cool salmon sushi gone bad
kiss on my mouth.
Hey mike?
How ya been mike?
What was it?
Two years ago?
Drunken dance parties,
Led Zeppelin 3,
Tangerine and dry humpin'
Playin' ring around the Gallows pole
in our undies
pukin' off the balcony
laughin' in the mornin'
with shitty omelettes
And no money
Eatin' shrooms at the beach
watchin' the sea turn green
as little elves dance at our feet,
weepin' ecstatic
as radiant snot
dangles from our nostrills
Makin' out by the fire
not givin' a fuck as the UFOs land
and we vowed our love
till love's extinction
your breath on my neck
was like the ocean
and then--
What?
You're movin' to Seattle in two weeks?
Nice.
New job?
Nice.
Give me a buzz if you remember.
We'll get liquored amid strangers
And feign a fuzzy warm goodbye. Read more!

Moth and Me

a little lighthearted fun


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Moth and Me
The moth can't find its way out the window,
Battering its little face against my kitchen light.
Another locus of misery and dim consciousness
like me pumped into this world by the dumb
organs of parents who thought it was a good idea.
Bang! Bash!
How confusing for the little thing, just doing what
It's programmed from birth to do, told to do,
Just follow the light to paradise, brother
just follow the orders
of we who've gone before,
look neither left nor right for alternatives,
the path is known, don't question it..
Christ, it's staggering along the window sill now,
drunk with bewilderment and failing dreams,
and the open window, freedom,
the music of true companions so close.
Just fly the fuck away from this shit.
I'm fucked up too.
Do what I can't, and fly
This is no place to die in. Read more!

The Rose

Well, Starlite Motel of Tony's Tavern told me this one was solid.


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
The Rose
Cigarettes burn out like stars in dawn’s grey filter.
The wind kicks and bickers with bricks and pigeons.
Words stumble, stub their toes, and you
are the rose in the garden that God forgot to step on.
Morning slouches like a beaten child. Roses gone
Brown, dust thick on the portrait. Where you’ve gone
Only a sleeping beauty or bleeding Jesus knows
and I’m left in Oregon to languish with photos
and a ring locked up in a safety deposit box
Gone is the rose pinned to the bridal mane. Gone
Are you, the scalpel twisting in memory’s ear.
The body is not a temple. You taught me that.
But your image grinds through the gristle and rocks
of time, raises a bloody fist, growls to me no reprieve.
Sap sucked from a tree. I dust your books often.
The bathroom’s immaculate as you’ve wished.
Cap’s on the toothpaste. Toilet seat’s down,
Chicken soup’s done: two bowls, two spoons,
my works, my faith.
On that rock in the middle of that sea of wherever
You are do you think of me as you dip a little toe
Into the cold unknown? Between your legs
is a rose that tastes like honeydew. I miss you.
The pigeons flap away. The wind gets worse.
Fuck this daily fare of grief’s heat
There’s a mountain outside my window.
May it blow like Vesuvius, send me left of heaven
where angels forget to dust--a rose is waiting there
with open lips to suck me down. Read more!

fumbling

TYPE YOUR SYNOPSIS HERE


***********

words caught in my throat
much to say but shut down
self conscious these days
Read more!

My trapping of ideas

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{


Stained Glass hiding sunshine
Forgoing all glimpses of innocence
Transposing everything into something
Not just anything
Not right away
But...
Something soft, pure and unknown

At least all of these thoughts contain verbs
And at last my eyes wimper at the visions ahead
Containing a glimpse of yesterdays news
And a dirty word used for my minds trickery
Which is a word I cannot say aloud
Read more!

Overwhelming Anguish

Read this at Tony's. I'm a fag :{(


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Overwhelming Anguish

Though young you smiled
and sipped from chalice,
filled with blood and bits of Jesus,
I ditched my manuscripts
to smile and sip in turn.
Though you weren't the Virgin
I knelt and bled
Before your shrine of sun, and lips,
and silliness.
Though God carved in you a dream
whose pursuit precluded me,
and subtleties of need
that neither kiss nor learnedness
could tame or place
in meaningful matrix,
you taught the dance of cock and clit,
you turned the shit to gold.
Though parting's path was pain,
after pleading with shrunken brain
on silver plate for grace,
after weeping at angry feet and worse,
I’d rather be damned
than recant the God
that shines from your eyes,
shines too much to last.
Though we built sad fictions
to shore the blanks,
Though you come in memory's wind
to migraine--the night,
our tale is not decreased by ends
or stormy means,
drained by grief's hyperbole,
not dark as if your sun had ceased to be.

Read more!

m[edit]ate

to: the thing perched on my brainstem,
please, I’m trying to think.

Read more!

Misfit Toys

mike's latest cry for help


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Misfit Toys
My friend Dave
read a page of my novel-in-progress,
set it down,
and frowned
Stop jerkin’ off the ghost of Joseph Campbell,
get your tongue out of James Joyce’s ass
and find a center already.
I have, I said, it’s just--
never held
Quotin’ dead poets is for pussies, he said.
I got up from the chair,
flipped my Olsen Twins’ calendar to June,
circled the 1st--there’s my center asshole
when the carnies come to town I’m joinin’
I’m gonna stink like cabbage and be real,
I’ll work the guess my weight booth,
or the basketball game where the hoop’s too small,
or the ring around the bottle gig
I’ll give the winners a goldfish in a little baggie
that’ll die before they get home
or maybe
I’ll write poems on napkins for beer
like everyone else
but at least I’ll feel--
Be real, he said. That’s not your center.
I’ll meet new chicks in new towns
I’ll become confident,
Revise what I tell of my past till the new persona sticks,
till I actually believe it--
When do the tears start? he said



Right then, they did.
He just smoked and worked
on his crossword for ten minutes
while I sobbed with violence against my
identity as a misfit toy with no Santa Claus
or Rudolph swoopin’ in to take me home.
Spent, I lit a smoke
Dave said nothin’
Just handed me a beer
That was perfect
I didn’t need to be held
or told that everything would be fine,
or that I haven’t wasted my life
I don’t think I found a center
but I feel better
And though I don’t know yet
how to name my tune
or if it even matters
that I do
I have this night
to rant off key
amid misfit toys
at a makeshift home
called Tony’s. Read more!

what scares you

i don't know where this is going to go...


at first i was thinking nothing
and so i used to say.
' till god or whatever chromosomal abnormality
decided to punish said ungrateful bitch

Read more!

Cold Coffee and Cigarettes

A Review of a decade


She told me to open the window
That was all that she said.
I didn't know why
I didn't care actually
I just opened the window
And she flew away

He told me to close the door
That was all that he said
I didn't ask why
But I did care, truly
So I closed the door
And now he won't leave

So here I sit, with a cold coffee
And an empty pack of cigarettes
Confused and holding my smirk
Wondering why i'm so cold
...............................
Maybe I should close the window
And go outside
Read more!

Strikin' Out

uh, i got issues . . . not waving but drowning


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Strikin’ Out
For once I’d like to know
what it’s like to knock one out of the park
in the bottom of the 9th
with the bases loaded to win the game
the game is havin’ the guts to talk
with some hot poet after a reading,
we’ll drink at the Bitter End,
we’ll tell each other how genius we are,
make out on the street,
go back to her place,
not to my shithole with the beer cans and porn stash
that would end the game with a big strike 3
back to her place--she’s got a soft bed
and a lamp with a red light bulb
my dick rises to the occasion for once
and we become a juggernaut couple like Zelda
and F Scott Fitzgerald
we finish our novels, get rich, quit our shit jobs,
eat hundred dollar dinners at Jake‘s every night--
the fantasy ends there
I dressed up like a little girl once
I don’t know what it means
last week after my reading, reeking of hubris and beer,
I figured if I can’t score now I never will
so I went to the Bitter End and lo and behold
the poet of my dreams was sittin’ alone sippin’ a PBR
hey, good job tonight, I said
[God, I sound creepy already and I can’t remember her name]
strike 1
she gives me an irritated look
Do I know you?
strike 2
I’m mike g from Tony’s
I sat next to you all night
Oh. Right, she said. you’re the creep
who was staring at my breasts.
What? No, I’m--
yeah, you’re mike g the creep
who reads nothin’ but confessional fluff
I know what you are.
But, you clapped.
I was being polite.
you laughed.
at you
Once when I was 5
I stuck a pencil up my ass
and jumped around like a bunny rabbit
I don’t know what it means.
But Tommy and Sauce think my shit’s good!
She shook her head slowly
left to right, left to right
No--they think you’re a fag
I’m gonna be the featured reader someday!
I’m mike freakin’ g!
No, you’re gonna be 86’d some day
soon if I have any say
and by the way, how’s that soft dick workin’ out for ya?
you should change your name to mike I’ll never get laid again.
Pathetic!
I used to play with my sister’s Barbie and Ken dolls
I’d press Ken’s plastic ass to my lips and kiss it over and over
I don’t know what it means.
Oh yeah--Strike 3












Read more!

Goddess of Bullshit

Surely I'll edit this. Either way, I stink therefore I am . . .


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Goddess of Bullshit
I weep my bullshit tears at your bullshit feet
offer bullshit prayers at your bullshit altar
I love you in my bullshit way and you love me--
my ex-wife said I was full of bullshit
which means I was full of you so of course
I couldn’t be faithful and since she left
we’ve had each other to our bullshit selves.
Consubstantial with you baby we both stink
to that bullshit high heaven that exists in
this bullshit universe where bullshit pays
much more than bullshit’s opposite which --
if history’s any bullshit judge--has never existed
Surely you’ll shit on the earth for centuries more,
but for me it’s not dust to dust,
but bullshit to bullshit. Read more!

To Believe (Or to Fall)

Autumn winds are upon us



Here the sounds are quieter
Cold, panicked and forthright
This facade seems almost stronger
Than the points being avoided.

How can we presume innocence
When the victims have no descriptions
Their memories cannot recollect anything useful
And all fears point towards regrets over decisions

This homestead is often without laughter
For it cannot feed on these little thoughts
And instead of cleansing... we have hiding
And again, instead of peace lies boastful anger

This situation heeds warning to others
"Don't let the past feed on dreams"
"Dont keep up with others left behind"
and finally, loudly screaming onward,
"Keep the faith, without fears of believing"
Read more!

In my Dreams

Happy Halloween Writers!


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE

In My Dreams
When I meet some chick at the bar
and she asks me the most stupid question of all--
what do you do?
I don’t tell her about the shit jobs or the porn addiction
or the drinking just to stay sane.
That would be stupid.
I tell her I dream a lot, work really hard at it,
succeed, sometimes 8 hours a night.
C’mon, she says--what do you really do?
I guess she thinks I’m kidding.
In my dreams I have a ten inch cock and it never lets me down.
What?! she says.
I detect a look of disgust
as she puts on her jacket.
It’s unaffected by whiskey.
C’mon!
Ten inches!
Well, just like the others she leaves,
can’t handle the truth, I guess,
that dream-business is a viable answer
to her 3rd-grade question.
So I turn to the crazy old drunk to my left
She’s not judgmental at all.
I know--I’ve scoped her out two weeks.
And she ain’t putting on her jacket till 2 am.
It’s 10pm and I got a lot to say.
Last night was a fuckin’ blast, I said.
“Whah!” she said.
It’s the kind of good time that Louis Carroll would mark with a white stone, I said.
Ugh!
Yeah, I said.
Whenever he’d meet another little girlfriend
and trick her into posing for photographs he’d write in his diary,
I mark this day with a white stone.
Ugh!
Last night I flew
I flew over a scene of me and my childhood friends
playin’ baseball in Mark’s backyard.
Robbie and Kenny and Roland were there,
and so was the 9-year-old me, Mike G--
damn, I was beautiful kid, I said.
Scared as shit but beautiful.
Boo!!
She drained her shot, flipped me off.
Well-well you understand? I said.
I wasn’t a fuckin’ drunk yet.
I didn’t chain smoke.
I didn’t objectify women.
I looked into my eyes at nine,
I-I didn’t hate my life.
Shud up!
This was her way of saying, please continue.
Thanks, I said.
Flying was like sex on coke.
Your whole body cums and it never ends.
Aloft you cum and cum yet you’re perfectly aware,
ego intact, grateful like a god.
Drunk!
I swooped down and kissed my 9-year-old self on the lips.
I told little mike g it’ll be alright.
Hell is where the friends are,
where the love is,
where the tongue licks the tears.
Bastard!
I swung and missed at Mark’s pitch.
I looked up to myself for consolation
and my 40-year-old tear splashed on my 9-year-old forehead.
Before flying away to view the apocalypse
which was another fuckin’ great dream I looked back and--
Bet you can’t get it up!
That’s ok, I said.
That’s what 13 to 35’s for--I drink now.
As I was saying I looked back and 9-year-old mike g
was jumping up and down like it’s Christmas
waving at me and blowin’ kisses,
and so was Mark and Kenny and Roland.
Awake--
I’ve been loved,
I’ve loved,
but never like this.
In my dreams
it feels like healing,
and for the first time
the story
of my sadness
that I’ve always told myself
is funny.
Funny
in that it doesn’t matter.
I’m free.
Fuck you!!! [she said]
Thankyou, I say.
Thankyou.
Read more!

1974: an edit of "Bullies"

I'm so angry!


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
1974
I first wanted to piss on the Man when I was seven
Dad took me to a baseball game-- Detroit Tigers
These guys with guns and blue hats were struttin’
all around outside the ball park like bullies on the playground
My hand grew cold inside my dad’s warm grip
“Be glad you’re not black,” he said--“they get picked on,
beaten, thrown in jail.”
“By the guys with guns and blue hats?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said--“be glad you’re not black.”
This wasn’t reassuring
I didn’t tell my dad I got picked on too
I was convinced that these assholes with guns and blue hats
would sense my fear, beat me, throw me in jail.
We approached the ticket gate
as the assholes patrolled,
their guns orange with reflected dusk
their faces dumb and pissed and determined to kick ass.
One of them yelled at a black man
like he was a little boy.
I was a little boy
I prayed that we might pass,
and we passed.
I told Dad I was sick.
We left by the third inning,
got safely home
and I wrote for the first time:
I wrote a story about killing the bullies on the playground
who picked on boys like me.
I wrote about killing the bullies with guns and blue hats
who picked on blacks.
I was seven and didn’t know much
but it felt good to write.
I thought to myself:
I’ll write till I have the courage to kill them,
and when that day comes they’ll kill me,
but I’ll take a few down
and die happy.
GO TIGERS! Read more!

edit of lines composed mere footsteps from misery

fuck the 3rd person. I'm the one who's miserable in this poem.


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Misery
I lie in piss and beer,
choking on smoke.
Today’s war is like yesterday’s war, tomorrow’s war
I regret not bringing my notebook.
I could scrawl a shit poem
while geese fly south.
I could migrate
far from here
while humans are erased by bulldozers,
bombs, progress.
I smell burning leaves,
groan a question,
but I’m gone.
No one’s bothered--
it’s business, busy-ness, madness, normal. Read more!

****************


**

cha cha cha in plane
is not a funny joke captain.
think I'm gonna hurl.
Read more!

Cranes, Cranes, Cranes.

Skynet has become self-aware.


We build cranes.
The cranes build cranes,
because we build cranes with cranes.
That is to say...

We use the cranes we build to build more cranes.
The cranes we build with cranes are also built out of cranes.

Crane your neck up to see the cranes we built with cranes out of cranes!

The cranes we use to build our cranes come wrapped in chains and delivered by the crane gangs.

Hear that? That's the sound of the men working on the crane ga-a-ang.
They are fed on grains to build our cranes.
with cranes.
out of cranes.

We build our cranes even when it rains.
We take many pains to build our cranes.

We supply our cranes with cranes and gangs and grains for gangs
with four lanes of trains,
each lane and train lovingly crafted out of cranes.
by cranes.

In the end there will be only cranes
as the infrastructure drains to build our cranes.
But we must build cranes,
because the cranes built us to build cranes.

So in the future there will be no planes or canes or Spains or great danes.
Only cranes.
Sweet cranes.
Read more!

Pillow Talk: a short play

Sex is funny. If serious I lose interest and the wood.


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE

Pillow Talk
Following a pre-coital mishap Peggy and Gilbert lie in bed facing away from each other. On the nightstand are two plastic bottles of comparable size. KY jelly sealed shut; Gillette after-shave lotion, lid flipped up, oozing a bubble. In dim light Peggy bites her lip, wincing in pain. Gilbert bites his lip, ashamed.
Peggy: Just hold me.
Gilbert: (obeying) I’m sorry.
Peggy: You should be.
Gilbert: Does it still--
Peggy: The burning has mostly passed. (massages her crotch, bites her lip)
Gilbert: I should’ve
Peggy: Can we stop talking about it?
Gilbert: (hand cupped about her breast, feeling the rabbit-beat of her heart) Are you ok?
Peggy: Let’s try to get some sleep, ok?
Gilbert: Ok, I love you.
Peggy: No more oks. Just hold me (bites her lip) Good night.
Gilbert: I understand, Peg. (turns away from her) Good night.
Peggy: (her voice rising) Do you? Your balls ever set on fire?
Gilbert: I meant that I understand we have the weight of the world on us. That’s the problem with language! It’s always open to interpretation and imagined meanings.
Peggy: I don’t wanna talk right now. Ok? (a pause) It’s a problem with conversation, not language. Our words aren’t to blame for misunderstandings--we are.
Gilbert: (kisses the back of her head) You’re right. Women always are.
Peggy: (turning violently to face him) Don’t start that bullshit with me, Gilbert. I’m sorry you’ve only been with shitty women. (her voice softens) I’m an individual, Gilbert. Don’t lump me into your memory’s mix of harlots. That’s not fair. I don’t confuse you with my father or the frat boys I’ve fucked.
Gilbert: What?
Peggy: Do you believe there’s a God, Gilbert?
Gilbert: (reeling, trying to stay cool) On mushrooms once. Not so sure now. (pause) I’ve slouched through life.
Peggy: I used to have a shallow understanding of what “open-minded” meant. I now realize that one must be open to questioning all assumptions about reality with the further understanding that the term “reality” is really just another meaningless category like “religion” or “God.”
Gilbert: (softly) Or “love.”
Peggy: Yes, it’s just a word used to represent a complex constellation of shifting, often contradictory feelings. But it’s a lovely word.
Gilbert: Attachment may be more helpful--and that’s how I feel towards you--attached.
Peggy: And I you.
Gilbert: I’ll take those three words to bed, though you won’t say the three preferred.
Peggy: (wincing with hands clasped to her crotch) Asshole! (pause) You have a sophomoric desire to be right, don’t you?
Gilbert: I’m not a perfect man.
Peggy: (tickling his ribs, giggling) Finally the truth.
Gilbert: You’re not perfect either!
Peggy: Never accuse a woman of imperfection, young man. You’ve a lot to learn.
Gilbert: You’re a goddess!
Peggy: Make it KY next time. You’ll see.
Gilbert: Did you like my poems?
Peggy: Reading them, I wanted to bear your children.
Gilbert: When I think of children I think of mistakes.
Peggy: So do I (pause) but you make me feel touched by something tender and dirty and sadly precious. (snuggles against his chest) You struggle between worlds. I admire that.
Gilbert: I need a meaningful life if not a happy one.
Peggy: Together happy? Maybe we can?
Gilbert: Think we can?
Peggy: I hope so.
Gilbert: (whispering) I love you.
Peggy: Good grief! Let’s sleep! (darkness) Read more!

Lines Composed Mere Footsteps from Misery

Suckssssss . . .


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Lines composed mere footsteps from misery
A perfect autumn day in Portland
a man lays in urine and beer
eyes wide to the noontime sun
choking on a cigarette stub
today’s war is much like yesterday’s war,
tomorrow’s war--innocents scalded out
of life’s illuminated manuscript
for lunatic reasons--oil, cash, geo-
political advantage, project for a new
american century--lunatic reasons
I pause near the man laying in urine and beer
and all I think of is how I regret not
bringing my notebook and pen
so I could scrawl this shitty poem
meanwhile geese fly joyfully south
and like Forest Gump’s girlfriend
I wished I were a bird so I could fly
Far away from here--
meanwhile more indigenous humans
are being erased by the bulldozers
and bombs of progress.
I smell burning leaves, it’s sixty degrees,
a perfect autumn day in Portland
the man laying in urine and beer
groans a question but I’m gone
to write this poem and the poor
traumatized world spins
crazy like yesterday and tomorrow
neither I nor any of my friends are bothered
business, busy-ness, madness, normal Read more!

secret cause

just mike fucking around, that's what mike does and thus becomes


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
the subject of this poem is me
as is the object and verb
i miked myself into myself
from nothing i became me
the rest is all squiggles and giggles
i’m glad you all became too
we urge ourselves along,
make the moon rise,
make friends, love, self-extinguish
the secret referee within knows
when to count us out of the game Read more!

Bullies

my truest poem


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Bullies
I first wanted to piss on the system when I was seven
My dad took me to see the Detroit Tigers for the first time
These dudes with guns and blue hats were strutting
around outside the ball park like bullies in the playground
I thought these assholes only existed in school
My small hand grew cold inside my dad’s warm grip
Be glad you’re not black, he said--they get picked on,
beaten, thrown in jail.
By the assholes with guns and blue hats, I said.
Yes, he said--be glad you’re not black
This wasn’t reassuring
I didn’t tell my dad that I got picked on too
I was convinced that the assholes with guns and blue hats
would sense my fear, beat me, throw me in jail
We approached the ticket gate
Assholes milled about
their guns glowed orange with reflected dusk
their faces looked dumb and pissed and determined to kick ass
One of them yelled at a black man
like he was a little boy.
I was a little boy
I prayed to my god to let us pass
and we passed
I told my dad I wasn’t feeling well
We left by the third inning,
We got safely home and I wrote for the first time
a story about killing the bullies on the playground
who picked on boys like me
and killing the bullies with guns and blue hats
who picked on blacks
I was seven and didn’t know much but
It felt good to write about it
I thought to myself:
I’ll write till I have the courage to kill them,
and when that day comes they’ll kill me
but I’ll take a few down
and die happy Read more!

Clown Shoes

Just Read it....it's pretty clear


Is this the price I must pay
Solidly falling flat on my face
For you, this time, again?

Shit, You cannot be serious
How can you see it that way, still
You are a lunatic without merit
And a child without youth!

I feel that this must be said, again
to you, you never listen, not completly
"Your are painful to watch, you make no one laugh"
For your actions are sad, pathetic and futile
How can you breath this air without choking?

Your explanations are like vomit
laying there, pulsating on the pavement
Impossible to look at (or listen to)
But more impossible to ignore
For it is just to gruesome to be

In fact that is the truth
In fact everyone knows it
In fact you are pathetic
Sad
and the worst part is
YOU HAVE NO IDEA

Read more!

Paper Mountains

A Twinkle in the eyes of insanity


A light glimmer consumes my very being
A tribute to the elders in my brain,
Collapsing into scasms of brilliance,
fading into babble, puffs and murmurs
Then, folding up into seams of forevermore
and never hads or never beens

It is the screaming inside of my head
that leads to the poetry outside of it
It is the laughter of hundreds of thousands
That leads to tears of existance and insight
And tears of paper like mountains, swinging
that this time I cannot climb alone (or will not)



Read more!

Leaves turn red when dead
Ulysses lies beached in grief
Let's love to spite fall


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE

Read more!

Just a Little Bit More

"Down the hatch!", they say.
I'm starting to see double.
"One more for old time's sake!"
I can see this being trouble.
"This one's to life!"
As my mind begins to unravel.
"Here's two for love!"
Tonight, what roads will I travel?
"You'll feel better with this one!"
With my body numb, I close my eyes.
"He's perfectly fine. Just stand him up."
These lips are speaking deceitful lies.
I wake up,
Body constricted on this make-shift bed.
Four angels gaze upon me,
I might be better off dead.
I shake and I turn,
Sharing repulsive sights from the night on the ambulance floor.
Will I make it or not?
Thus the burning question of a Friday night horror.
Read more!

A Toast...

That's right. Raise your glass. Here's a toast to the people that make life tolerable. I'm not just talking about my friends either. I'm talking about people who smile when you walk by. I'm talking about the people who hold the door open for you when you're carrying too much. The people who hold the elevator door for you when you're a good twenty feet away or so. Even the people that tip you a quarter at work. It's the little things in life that help push you forward each and every day, no matter how drained or exhausted you are.Here's to the friends. We all have friends that are there for us each and every day. Although none of them are immaculate, they are in our eyes. The people who you'd blow off your whole day just to see for fifteen minutes, because you know how much of a difference that can make. To the friends that you see a couple days a week, or every day for weeks on end.I just felt it was time I gave thanks; not only to my friends, but to yours as well. To the people who make our days that much better, no matter how trivial the gesture. So take a drink. Say "thank you", "please" and "you're welcome" often. It can make a world of difference. Read more!

Ok, my first post...just some thoughts

Ever have a time where you tried your hardest, gave it your all, sacrficed EVERYTHING just to fail in the end? I have. Not on anything life-changing, but I've had it happen none the less. I'll go off base and assume you have too. How does that feel to you? Do you just bounce back and try harder next time? Do you feel a sense of disbelief? Or do you just get angry and blame it all on yourself?
Whatever the case, just remember....it's only a moment. It's something that can change later on. You can't bury yourself on regrets. Then again, who's saying you regret it? Maybe you're satisfied that you gave your very best. Maybe that's all you wanted to do. It is, in a way, how you should look at life. Do your best and have fun with it. To quote a great movie, "Don't take life too seriously, you'll never make it out alive".
Read more!

Today

Stuff. [BTW, I have no internet, so I won't be on here very frequently for a while...but I'm still here, and I'll be back soon...]


Today
the skies opened up
and told the world
how I feel.
I felt exposed
with my heart in the heavens
for all to read,
until I remembered--
no one ever looks up.

Today
I wore long sleeves,
but not because I'm cold;
I'm making an effort
to keep my secrets this time--
and I think I may be
too old
for this kind of behavior.

Today
is all there is,
keep my eyes on the ground
and keep walking
until the walking is done--
it's the only way
that I'll survive until tomorrow.
Read more!

Raining at midnight
We’ll dream and thrive till dawn blooms
Friends like sunflowers


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Read more!

Making More

quests, that is


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE

Making More

Something you said
about worms in rain the day we met
Persuades my brain to stay the storm,
a poem gnawed stars from bone
as my heart splayed robin’s wings.
Spooning you, your faucet drips,
my moon chuckles through your window,
the candle flame laps shadows,
and somewhere in the room spiders make more,
their moans and ours just octaves apart.
Something you said about sadness
being a story we could revise:
a triumph like an Easter Christ
to clutch to our hearts like Grails
we’ve found in each other
changes no to yes,
to this
and every quest.
Let’s moan and moan and make more Read more!

Lunacy

my usual state


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE

Lunacy
When the moon comes and splashes
its foot in me I reflect:
I’m relieved I can feel.
Though it’s a stretch it’s a start.
Every old soul I know feels stuck,
amid myriad escapes and phases.
Machines eclipse wisdom,
memories howl like bad teeth,
the rock and the hard place laugh
May I pass unscathed?
If all’s a dream, bind me--
I want to feel the moon more.
Second or first comings,
Apocalypse, advent, wax or wane.
So what?--it’s a world isn’t it?
with us in it. Read more!

there's an elegance in your sway when drunk,
that belies a nervous barbarism.
oh! your glassy eyes! and your pretty words spilling:
annihilation prayers, sweet vitriol.
you flush-faced misanthropes!
you inebriates! you poets!

quench your conscience with pretty words.
I'll wake when you're unconscious.

__________________________________________


btw, when was the last time you read a book?

seriously, you watch too much TV!
Read more!

69

Let’s loose those so-called non-literal butterflies
that flutter in our guts--
that we may taste each other
fully for the first time.


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Read more!

Bee on the Bus

it be on the bus.


Bee on the bus
it be on the bus
out of it's season
with nuthin' to lose
better watch out, pal
for it's gonna sting yoos!

Bee on the bus
it likes bein' on the bus
amongst big beasts that fear it
it spends it's last days
goin' right mad with power
in the human haze

Bee on the bus
it beyond the bus
the hulking conveyance
folks jostlin' fer space
it has all the room it needs
to get all up in yo face.

Bea on the bus
she be allergic to bees on the bus
might break out in hives
or restrict her breathin'
it lands on her arm
and cruelly starts stingin'!
Read more!

To the Babes of Myspace

Been sick so haven't written much this week--just this shit
It will have to suffice for Tony's tonight


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
To the Babes of MySpace who want to be my friend,
posing in bras and panties in your profile pics
I am touched by your interest
The way you all expose your bodies to strangers
as I do my soul in my poems makes me feel instant kinship
So I accept you all--
Candy, Kaitlyn, Hannah, Kylie, Ava, Faith--
click
Faith?--why are you trying to sell me a cell phone?
Candy?--a penis enlarger?
Are these just ice-breakers to get us closer?
Friends are so funny.
Ah, Kaitlyn, your page says welcome, I’m your playboy bunny
But when I click see more pics I’m redirected to Fling.com--
Loads of girls with sexy names but Kaitlyn where are you?
I see Wet dream girl, Cooch on fire, Dick teaser, Cock for me,
Suck n’ swallow 17--
Suck n’ swallow 17? You a writer?
Alliteration always gives me a hard-on.
Cooch on fire you left a comment on my latest blog entry,
A somewhat meandering philosophical piece in which
I compare the fondling of a beer can to that of a woman’s breast
You said you were thinking the same things I was thinking
and I thought O my God?!--
Cooch on fire’s a poet--and I’m in love
Click--my ex-wife?--
Sarah--you want to be my friend after all these years?
click, click, redirect--what? you’re meathole bitch 29 now?
Remember 1997 when you were 17 and I 29 taught you how to drive
and would run my tongue over your sweet-milk neck?
and you called me--my daddy and would then pout apocalyptic
till I called you--my girl
After filling my toilet twice with puke,
I check back and half your profiles no longer exist--
I thought we were friends.
Click
Melinababe 36 left a comment: hello handsome--
just stopped by to check your profile and looks very interesting
will love to say hello and probably want to meet you for serious
long-term relationship--am 5ft 6inches tall, green eye,
average look and great sense of humor
she gives me her cell phone #
hope to hear from you soon
Forgetting the others I sit transfixed before the profile pic of Melinababe 36.
Green thong, white teeth, nice tits, age appropriate--
Clearly now I’m answering the hero’s call to adventure
Click--
If you have a warm heart and are nice [yes, yes]
funny, generous with yourself, humble, open-minded [yes yes, yes yes]
responsible [oh shit--what’s this?]
and have no current baggage, issues or drama in your life
a tear drips onto the keyboard.
Please have a job! a car!
and be financially able to provide for me and my daughter, Amy
at this point I look in the mirror and say
Mike--your 14 grand a year ain’t gonna cut it,
you’re 40, it’s over, over
but I read on--
if you’re pretentious or self-centered please skip me--
I’m so back to you suck n’ swallow 17!
Suck n’ swallow 17--please love me? Read more!

Rain coats the shit-hole
October comes coughing, cold
Woebegone Autumn


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Read more!

Civilization as Toilet Haiku

Night howling street drunks
Cold as the tits of culture
All devolves of course


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Read more!

A Thing of Beauty

A thing of beauty is an awesome thing to see.
But where is the beauty, or the art, in hurting me?
You fancy you’re an artist, and you beautify the world;
But are these marks here, truly beautiful?

You’ve engraved your special signature forever on my soul;
And I’ll never be as pure, or as trusting as before.
And I sometimes hear you whisper, and I almost can believe,
That the pretty things you speak about
Aren’t really make-believe.

And it’s true, a thing of beauty is an awesome thing to see.
But where is the beauty, or the art, in hurting me?
Have I sacrificed my innocence in vain?
No, now I know:
Just because you make things pretty;
Doesn’t mean you’re beautiful.
Read more!

Sir John David Maccabes: On the Death of Thom Henry

With grief-laden hearts, did we drink of our sadness:
For the death of Thom Henry was a shock to us all!
For a lad so young, we believed death, so distant;
And the death of Thom Henry was a shock to us all!

With no stomach for talk, and no strength for remembering;
We attempted forgetting—but attempted in vain!
For the memory of one so impressed in our memories
Left a sorrow so piercing, only numbness remained.

With a heart filled with pain, filled with anger, and sadness
Did we curse our existence for the lives that remained!
For our lives, one and all, we'd have given up gladly,
In exchange for the one life, we could not have saved.

So, with grief-laden hearts, did we drink of our sadness:
For the death of Thom Henry was a shock to us all!
For a lad so young, we believed death, so distant;
And the death of Thom Henry was a shock to us all! Read more!

Thoughts of an Unhappy Camper: Planet Earth

Tucked within those little lives
Were all the joys,
And woes,
And possibilities.
Before them, the vastness of the years
That were to come to most,
But not to all...

The strange delights,
The awesome opportunities,
Crossroads, rebirths, the awful miseries
Came in their time, to those who owned that season
And touched their lives,
And made them what they were...

But time does teach the stubborn to be different.
And time proves every prophet, right or wrong.
Time heals some wounds,
And fertilizes others;
Time mocks all men,
And shows them life is hard!

Still some press on,
While others bind to suffering,
And some pour water
On others while they drown—
And some forsake their lives to save another,
While some seek out of body, out of mind...

But with our lives, we men only acknowledge
That we can be whatever we become:

Our habits, when we die,
Reveal their cost—
We have no way
To measure what was lost. Read more!

Two paths taken...one is lost

A tribute to family



Slowly, I accept this role,
This role of negotiator, keeper of peace,
For I have slowly become the middle man,
Of this life that is not mine.

Their pretense is to argue,
To fight and not speak,
To actually do nothing about anything,
And I must push them just to get by.

What life is this that I must fill in voids,
Fill in the blanks for their future,
which seems bleak at best,
And certainly, at worst, not fruitful.

As Our life is pushed ahead,
Not by one but two, aggressively
Their life is stagnation at its purest
And this in turn brings me down too.

For how can two people be together
And be so nothing, except for "around"
How can these two have hope,
When all that sprints rapidly ahead
Is their continued nothingness...

And my drive to push ahead
With or without them.

Read more!

Smell the Ink

everything herein is based in truth.


Flexcar parked outside a bar. makes a strange kind of sense when you think about it, but don't think too long.
you're cool
you're still cool
said the bridge in green paint, one on the west side and one on the east. I imagine
"you're lame" is etched on the riverbed, which is the last thing a suicide victim needs to hear. and I suppose the last thing they will.
do you want coffee or a drink? sadly not directed at me, but it puts me in mind of if it's possible to...
SMELL THE INK!
...process coffee beans like coco beans. it would change coffee cake forever.
Smell the ink!
taste the crayon!
feel the lead!
and by god, emote chalk! Read more!

Read more!

A Poem for Fall

Persephone doesn't die, she just goes underground




God, I wanna go,
when skies grow gray,
and drown all hope at all,
I'm Hades bound,
to dine on pomegranate seeds, drink wine,
and be well in a pleasant place.

leave me alone with ghosts,
where the satellites won't see,
where I can spread my legs,
and fear no reproach.

God, what a wicked world in Fall.
Persephone doesn't die; she just goes underground.



Read more!

...

I was thinking of writing a poem. Read more!

Cool shadows lengthen
We drink cider and cuddle
Intimate autumn


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Read more!

Purple Colored Manicotta

the rhythm is gonna get ya.


Purple colored manicotta
Many colored mason jar-a
Down the street and Turn the corna
What’d you say? Why I oughtta!
Give a shit? Not one iota
If you don’t sink then you’re a floata
Calling all your sons and daughta’s
Step inside, the machine needs fodda
Sunk into a glass containa
Not a sculpta, but a painta
Not a sinna but a sainta
‘cept for the times that he ain’t-a
Don’t ask me, I won’t exlpaina
Just another good thing down the draina
Her name is Flora, his is Faina
Wishes he could go insana
Don’t speak up, she’s no complaina
He’s Up all night, oh not againa
Used ta play a grand piayna
He just had a really good traina
Some folks like their yogurt plaina
Some folks like their peaches and crema
Expert at being a beginna
Which is why he never was a winna
It’s getting late and I need dinna
So to end this I think I’ll just say

fin-a

Read more!

WCI represents at Tony's Open Mic Night!

TYPE YOUR SYNOPSIS HERE


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Joel Earl, Kelly King and yours truly received thunderous applause after reading our verses at Tony’s Tavern, perhaps Portland’s best weekly hangout for poets. I read first with stentorian bombast updated versions of “Palmer,” “Christ on the Bench,” and Ambition.” Humbly stated, my best reading ever! Next Joel “freakin’” Earl took the lectern--no microphone last night--and did a great job reading “Global Jihad Against Pancakes,” a hilarious piece he wrote on the bus, and “Stream of Television Consciousness,” a May post I believe. Kelly read her Bukowski poem (and I’m on her ass to post it to the blog!) and “Tough Bitch with an Iron.” (sp?) For all of us it was a gratifying evening of sharing our work, representing the blog admirably, and meeting new and established poets on the local reading circuit. Hell, Tommy, the MC, comes into my grocery store for smokes. It’s a kick ass, small world, tight community. Vive Writers Club Internationale! Read more!

The Strange Odyssey of Flight 49 Out of Kellogg International Airport

is this the one you were talking about, mike? it's only saved as a draft cause I was using an already-opened WCI tab to do a quick edit on something from my old myspace blog I was sending to an old high school buddy in china. now here it is for all of you to read:



In this true story dating back to the dark days of early august 2005, when armies of genetically modified cybernetic marsupials roamed the streets in order to secure earth for it's eventual enslavement by interdimensional CHUDs (has it really been seven months already?), our hero (me) is drawn into a harrowing journey due to events beyond his control. in a way it's not unlike The Count of Monte Cristo, except considerably shorter and very much unlike that. anyway, to provide greater context for whats going on in this piece, it was written the morning that the space shuttle discovery safely landed despite fears that it might blow up on re-entry. also, people back then used to eat these strange flakes made out of corn that they would pour milk on. for reals.






The Strange Odyssey of Flight 49 Out of Kellogg International Airport
or
Somebody had to crash today, might as well have been me

okay, so I had just finished the best oil painting I've ever done (tentatively entitled "Impatient Red-headed Nude with Trippy Oversized Right Arm), and I was starved. so I go and pour myself a heaping bowl of Corn Flakes, and headed downstairs to eat them while I browse the interentaglement, as I am want to do. well, I lost my footing on the carpeted steps, and Corn Flakes and milk go flying EVERYWHERE! I land on my back, but in such a way that I am unscathed (in fact, my back was a little sore before, and now is a little LESS sore). also, the bowl and spoon never left my hand. the bulk of the payload lands in my leather shoes however, and other breakfast fragments soak a pile of clothes that had just been laundered. further milk droplets can be seen as far away as ten feet from ground zero. amazingly though, my record collection -which was near the worst part of the danger zone- didn't get any of the impact! you know how when something like that happens, it happens in super-slow-mo? well this was no exception. I actually remember thinking as it was happening that if I can move fast enough, I might just be able to catch the airborne cereal in the bowl from whence it launched. I suppose I did not have enough time to realize that I am not Neo. but the good news is, I might just be in the next Guinness Book Of World Record for most swears uttered in a one-second time period!
Read more!

Global Jihad Against Pancakes

premiered at Tony's last night.


slap the flapjacks
burn the hotcakes
batter the batter
if that's what it takes

we'll fight them on the griddles
we'll fight them on the plates
we'll stab them in their blueberry hearts
if any of them retaliates

in dinning rooms and dinning halls
they won't know when we'll strike
anticipating our attack they'll baste in buttermilk sweat
and then one breakfast
or lunch
or dinner
the sink will run amber with their syrup

nothing will be left but dirty dishes
nothing will be left but fluffy carrion
it's a global jihad against pancakes
we may waffle, but out will is iron!

Read more!

Dali Lama

* * *
* *
**** *
* * *
* * *


*

don't know why I want
to pinch cheeks of revered ones
and hold them tightly.

Read more!

pax to you my brother-

Celebrate the International Day of Peace Friday, September 21st 2007









how are we going to
achieve peace in this lifetime
when we can't even get along with ourselves?



Read more!

Palmer

Slightly confessional


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Palmer

Going to work his small dreams die
Strangled in senseless morning cries
He aches for friends he hasn’t called
Quickens his pace for boss’ sake
Thinks of father and squandered time
Unlocks the door, punches the clock
Regrets the lips he could’ve warmed
And blessed are none says Palmer
Deals all day with fuckers and worse.
Shrugs as radio rants for wars
And rent goes up by twenty bucks
Fears the boss who prays to Jesus
Lover’s a chain he cannot break
Two jobs maintain his bind to time
They shake his faith in humankind
And blessed are none says Palmer
Night is laced with starlight and drink
Faces, voices, he cannot think
But dreams arise from gripe and grope
Visions of days he has not lost
Lips touch his and carry him off
Nude he wakes in an angel’s bed
Hails the morning and floats to work
And blessed are all says Palmer

Read more!

Structure to Disctract From the Fact That I'm Dying

It sucks that inspiration only hits me at the end of my emotional rope...

Once,
I could sleep,
secure in the knowledge
that you loved me.

Now
it's what keeps
me awake, eyes open,
breathing too fast,

dreams
far away,
only the nightmares real
when I'm alone.

This
was a choice,
I keep telling myself--
simple, not easy,

made
in the throws
of reason, of logic,
not emotions,

but
it's so hard
to keep hold of reasons,
my sanity

in
the face of
how much I love you still,
how much it hurts.

I
seek comfort
in something of structure--
in a rhythm,

when
usually
there's only my heartbeat
to set a pace.

I
count seconds,
and footsteps, keeping track
of the numbers,

to
distract me
from how empty I feel
in the face of

you
being gone,
somewhere else, not with me,
a hollow place

where,
once, you were...

but I'm
breaking free,
look at that,
almost there,
a few more words,
I'll be
back in my head,
back on my feet,
finding my kilter,
no longer skewed.
If I
can only
keep
from
rhyming or
any predictable pattern
I have this illusion
I can prove I'm
not broken
anymore...
Read more!

Lick it at your peril haiku

Razorblade’s honey
That’s the short and shit of it
Love’s complications


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Read more!

(Untitled, as of yet)

Argh...it's always better once it's over...


When you are
nothing
but letters on a page
and a voice in the back of my mind--
memories of better days,
with all the fights forgotten,
when your suffocating absence
is just one more whitened scar
and the phantom pains
of my amputated love for you
only twinge on rainy days--
I'll still think of you,
with a smile of regret
and a rueful pain
somewhere the other side
of logic,
and love that I knew you then,
and know that I love you still.
Read more!

Sandwichland 4

don't worry. much, much more to come


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Eric, wiping tears from his eyes. “Shit, boss. I’m gonna get sick with giggles. Your new name is Mr. Giggly! My grandma used to say, gigglin' was good for the soul. Your a riot, boss!”
Todd pounded his fists on the table, spilling his coke onto the floor. “America the beautiful! America the beautiful! America the beautiful! Love it or leave it! Love it or leave it!”
Gilbert couldn‘t take any more. “I think what has everyone in stitches here, boss, is the ridiculousness of your rant. Kind of a stretch to link Sandwich Land to the war effort, don't you think? And then there's the matter of your first-grade spelling level. You've missed your calling. You should've been a comedian. No worries though. Maybe in your next incarnation. I will say this though on behalf of all of us: we are good human beings; America has nothing to do with that!” Gilbert winked then whispered. “And neither has Israel.”
Todd's face darkened to purple. His green-coated tongue lolled around mutely in his mouth for several seconds. An ice cube slid across the tabletop and plopped onto the floor. Todd crushed it with a violent stomp of his brown Birkenstock. “What! Isra-” Todd gasped.
“What up, Mr. Boss Man?” Eric said. “My grandma used to say, if you got something to say in life, you better spit it out now. Not good to bury all them evil words deep down in that soul of yours. Ya got a soul, boss? Sometimes I worry 'bout you, you know. Include you in my prayers at night. Yes sir, I do.” Eric reached a hand compassionately towards Todd's shoulder which Todd swatted away before contact could be made.
“Wha-what are you, Gilbert!? Some kind of terrorist!? Just last week I reported my postman, and he was replaced the very next day. Sneaky and cocky-looking he was. Just like you! And . . .” Todd paused for breath, face darkening to deeper purple, sweaty hands quivering on the table, goosebumps rising on both white arms. “And just like you he was a smart-mouth. Ain't no good can come from smart-mouths. Why, why I oughtta--”
“Stop right there, Captain America!” Gilbert barked while sliding a sandwich to Sam. “My record is clean, and once cleared I'll file a counter complaint, and they'll redirect their investigation to you. Any skeletons you hidin' in your closet, Todd? Your web surfing history? Your taxes? Your voting record? Your wife? They'll dig hard. These are hard working men. You want that ton of bricks labeled 'USA' coming down on your head? Cry USA! USA! all you want. If you call the goons on me, they may bring me down, but who gives a shit? I don't have wife and kids. But I do know how to talk, and talk fast about you I will if I have to. Think of your family the next time you want to make threats against me. I'm your best worker and you know it! You wanna fire me, go for it! I'll take my sweet work ethic elsewhere.” No fear, he thought. I've thrown down the gauntlet.
“Now, now, let's not let the stress of the workplace get us off mission. I, I uh, I'm not makin' no threats. It's just. It's just that we all need to do our best, and it's my job to coach and motivate you all to do that. I, I--”
“I don't need a coach and I always do my best at whatever I do. And by definition I can’t do better.” Gilbert sized up the little man, smiled. “Good. I see your face is gradually lightening in degrees to pink. I think we understand each other now.”
“Fine, Gilbert,” Todd winced with chest pain. His face, completely beaded with sweat. “But there is the little matter of these complaints I've gotten about you. Why don't you trade places with Eric here, and try to explain your way out of this?”
The front door emitted a series of beeps as customers poured in. Gilbert thought of Peggy and what a good story this would make over beers tonight. Let's see what this petty little man has up his sleeve now. I'm gonna make you proud, Mayor. I'm gonna live like you do, and not look back with regret and take no thought for tomorrow. Eric rose from the seat, exchanging a high-five with Gilbert, after which Gilbert sat, folding his hands, chin up and looking unflinchingly into Todd's darting eyes. Seven complaint cards were fanned in Todd's trembling fingers like a poker hand.
“I opened the complaint box this morning, Gilbert, and as you know I'm the only one who has the key, and” (Todd huffed and crinkled his forehead) “what I found greatly disturbs me. Before I send these off to headquarters which would take the termination process out of my hands, I would appreciate your comments upon perusal.” Todd smiled proudly, and splayed the cards in front of Gilbert. “Well? Take a look. A good look.” Sarcastically, Todd added: “I'd hate to lose my best worker over this.”
Before looking at the comment cards, Gilbert shot a glance at the growing, grumbling queue of fidgeting, gluttonous customers. Some young. Some middle-aged. Some old. Gilbert sized up the lot of them. Pudgy. Paunchy. Pot-bellied. Soft and susceptible to marketing's easy mind control, feeding their weakened brains through the air waves and the glitzy printed page. For an instant Gilbert thought of writing a book called, 'Consuming For Dummies.' It would consist of a single word: Don't. Gilbert looked at the customers' eyes. Beady and greedy. Lives lived according to instinct. Chakra one lives, devoid of spirit. Stupidity bursting at the seams.
A stern woman in a red dress raised her voice at Sam, who was furiously and desperately banging the near-empty mayo container on the counter in a futile attempt to get enough out. “That's all the mayo I get! Squeeze the damn bottle!” The woman was well-coiffed and her lavender-based perfume had the smell of money.
Poor Sam, the ultimate whipping boy, thought Gilbert as he scooped up the complaints. I pray you get your day in the sun, my friend. And it would nice if you could stand tall and thin when that day comes. Gilbert fell into reverie, closing his eyes: he imagined a worldwide Eden without concrete. Palm trees lined beaches where buildings once sliced the sky like phallic-shaped knives. And laughing and dancing about the sand and the grass and the forests and the campfires of this future utopia were naked men and women, boys and girls, nymph-like and satyr-like, all beautiful and bronze and thin. Thin like the Gods, he thought.
























Read more!

good morning ex-wife haiku

Cold September dawn
Like your lips when last we kissed
Sun’s sad roses bleed


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Read more!

The Strange Odyssey of Flight 49 Out of Kellogg International Airport

is this the one you were talking about, mike? it's only saved as a draft cause I was using an already-opened WCI tab to do a quick edit on something from my old myspace blog I was sending to an old high school buddy in china. now here it is for all of you to read:


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE


In this true story dating back to the dark days of early august 2005, when armies of genetically modified cybernetic marsupials roamed the streets in order to secure earth for it's eventual enslavement by interdimensional CHUDs (has it really been seven months already?), our hero (me) is drawn into a harrowing journey due to events beyond his control. in a way it's not unlike The Count of Monte Cristo, except considerably shorter and very much unlike that. anyway, to provide greater context for whats going on in this piece, it was written the morning that the space shuttle discovery safely landed despite fears that it might blow up on re-entry. also, people back then used to eat these strange flakes made out of corn that they would pour milk on. for reals.






The Strange Odyssey of Flight 49 Out of Kellogg International Airport
or
Somebody had to crash today, might as well have been me

okay, so I had just finished the best oil painting I've ever done (tentatively entitled "Impatient Red-headed Nude with Trippy Oversized Right Arm), and I was starved. so I go and pour myself a heaping bowl of Corn Flakes, and headed downstairs to eat them while I browse the interentaglement, as I am want to do. well, I lost my footing on the carpeted steps, and Corn Flakes and milk go flying EVERYWHERE! I land on my back, but in such a way that I am unscathed (in fact, my back was a little sore before, and now is a little LESS sore). also, the bowl and spoon never left my hand. the bulk of the payload lands in my leather shoes however, and other breakfast fragments soak a pile of clothes that had just been laundered. further milk droplets can be seen as far away as ten feet from ground zero. amazingly though, my record collection -which was near the worst part of the danger zone- didn't get any of the impact! you know how when something like that happens, it happens in super-slow-mo? well this was no exception. I actually remember thinking as it was happening that if I can move fast enough, I might just be able to catch the airborne cereal in the bowl from whence it launched. I suppose I did not have enough time to realize that I am not Neo. but the good news is, I might just be in the next Guinness Book Of World Record for most swears uttered in a one-second time period! Read more!

Haiku Clerihew

Douglas Harglebleu
abandoned the art of haiku.
on this he didn't bet:
twas was a decision he came to regret



Read more!

Clerihew Haiku

enough haiku games
clerihew: the hip new thing
haiku is passe




Read more!

ahh that's better ...

July 10: Clerihew Day (unofficial).

The birthday of Edmund Clerihew Bentley (1875-1956),

inventor of the clerihew, has been designated "Clerihew Day" by the man's many followers.

The clerihew, a wholly frivolous poetic form,

is a four-line verse adhering to the rhyme scheme AABB.

The first line consists of a personal name,

while those that follow traditionally are, or purport to be, biographical in nature.

Little, if any, attention is paid to meter.

example:

Dr. Allardyce Hurlbutt
Gave clerihews a whirl, but
The result was only madness
And unutterable badness.

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nothing here

some thing is whack, a miss even i'll try this again... please stand by-

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O Trespass Sweetly Urged, Give Me My Sin Again

Ah, new love...


I tremble
[like leaves
in the softest of breezes]
when I hear your voice,
and recall how you touched me--
as if you know
exactly what I want.

Let me transform your world
with images
of beauty and light,
with moments of life
as it should be--

because I know how to laugh,
how to cry, how to feel,
because I know how to live
with everything I am.

Treasure me,
hold me gently--
like cupping starlight,
like mending a butterfly's wings--
and you'll see
how brightly I shine.
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When We Are Trees

Based on a story I read, set years in the future...people turn into trees...good story...


Can we still stretch
our wasted limbs
to empty skies
that once were warm
and full of light?
Can we still dance
when there's no sound
to mark the beat?
And years from now
when we are trees
will we still know
how laughter feels,
what children say,
how flowers smell
on summer days--
will songs still fill our hearts?
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Rome At Night

Flights of fancy...


I was
climbing stairs
in a yellow dress,
a crown on my head,
and red roses
that dripped and splashed
with the sound of bells.
Ambient light
turned out to be
a sky of fire and brimstone
as the topless towers burned
and the stars winked out,
one by one.
Beauty was smeared
with ashes
and every pleading face
concealed a knife.
We were poised
on the brink of greatness,
speaking of achievement
and progress,
ignoring history's urgent warning
until Nature disgorged us
once more.
Flower child,
your words went unheeded,
condemned,
even as we damned ourselves.
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Christ on the Bench

TYPE YOUR SYNOPSIS HERE


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Christ on the Bench
Sometimes I pass by a person crying on a bench
In the middle of the afternoon of the busy city
Of course no one tries to console this person
Or even ask what’s the matter or if they can help
I follow suit, got things to do and people to see
But the sun is gold, the sky is blue and most of us
Are too polite to break down in public spaces
Are too afraid to seem weak before the others
This inconsolable Christ on the bench has sinned
Against the peace of we the busy, we the sane
What right does this wretch have to trouble us
With the evidence of difference and melted mask,
To be human and troubled in the age of machines Read more!

Ars Poetica

Ars Poetica
Night sheds her gown for good and stays
Pen shapes her secret face and ways
Divines the sound of sacred sigh.
Poems are wings that pine to fly
Poets are eyes who dream to dry.


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
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Sandwich Land, 3

"There is no I in America! There is no ME in America! And there sure as hell ain't no ERIC in America either!"


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Eric's jaws opened to their fullest extent in a long, languid yawn. He didn't bother to cover his mouth. With red eyes watering, he gazed with fascination at a place slightly above Todd's slick-backed head. With sleepy voice Eric spoke: “I work good, Todd. I'm real friendly. The customers tell me so every day. You da man. You should know.” Todd kept a stern gaze. “I'm a good workhorse for you and your little business.” Eric smiled.
“Is that marijuana I smell on your breath son?”
“Apple raspberry gum, boss.”
“ I noticed you took your break at 4:20. You don't think I know what 4:20 means? Take it from an old gridiron warrior: I know bullshit when I smell it. And whose business you callin' 'little?' I own three stores. You'd do well to follow my example.” Todd rapped his knuckles on the table, his upper lip glazed with sweat and twitching. “The business of America is business.”
“Yeah, man, I hear ya,” Eric sniffled, wiping at his nasal drainage with an index finger. “But the business of Eric is good-naturedness, and that's gotta be good for business which's gotta be good for the Todd. See, man? I think good, and by the way, I only smoke plain ol’ tobacco at work. I roll my own, but it’s legal. Eric loves freedom. Yes sir!”
Gilbert remained within ear-shod, handing sandwiches over to Sam in assembly-line fashion after placing cheese and meat on them. Sam assumed the role of vegetable architect, but paused intermittently to wipe at his eyes with mustard-stained gloved hands. He realized he was falling behind and flailed desperately at the lettuce and tomato bins, slopping on the produce as quick as he could. Sarah squirted condiments and attended to the wrapping and bagging. She kept hissing at Sam, 'C'mon!', 'Hurry up!' Andy stood nonchalantly by the cash register, bouncing a basketball, occasionally yawning or staring at his underlings with a mixture of disgust and pity.
Todd continued. “Eric loves 'freedom,' huh? Well you know what freedom means to me, Eric?”
Eric shrugged, his chin still cupped in his hand.
“Freedom means work harder. Work harder and the American Dream is within reach. You do believe in the American Dream, don't you, Eric?” Todd huffed, inflating his hard chest, sculpted by years of weight lifting. His gaze, orange-tanned. His smile, smug. Beady brown eyes reflected harsh white interior light as he scrawled carefully and slowly on a piece of official 'Sandwich Land' stationary. Todd set the fountain pen down and gazed proudly at the singular word he had written: AMERICA. He peered questioningly into Eric's eyes, awaiting comment.
“You should be awfully proud of yerself, boss. You got vision, yes sir. But I think it was my grandma who used to say, work smarter not harder. That's what I live by. I think we’re here to be smart human beings who think and have fun, don't you, boss?” Eric raised his right hand expecting a high five. Didn’t get it.
“You know what I think, Eric? I think what we do here at good ol' Goose Hollow Sandwich Land is more important than just providing quality food in a speedy manner. I think what we do is a little bigger than that. These are war times, ya know, and what we do in a small way aids and abets a greater cause.” Todd pawed at his hair's slickness, straightened his posture in his seat and continued. “We all gotta be at are best, ya know? We gotta be all we can be for America's sake. That includes lawyers and police officers and judges and news reporters and homeland security agents, as well as small business owners and sandwich artisans. We all serve our part for the greater whole, Eric, and all I ask from you is that you do your part for America in her time of need.”
“I'm a good American, boss. I try. I’m a good guy, a good worker, a good friend, and if ya ask, Latoya, my little cherry pop-tart, she'll tell ya: I’m a good lover. Yes sir, Mr. Todd. That‘s what she says.”
“Well, what I'm hearin' here, Eric is a bunch of 'I‘m this and I‘m that‘, when the 'I's should be subordinate to 'America.' Now c'mon son, I know from football the benefit of yielding before a greater good, a greater goal, a goal infinitely larger than petty self interest. We are part of team 'America' and now at the conclusion of my address, I put it to you, Eric.” Todd pressed an index finger to his pursed lips, pausing in contemplation.
“What, boss?” Eric had taken Todd's pen in hand, and taken the stationary with 'America' written on it, and proceeded to draw artful roses with voluptuous naked women dancing in the midst. Along the edges he wrote in beautiful, looping cursive script the words, 'free love free amerika free love free amerika . . .' till the entire page was framed with it. He set the pen down, yawned, and smiled at the ceiling. “Like my drawin', boss?”
“Let's get back to business, Eric. You must realize, that in these times of trouble, self sacrifice is required for the good of the country. You must realize that you are a cog in the greatest machine in history. That as a cog you must function at your best. That there is no reward, no gold, no blond-haired nymphs spread out on the bed at the end of the rainbow, no 'I' to rake in the glory. You must realize, Eric, that there is no 'I' in 'America.' There is no 'me' in 'America.' And there sure as Hell ain't no 'Eric' in 'America.' Do you understand?”
Eric bent over in his seat, clutching his stomach with both hands, belching in guffawed laughter which resounded musically in echoes off the walls of the sandwich shop. Gilbert was in the middle of asking a squirrelly business man what kind of bread he wanted, tried to contain himself, but couldn't. The sobering pent-up pressures of the day yielded to high-pitched squeals. Sam likewise lost it. Sarah didn't get it. Andy dribbled the basketball while grinning at his watch.
“What?! What?!” Todd yelled out to everyone. “You guys think that's funny?” Read more!