Unreality
Miles
Lost
The jazz man’s needle
Hits the grooves
With a blow to the horn
Undressing ladies with his melodies
Making men envy his brass
With one mesmerizing solo
He makes the crowd feel lost
The only thing they know
Is that the glass containing
A scotch on the rocks is theirs
The walls, the lights, the ambience
Belong to the jazz man
Who is taking an encore
The crowd yields to Miles.
Apocalyptic
Jazz
The sky is falling in transparent
fragments
During an encore by a band
Saturated in sweat and saliva
Crying out for redemption
In accented brass tones
Their eyes bulge
Their veins pump
In vigilance
They all wonder
When will they hear
Their last note
Their last request
Their last breathe
Inside this vacancy
As the sun holds on
With its last rays
Competing with the clouds
Shipped in like cargo
Impaling the moon’s romantics
Windows shatter
The earth quakes
Along with the bass
The drummer’s eyelids
Refuse to shut, just yet
As the snare ticks
Lovers long for the last touch
Others embrace the one close
Or themselves
Huddled at tables
In front of the stage
Some cry
Others just accept
High pitch, solo driven
Margin expanding
Resolutions
At the gates
To implode
Fingers grip the valves
Clutching the last few moments
Bleed
Knuckles stretch straight
Cymbals crash in echoes
Within the unforgiving
Foundations sink
And no one is ready
To leave their regrets
Drowned in booze
Rising an octave
Low
Tide
The night was beginning its reign;
The only lights starting to show were the
stars
And the cherries on cigarettes,
Providing a cloud of smoke
Which stood above couples sitting on
blankets
The stench of regret was in the air
For this small southern town still
segregated by race
Yet still colors mixed
Looking like freckles on a southern girl
The show was free for everyone.
There was a jazz band on stage dishing out
their hopes and fears;
Spoon feeding the crowd like babies in a
high chair.
With every new note it was a wound being
healed.
It was like the music was saying, “Yeah,
I’ve been there.”
I was entranced with every piercing melody;
The trumpet reached new heights
Of a desolate paradise.
The saxophone bled contentment,
And the manic drums, piano, and bass
Brought back the past like a scar.
The jazz band kept playing,
And I couldn’t catch up.
Then suddenly……
STOP
The members on stage smiled at each other,
With a deep breath.
There was the sound of a lone cymbal,
Then a wave of horns started to build
As it peaked, they roared,
Engulfing me with everything that was
clear.
Finally it broke and carried me away.
Jazz
in the Evening
When the trumpet is crying
Like a siren,
The drums knock on the door,
But there’s no one there
The rest of the ensemble
Activates your senses
Like red wine.
While the walls are closing in.
The spring of the music
Make you get up and go,
Even if you are just walking in circles.
Everyone is in for the evening,
The jack hammering roadwork
Can only inconvenience you once.
The hurry up and wait
After finding no parking spaces;
Now can only make you thankful
That the sun is finally down
Jazz on the radio whispers
Like an old friend.
When the music stops
It’s like running out of cigarettes
Yet you can’t buy more
When the music is over
Morrison says, “Turn out the light,”
But my band still plays in breathes,
While the head weighs down
And eyelids flutter like fingers on the
ivories
The bed opens its legs for you to enter
Your neck fights but loses, holding your
head up
And you dream in jazz ballads.
Prosthetics
Take
the pain, take the soreness
because some vets have robotic legs
take a mile walk and do a half hour on the elliptical,
because some soldiers can't breathe
smile at children
because some soldiers--moms and dads,
cannot
I have trouble making each moment count
with a lack of confidence and
motivation.
But I owe the fallen soldier
a sunset, a hot cup of coffee--the expensive stuff
I have faces in my mind of my duty station and the soldiers in my basic
that I mostly hated then, but now I worry about their safety.
I wish for them a warm home, a comfortable job, and a beer gut.
I probably would not have these feeling if I hadn't joined
but now I am a vet at home with spaces to fill
A Wedding Ballad
The wind makes branches chatter like xylophones
dark clouds roll back
unveiling blue skies
like the eyes of a bride.
the midnight asphalt tickled
by rain awaits dryness.
the eyes look down at the groom
whose nervousness
makes his shoulders sag.
friends and family’s faces light up
like a spotlight on a billboard
reading, “Just Married”
the priest presents the new couple
with his arms and viewing
preparing the celebration afterwards.
there's already an intoxicated contentment even
before the champagne is passed
eyelids try to dam the tears but to no avail
as a cloudless sky rains.
Women's curves like stringed instruments
She was my guitar
Lying on her side
In tune with acoustic silence
Engraving new experiences.
She breathes calmly
In a musing slumber
A wrangling
Fingering discord
A harmonizing chorus
For an audience of one
Strumming her
curves
She
lives in my building
Soul as thick as muddy water
Sighs pure as a newborn
The vision of skin to skin
Together with bed sheets on the floor
She speaks to me like jazz
Her hips move to the sound
Of an eclectic drum solo
I have to stare
Questioning the player
Her legs tingle
Like the rising note around my torso
But I am sure this feeling sails over seas
A simple glance as you walk by.
And your smile is applause
The perfect ending
To a soulful evening
Motivation
A set of earphones
Walks with a guitar strapped to his back,
Singing out to the morning streets.
Maybe inspired to write a song
Others would devour and then exhale on the
world around them.
It’s like that one book at the beach that
calls your name,
To be read;
Or that painting that forces you to pick
up
A paint brush.
Will your creation be as
good as the motivation
that sat you down to create it?
Hazing
Covering the sun
Face in the clouds
Chills of past endeavors
Skin still sticky ignites
A breakdown of the mind
Was I the weakest, the newest,
Or just there to be got?
Takes true strength
To rise the next morning
On my own side
Outside theirs.
Rise to the sun,
Rise to the day,
Rise to repent,
And stand up to
The evil swine.
Three on one
Still fighting
Eyes mirrored as
A wild beast
Stifled by a cage of tape
Restrained and not living free
Fall with the sun
Full moon’s eyes
Staring down
Asking me if I need help
For
my lonely war
Not overseas
Not with guns
Or swords
The Cavalry has set up the front lines
And voices are seized
Rise again to be
In a tranquil mind
Safe in my sanctuary
With dreams of an embrace
To peel away the restraints
Only to forgive my enemies
Whose faces I still see.
Resperdone
Tangents
It came to this…
Voices surrounding me like bumblebees in
spring.
Women kissing…the love buzz
Beating in my
chest.
Feast your eyes on
the loner,
And hear the voice
of God.
Whispers and
tantrums,
Like bacon
sizzling in your brain;
Finding rhythm in
hallucinations
Depicting voices
that acting like a searchlight
Ceased and
dissolved in a single green pill,
Creating a lonely
apartment.
Imperfections
Monitored
I was Too young to understand
To young to know
Imperfections were monitored
The lady said
That I will never talk normal
She took off the collar
Connected by a stream of wires
To a machine
After it vibrated
My harmless voice box
Being a child at the time
I thought I was
Receiving shock treatment
The lady said
That I will never talk like the other kids
She picked the wrong word
I said it the wrong way
Unable to repent
Is that an accent
Strangers would ask often
Are you from New York or Boston?
I would stay quiet
Knowing
My voice comes through a pen
Black ink flowing off the page
Since…
I realized I would never talk like the
other kids
The
Last Day at the Beach
In the leopard-printed sky, the sun is on
the prowl.
The grays blow away with the stationary
palms.
Blue skies are open for the plunge,
Splashing over the sides of a cold
beverage into a dry throat--replenished.
The sun's eyes, captivated by high SPF,
Stare you down until leathery, maroon skin
clashes with red swim trunks.
The winds grow stronger as the clouds are
reflected in a circular pool.
Sunlight twinkles in the waves,
Blinding you without sunglasses.
The
Electric Girl
Neighbors upstairs are dancing,
And the electric girl is rocking through
the living room;
Turns on the light with a touch of her
tongue
With hips twitching.
She speaks through waves
Touching my chest, long distance
She is the electric girl.
Her eyes are open
The color of fire in the sky
Can’t be extinguished
Unless she blinks like a strobe light;
She is the electric girl.
Shocking me when I say the wrong things
Repressed darkness to light
If I cry, she will shock me
When I speak to her tomorrow.
She is the electric girl.
The
Fall of Richmond
The bouncers do their best
To keep the crowd back
As the people punish
The
front of the stage.
The band hasn’t even gone on;
True romantics and poets
Flood dives like this
Never to be discovered.
With no music just anticipation
The band keeps their blades
In their pocket while walking to the stage.
Just in case they have to defend
themselves.
The
crowd is there for the band.
Receiving some pats on the back
From the sober crowd who are
Ignoring
the beer for now.
They step up on stage wondering
If one song, one verse, one chorus, one
chord
One note, can change the world.
The band picks up their instruments
Like soldiers, readying for battle,
Eyeing the horizon.
The singer picks up the microphone
And speaks of injustice or depravity.
Simultaneously the band rains down
On the parade of spectators
Who have come to hear them.
They fear nothing.
As the crowd sings and dances
Collecting themselves in embraces.
A
SUNDRESS IN APRIL
Threatened eyes
Staring down from the overcast shadows
Retreated
To just a few sprinkles on my windshield
Surrendering to her strapless, flowered
sundress.
Apathetically,
She showed some cleavage
Unwilling to pull
The garden up over her breast.
Engaging my eyes.
She took her time
Crossing the street.
Her sculptured legs,
Lines a mathematician
Could not define,
Gave their last farewell
From a distance.
Three
Young Devils
Young devils drink cheap libations
To grow courage for their apocalypse
Without seat belts.
They may take a dip in the cool river
With no clothes
To celebrate youth
Everything is crashing
Down around them.
All except their souls on that midnight.
Should have bought
More cigarettes,
One speaks to the rest.
But nothing is open
Beyond the boundaries
For that cool refreshing evening.
Pretty soon the spins start to make sense.
One devil notices the world is turning
All he can do is lie down on the dock.
While the two other devils swim.
He was supposed to be working the grind;
Instead he called his boss with an excuse.
This is the future of our world crumbling
down
They can’t escape
They can only grow older
While taking their separate paths to
success
Wherever they may lead.
But for that night,
Glory drenches them.
The only way to dry off
Is to roll all the windows down
And drive as fast as you can.
Youth
Revolt in Summer
Light the fuse
Reach your arm back as far as it can go
Throw
Then run
To set the sky on fire
Let ashes rain upon us
We will remember the simple things
As we rebuild from the top down
If we don’t run inside to breathe
The artificial air coming from the AC
We would burn outside
Even the believers feel the heat,
Still corrupt and impure
Man may try to extinguish the flames,
But youth set themselves on fire.
They run through the streets
With their clothes burning off
Waiting for the taste of cool, refreshing
liquid
That has turned into steam
We go inside but the youth revolt
Head for the shade
Whatever is still left
The oceans, rivers, and streams
Start to boil
They bubble like a Jacuzzi
No one is safe
Skyscrapers
To
the top of trees down to the grass and soil
Feel like lava on bare feet
Some speak of winter
Some speak of spring
Some remember the river
As we all burn in the summer.
Smooth
Drive
Hover over the high beams
Hiding the stars
Go through the greens
Look around at the reds
Wonder what they’re thinking.
Brake lights aren’t your friend.
Feel high
Why rush when you are so close to the
moon’s face.
She’s accepting and wants to talk
Her voice caresses you,
Like the breeze you feel
With the windows down.
Cell phones aren’t ringing
Tranquil desires
Racing friendships
As you sign by the X
To buy cigarettes
Tongues feel dry,
Sweet tea sits in the fridge.
Only to come home.
To stay awake
Inspired by my prime
Whenever that was
Look over the ledge
Entranced by
The glow of the street lamps.
Overcast
Day
It’s like a schoolyard friend
Standing behind you
With her hands over your eyes
Asking,
“Guess Who!?”
We can still play today
Before the rain
The jungle gym is calling
And we’re too young
To worry about adulthood’s grasp
Right now it feels like
We will stay this age forever
In this body
Little arms, little legs
In little, dirt-stained shoes
Shoe laces untied
Our feet don’t agree with the ground
Might trip
And yet we don’t cry
So we keep going
The
Secret Lives of Men
The secret lives of men
Voices creeping up
your flesh
Until you respond
No one knows but you
Except the walls
And the closed door
Invaded by your thoughts
Carry on routine
And try to forget
But to no avail
It could be anything
Another woman
A needle
Hardcore skin to skin revelations on your
computer screen
Wine that flows like blood in the war zone
And yet we are seen as a good man
Nephew
Purity wobbles on two legs
Speaks gibberish that only
He understands
And hardly ever cries
I sleep with him
In the same room
At my parent’s house
Regulating every movement
And change in breathing
Inside his crib next
To my bed.
Feel rejuvenated
When forced awake
By the sound
Of a language
I don’t understand
And his world
I don’t know
I creep up behind him
To tickle his sides
He turns around
And hands me a toy car
He got for Christmas
I have things to do,
Errands
to run
But he won’t let me leave
So I stay.
Far
from Fallujah
Smoke break in the psyche ward
Smoke disappears
Behind bars
Puddles collecting
Pajamas define institutions
Closing a mind
While relaxing
With a load off
Three meals a day,
Sleeping,
Until they call your name.
Slippers sliding
Like tires on black ice
Suicide attempts are normal
Like alcoholism.
And skin to bone
Scars inside
Try to smile.
Add another blanket.
Celebrate another discharge
The last of
This military life.
Seen as failure
I get meds
They get theirs
Mind at ease
With my own stripe
Far from Fallujah
With a faulty flack vest
A terrorized body
Covering a face
That haunt
An American family.
Black Biker Week in Myrtle Beach, SC
Black jeans in threads going up her thighs,
connected to stiletto heels. It could all be missed by the big hump in the
back, vibrating with the motor of her crotch rocket. You won't see her again in
the dark seas of biker weekend. In the
heat of Memorial Day weekend, the rebels, sizing up the men in dark blue, weave
between other bikers and cars when there are spaces. You could see late model two-toned
Cameros--three of them blocking the traffic at the gas station at
Wal-Mart. Underage African queens with a
cup of complimentary water at the Bojangles are wearing blue tinted contacts and
avoiding the sun. Can't help but stare
at the long straight hair with the curves that threaten the white man's law-abiding
expressions.
The music vibrates their windows, bombs out oncoming cars with locals and
vacationers coming and going on Highway17.
The police are outnumbered but their presence is known.
South Carolina prints the deaths in the paper maybe because of the no helmet
laws, hoping to lessen the blows of brain injuries. Despite the complaints by
locals about the noise of accelerating engines, Black Biker week proves that
the South will not rise again.
Black and Milds
When I said I didn't like them
I should have listened
but I guess that is addiction.
the crazy festers sometimes
need constant stimulation
or I hear the voice say,
"I love you."
coming from someone.
sometimes I recognize the voice
other times it is a stranger.
the voice doesn't match
the voices outside.
the faces don't match the three words
I can't handle.
sometimes I laugh or cry
how did I get here?
if you smoke too fast
it'll sting your tongue
and if you love someone
you'll feel the same sting
with a little bit of crazy
wrapped loosely like clothes out of the washing machine
you’ll put them in the dryer
to get the kinks out
and then try the nicotine gum
Untitled
footsteps in the stair well
drums up the wave
before it crashes
don't inhale
or you won't be able to breathe
heart is racing
from new beginnings
asking questions
about reading and writing
am I the right one to answer
saturated
never thought a classroom's
needs could be bigger
then my faults and idiosyncrasies
I do my best to keep afloat
Today the wave is too great
and I surrender in two hours
wonder if the heat is on during this
cold, went springtime day
Without a Muse
A poet without a muse
sends broken limbs to lions.
covered by the blues of the sky,
a past life gives up the ghost
and old habits stain his teeth.
the carnage remaining
leaves him longing.
only thing left
is the hole of the foundation.
his words leave scars
and the voices insult,
and sometimes compliment
the poet in his steady current
of productive anti-social behavior.
the press will dispute what is written;
yet the poet still writes marathons
to be discovered.
Free Write
Hey,
have you ever wondered
what
it would be like if there was no closing time?
My baby has to dance
her hips have to be magnetic
she can come around anytime
I would even give her the key
with the option of waiting
in the cool summer rain
she would wear short dresses
and tight jeans
she would call me baby
and I would call her the same
she would be the booze
and I would be her white wine
our hearts would race like nicotine
her soft whispers would be Novocain
we would get our third wind at midnight
and dance until we slept
chests touching, standing up
too tired to turn the lights off
somehow I would manage
Our days would begin at sunset
when the sun is a big tangerine in the sky
as the crowds threatens lightening
we would be the thunder's bass drum.
There was no chaplain
Tears fell in the empty chapel, but only a
sprinkle. The blues was played by a man's six string. He says he likes the
acoustics in the empty chapel. There was no chaplain, and there was only a
single prayer--a prayer for help.
Stress strays like sheep until they need help from the shepherd. The wolves
howl in the distance.
The vacant chapel speaks. I listen for direction.
Are we always alone?
Obscurity brings a fire to life. Not yet a wild fire but a little burning
inside that gives aid to those days when you can't get up. Vets are inflamed.
Their eyes stare down a thousand yards, and they are still going. There are worse cases.
Yet there are a few grins or friendly conversations about the weather and air
conditioning.
The flame can only build naturally. However, some throw booze and other
addictions on it. The next day the flame starts over again.
I eventually left the empty chapel forgetting my free book of devotions.
Free write after listening to Mos Def
Hear me ticking and tocking, as the seconds
sweeps through, confused, stripped of my hands when you need my help the most,
and yet feel like I love you more than I ever loved a person. Two far away too
far away. Know for awhile money can't solve everything, blood is thicker than
water, but blood runneth over the cup when pushed too hard. I would cut you
free, I would open the cage door, and stand as an imperfect man to your perfect
fugazi until we can embrace at the right time when time stops and we are the
moving hands on the clock ticking slowly to the rest of our lives. But I guessed
the time spent together would move faster, like hurricane winds, only to change
to a breeze when we part again.
Been written about Before and Yet We Can't Get Enough
Addictions have been written
time and time again
Hollywood glamorizes the feeling
after being mesmerized by something or someone like you
take another drag again
you’re not prescribed
or given under the table
but you’re mine
I’ll overdose on you
have you heard it before?
I’m addicted to your voice
even when we don’t connect
but I think I will take you
alone again
take a drag again
speak gently to me
and I will hold you close like the bottle
or like a boat on water
you are a surfer’s wave
a guitar player’s song
pen to paper better then texting wrongs
so speak to me again
and I will hold you like a
smoker’s last cigarette.
The Ballad of the Criminal Goddess and the Mad Man
The criminal goddess surrounded by bars
only to be broken by a mad man's hands
the stained tooth mad man
gives her a home in the east
the mad man speaks truth while the criminal goddess
resembles a higher being not in flesh but in touch
the mad man ignores all voices but that of his love, the criminal goddess
each other speaks in tongues that stretch beyond deserts and mountains
connected but wireless
they are the only ones standing in embrace
they view the sun's descent boiling in the ocean
as they kiss
they swim together out to the horizon
where the sun bleeds the last heat of its rays
the moon closes its eyes but still shines on the lovers
they breathe away the clouds and sigh in the stars
only what's left of the sky views them as decorative, kissing figurines
Not Very Good with Poetry
When she blushes
and the wave knocks you over
with warm bath water
she seems to be the one breathless
and you feel like you are in under water silence
weightless speechless
but contentment
you try to be productive
but you find yourself
waiting for her voice
written or spoken
visually, she destroys you
how many lives can one man have?
now lost in the desert
wandering for her caress
Hurricane
She is the eye of the storm. Chaos was all
around her. She stayed genuine, and could find things (no matter how simple) to
smile about. She was willing to play in the dirt with children. She spoiled her
cats. She was loyal to a fault, and an example to live by. God-like and so
beautiful...Can't wait for the rain so I can hear her sighs
The Postal Service Blues
Hey,
Mail Man
I'm expecting a letter
a letter from my baby
I got nothing today
see what we can do
my baby and me
can send letters
and talk online
Hey, Mail Man,
why didn't you come today
you see, my baby
is too far away
she said she put on some lipstick
and kissed the letter for me
and she sprayed a little
perfume for me
I called you up
had to press so many numbers
making my baby further away
Can you relate, Mail Man?
Or does your baby wait
at home for you
with a cold drink
and dinner for you
I want to touch my baby
but she's too far away.
Fort Irwin
My mountain could be seen all over
I wanted to climb it
it was a single rock that sometimes blocked the sun while
standing in full BDU's in the desert heat
Superiors would warn you to keep hydrated
sometimes nothing could quench your thirst
because you didn't feel like waiting for it to get cold
so it went down dry
when you get back from the field
you may get caught up on your sleep
after that you feel so alone
you won't feel like mixing with the other soldiers
there was only beer
and air conditioning
you may go for a walk
there is no grass to walk barefooted on, just gravel beds
there is no blue sky
the sun was just white heated flame
My mountain was my neighbor
it always had an eye on me
but it can't protect me
from that distance
somedays it seemed like
everyone is against me
the mountain stood tall
if it is there then I am here
The Symphony
the lullaby of the strings
at first touch you surrender to her voice.
the soundtrack to the vision
makes you sit down,
think about what they put themselves through
the work for this gift
is usually ignored.
the higher the heel,
the more the leg is sculptured;
yet their toes are squished
and the whole foot is strained.
then there is the morning after
you see the natural look
you can probably figure out
if they spent a long time getting ready
or not long at all.
this is when the lights come on,
the music is over, and it is just you two.
Open Road
Blue veins in my arm
like the roads on a map
been in all the states
that Interstate 10 goes through.
been through the fiery desert
and the metropolis,
reading and trying to figure out
the description on license plates
in front of my headlights.
eventually change directions to the north
like we all have to do eventually.
the open horizon was therapeutic, considering
what I had just been through.
even though the CD player died in El Paso,
Nothing could stop me from coming home,
but I was coming home to
an illness, diagnosed, but not cured.
Sharky's
safe haven for the rogue in us
dive bar selling cheap booze with juke boxes
dimly lit smoke filled room.
the rogue in us
knows the words
to the cover band playing.
non smokers have a minuscule room
away from the action,
but at least they don't have to breathe the
toxic smoke that will kill us all
some people are sitting at the bar
watching bulky, heavy TV’s
showing sports highlights.
while a few play pool.
most are standing, dancing, or shaking to
music so loud you have to scream
in someone's ear to make them hear,
and if you stand next to the speaker
you become deaf.
at least you have plenty of cigarettes.
the rogue in us
is glad he showered and shaved
but not everyone did.
the rogue in us tries
but his failed attempts at
picking up the ladies
bring him back to the bar.
the screen on the TV
starts to blur
is that the beer or TV?
the rogue in us wonders.
high def is down the block,
more expensive beer,
and younger, naive ladies
who haven't been forced into despair.
Alone buys the rogue in us
another beer.
as he comes to the conclusion
he has been set free
from rejection.
sometimes alone is a good friend;
however his eyes still wander.
a fight breaks out.
no one, not even the bouncers knows the cause.
the men have to leave their pool game
while others go back to the blurred TV.
the clouds of smoke overhead stay
like the last remaining filters on cigarettes
that powder landfills
the rogue in us
stands alone needing a taxi
to drive him home.
spaghetti straps
showing smooth skin
sandaled toes ankles,
up to the leg
which is underneath
skinny, light weight jeans,
don't approach the curves
admired from afar.
may say hello, but
they go back to their cell phone.
to see them strapless
sandal less and clothe less
would be the whole picture show.
but with these articles
of manufactured material,
a woman's body becomes
an edited masterpiece
one can only enjoy the
wonder from without.
1/3/11
Journal Entry
Bought the newest Weezer album and it kind of
hurts. Reminds me of when I was reckless- a candle burning at both ends. How
did I come out of that alive? How did I come out of that without a criminal
record? Thirty, mature, and stable, as much as a person suffering from a mental
illness can be.
Was I crazy then?
Now financially sound and happy. Loving the taste of alone on my chapped lips.
Enjoying the taste of loneliness with no drama at my finger tips, but with
dirty finger nails.
Don't feel lost at home with heat, hoody on, comfortable shoes, leather
furniture-brand new, with stainless steel appliances, paying extra for the
perks like the fireplace I don't use.
Why would I want to share this with anyone, when I haven't had it for very
long?
The
Herd
Call for faith
When doubt simmers your brain.
Prayer a predator
Distinguishes what is left.
The spirit creates solid mentality.
Its force gets us moving
Until it feels like a monsoon
Soaking wet.
We go back to the herd
The shepherd never sleeps.
We flourish with the clear stream
And vegetation
The wolves howl in the distance
Poems Converging
inebriating sadness
debilitating illness
transformation in the morn
after the night's breezes
during a midnight drive of U-turns
minor battle fought
disassemble the troops
mission of one
to live on
with "a thorn in my flesh"
hallucinatory gestures
ricocheting in my brain.
Tell me where the world will end
and I will bring my six string
as rivers converge to one
while the earth quakes
tumbling the mountains
into pebbles
while the sun becomes the gateway for the few
the earth opens up
as I wave to the ones not rising
The meek sit back in their worlds
with no invitation to the outsider.
with a refreshed voice for action
the outsider invites himself.
the stares and different language
make the outsider understand
his new surroundings
with good intentions.
the meek fall silent to listen
but they feel it is useless to change.
The meek question the outsider;
the outsider questions the meek
the meek float on and settle,
and the outsider is alone with his experiences.
Lasting Impressions
Why this imprint?
After all these years.
with you I remember questioning,
"Where should I put my hands?"
High school squeezed us together like
a New York efficiency in a small town.
we were destined to leave.
I saw a
photo
of you kissing a man.
The thing that caught my eye was
your head on his arm.
We were there at age eighteen
I remember
your concern about dying alone
Then… I worried if I would ever be happy--I am now
I've thought of you so often.
Aging to thirty has changed me;
the military did its part,
as did my faith.
At eighteen we began different journeys.
You are one of a few women that have left a lasting impression
I will leave it at that.
Stream of Conscience Free Write
Today the sky winked at me
with the sun as the pupil
dark clouds were long eyelashes
tonight cool breezes are filled
with Coltrane smiles
the sun warms the day
the night soothes the unrest
speaks in phrases that bring the two
together
feel the smooth caress of O’Doul’s
you’re probably already laughing
I bought twelve
some boys try to behave themselves
hear the engines of cars and conversations
outside, the street lights are on
spotlighting the shadows
and we love ourselves
with another day ending.
for spring is coming
it is climbing the stairs
like a wobbly-legged child
rebirth
and we let it be because
this is part of life
and it’s a new generation’s chance
to turn the wheels
of the clock that ages all of us
LIFE GAME
I play this game
When there is no one
Around
Picking an object
And choosing
Another metaphor
For life
The obvious
Are the trees and buildings
You see downtown
But once I saw
A discarded baby sneaker
In the middle of the highway
It was discolored
And aged by the tire tracks
Unlaced, unwanted, unused
People passing would
Straddle it
Others would hit it
No one tried to pick it up.
Midnight
Feedback
The voice of the alleys
Groaning
A wrath of despair.
Along
comes
Madness in doses of
Avoiding eye contact
Handling their car keys’
Instead of folded bills.
Sirens sweep by
Like
a second hand.
The sunrise is a mirage
Only
artificial illumintation.
Predators prowl
Seeking transparent victims
Believing in the common good
Existing as the taps go dry
Fading
to a fog of sobriety
One body leaves another for another
And for the others there are still a few
hours left.
The
Last Picture Show
The moon was the projector
As it shined through
Through the window onto his bedroom wall.
The shadows outside were villains
Unchallenged by adversaries.
He stared at the wall
As the objects swayed back and forth
Like a deserted ship
That had just gone under mutiny.
There was now no captain
He was left onboard alone.
For his scavenging.
His eyes finally surrendered
As a light consumed
His last picture show.
THIRD
STORY ENCOUNTER
I walked out to my car
To get a pack of cigarettes
“You will die non-Jehovah witness!”
Came the voice from the third story.
I kept walking
All I wanted was a cigarette with my beer
“Yeah, you, walking. You will die!”
I looked up to the third story balcony
To the old lady threatening me in the
shadows.
“You can’t see me, but you can hear my
voice. You will die! Because the circus is coming to town.”
Earlier that day she called an ambulance,
the fire department, and the police
Because she couldn’t open her front door
“You will die!”
To go back into my apartment I had to walk
under her balcony,
To the words:
“The circus is coming to town. There are Ferris
wheels inside my head.”
The circus was in town, and I didn’t have
to buy a ticket.
The next day the police carried her away.
TEACHER
Clearing off the page
For a place to kiss
As a strand of her hair
Crosses her shoulders.
She stood barefoot
And stretched higher,
On her toes
With her heels rising
The skirt swaying relaxingly,
Like hips inside a hula hoop
Limbs rise to erase numbers
Hair holding itself up
By a rubber band
Her fingers end and fold
With few rings
She rubs her hands to brush the chalk
That had risen
Solo.
Basic
Training
Extra layer of shoe polish
Between the nails which grip
Grenades
Bursting mundane details
Into mayhem;
Echoing through mushroom clouds.
Ringing,
Vibrating eardrums,
Sounding off,
Cadence
From the march before.
Grasping your M-16
Like a motherless child
Quietly
Accepting its revenge.
Emotions follow tightly
Like camouflage
On BDU’s;
Standing loyal.
Private
We are all officers tonight
Call yourselves
Sir or ma’am
Salute.
Take the bar
Or lose another stripe.
Overrated
Drink up like Bukowski.
Singing for nothing
Salute
Notes and words disregarded
Marching out of step
Last laugh
Turn on your heels
Reason to retreat
Following orders, but disagreeing.
March
I should be commanding you
Good men ruined at the bar
Drunken sighs
Salute
Bracing
for the Blues
Shiver up the spine
Tingled
Vertebrae
Desire so wrong
Exhale
Not attached
Except imagery and touch.
Holding back tears.
Then shattered glass
Bracing myself for the blast
Oncoming car
Turning over
Slipping on black ice,
Concealed in shallow water
Couldn’t see without windshield wipers
Lost in transition
In illuminated
blue
Scraping my flesh
Gasping into
Cheap hotel sheets.
Mirrored by sky
Squeezing the last drops
Of regulation
A cry—a bugle to end the day.
My
Friend, the Drug Dealer
Rumor has it
He was caught with a sawed off
A bag and some pills
I knew he had a gun but
I don’t think it was sawed off
In high school he lived by the motto,
“Ignorance is bliss”
Now he’s surrounded by bars
My friend, listen to me:
Don’t speak
Don’t think too much
Rise above the past
Distance yourself
Protect your own
I will see you sometime again.
Chuck
Back in school
I used to know
This guy named Chuck
He made the teacher call him
Charles
We talked about movies
About the mafia
And we planned our own robberies
One day he asked me if I was Jewish
I thought he was referring to my accent
He explained to me
He had never gotten along
This well with
A white person.
Succeeding
I’ll make it up as I go
Mr. Frost’s road is filled with the same
faces
The legal life is narrowing
And they don’t make manuals for adulthood.
Thus another lost generation
Boys becoming a part of the beast
An empty beer can for an ashtray
Reliving ashes from first times;
Arriving at dead end fixations
Just another piston pumping
Clocked in, clocked out
Retracing the road not traveled.
Eighteen
Year Old Perspective
Holding your girlfriend’s hair back
As she vomits into a stranger’s toilet;
Then having to kiss her afterwards.
Pushing down garbage with your bare hand,
Only to create room for more garbage
An “all you can eat buffet”
Free refills,
Depending on a six pack and a pack of
cigarettes
For life support.
Waiting on a potential right hook to your
jaw.
Broken bottles on concrete
Too much time on your hands
Then not having enough the next day.
Hazards
of Smoking
She was a dress
The shade of gray
Shared by the clouds
During the early hours
Before the sun shines
In late November
Fingering an unlit cigarette
Like a drumstick.
She looked at me
Through the corner of her eye.
“Do you need a light?” I asked.
“No, I’ve quit for two years
Sometimes I just need to hold onto one”
“I am sorry to hear that.” I said.
She leaned in closer
I followed her in
We were cheek to cheek
Her hand on my chest
Fingers gently typing
She whispered the hazards of smoking
While I was massaging her thigh,
With my non-smoking hand,
To the rhythm of the Chicago bassist’s
melody.
After hearing my age
She slowly, sensually
Raised her head and stood up,
“I would be your Sugar Momma.”
She gave me her cigarette,
And went to the bar,
Surrounded by neckties
The
Boss
She was my boss.
I sat in the most comfortable chair
That supported me like
A low hanging cloud
Before a spring rain.
She was straddling me
Arching her back slightly
When she took a drag from her cigarette.
The ashtray was on my stomach.
Ashes were scattered on my chest
From her lack of aim.
Even after several attempts
To not blow smoke in each other faces,
Our lips parted;
A gray cloud slowly
Floated to the ceiling
Then disappeared.
I disturbed
Thinking about the next time
I had to put on an apron.
Disillusioned
I was able to write the perfect ending
At the beginning;
Before dry shaving and razor burn.
With the complaints
Of dry humidity,
Air conditioning,
The winter on the tip of our tongues,
Not enough ice in the trays.
Another drought,
Causing lukewarm revolt.
And still no sign of God.
To
the East
Blank page
Lines drawn
Through Louisiana
Sketch like roadmaps
No contour lines
Drawn to merging hearts
A purple, pick-up truck
That pulls, jolts, and bends.
Closer
Remembering…
Rubbing my arms for warmth
In the cool nights of Richmond
Between seasons
Street lamps downsizing shadows
Radio voices come and go
Wheels agreeing, traveling east.
Empty late nights,
In hotels
Alone,
Kicked out mornings
Sunlight revealing Spanish accents
Focus
Eyes refuse to rise
With complimentary coffee and shampoo
Gas tank empting
But still driving to the East.
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