Sunday, February 26, 2012
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
ONE NIGHT IN THE RAIN
a girl was making a fire
people were stamping their feet
all I could see was a swirling grey mistshe said
the storm is still raging
a sort of gypsy looking woman
who always wore the same puke-green pea coat
she was adamant
she expected me to make a decision
but you can't sleep with things like that
she left alone that night
so I didn't get to her before she died
but it set me to thinking
after she'd gone
that no one I'd ever made love to
had croaked yet
far as I knew
still living their lives
with some nameless face
or faceless name
still
they're dead to me
i stepped into the misty haze
i turned to see Noah's Ark
standing in my path...
extending me safe harbor?
it is a crime to take your own life
and sometimes a tragedy not to
bad manners to joke about a thing like that
i turned away from the vision
i lifted my face to the sky
blue lights flickered from overhead wires
i knew that it was dangerous
i closed my eyes
the best kind of oblivion
i saw the sunrise and the sea
i tasted the rain
i saw the passage of all my empty days
i almost forgot that i was running
Author Note: One Night In The Rain is not derived from any actual incident. The narrator is a character. But as every writer knows, there is a little of ourselves in each of our characters. .
Linking up to d'verse Poets Pub
Monday, February 13, 2012
WASTED
Her voice soared to the heights
is easy to achieve
Her mind plummeted to the depths
Learning to love yourself
And in between--the wasteland
is the greatest love of all...
Thursday, February 9, 2012
EXTORTION
pissed on my pillow
'cause I wouldn't give him
an extra tablespoon of
his favorite canned food
I was trying to draw the line
because I was typing in a poem
and he walked across the keyboard
three times
and then SAT on it
like he always does
he knows I can't get anything done
till I get up and feed
his obsession
don't know what happened
to that other poem
after I lost my train of thought
so instead you've got this one
thank the little pisser for that
cunningest cat I ever seen...
and one of the fattest
I gotta do some laundry
Friday, February 3, 2012
WHAT WON'T THEY THINK OF NEXT?
the mobile psychiatrist
comes to you...
lie down in the back of the van
Thursday, January 26, 2012
WAKE UP SNEEZING
I wear a canvas shopping bag over my head. The rain, like waves of storm troopers, sweeps through the streets. The makeshift umbrella presents a navigational problem. I lift the edge of the bag just far enough above my eyes to narrowly avoid stepping into the path of an onrushing garbage truck. Like the wild-eyed bulls that careen through the streets of Pamplona, the stench transport is oblivious to everything in its path.
Murky, mud-laced water splatters my trousers. My middle finger springs into action (a knee-jerk response) and already the day is off on the wrong foot. I hurl some choice obscenities at the Salad-Shooter from hell. The driver eyes me through his side mirror. I jerk the bonnet back over my face, in case his buddies from the Teamsters come looking for me.
Embarrassed by a large, accusatory wet spot in the worst of all places, I grab the handle of the nearest door. The wind propels me inside. Once the bag is off my head, I suspend it strategically in front of my crotch. I case the joint. Ah, yes--the Mystery Book Store. A quiet, brooding little place. Smells like an attic.
The woman behind the counter is young--probably a student. Her hair is short, witch black. Razor straight bangs lick her eyebrows. She wears pasty white makeup and thick brown lipstick. Glancing up from the book she is reading, she says, "Is there a particular mystery I can help you with?" Her manner is genteel, a bit exaggerated--a diaphanous swan sculpted from a block of ice.
"Yes," I reply. "Why did the chicken cross the road?"
"Because the light was green."
"What is the sound of one hand clapping?"
"Much softer than that of one foot stomping."
"Okay, then...how about the meaning of life?"
She searches for her place in the book. "I figured you'd get around to that one. Einstein said the only thing that matters is whether the universe is friendly."
Resisting the urge to challenge her on the capitol of North Dakota, I retreat to the bookshelves. So many mysteries in life, and now I am faced with about a thousand more.
Scanning one wall, I lose track of how many times "murder" and "death" appear in the titles.I go for broke and select a paperback titled Death Is Murder. I flip through the pages, periodically casting a wary eye upon the dark circle between my legs that shrinks with glacier-like speed.
How long have I been standing here? Is she watching me? Of course she is--I'm the only refugee in the place. What the hell, buy the damn book. On my way to the counter, I reach for my wallet and absentmindedly drop the shopping bag to the floor. The girl glares down at my pants.
"Hey, you one of them sick muhfuggahs man?" (Out of nowhere, she has developed a Brooklyn accent.)
"N-no," I say. "Th-the rain!" I whirl to face the plate glass window, but the storm has subsided, sunlight glinting off the last rivulets trickling into the gutters.
"I get all kinds in here," she says. "I got pepper spray in my purse."
I lay the paperback on the counter. "I'll take this one and be on my way."
My hand clutches the doorknob when she calls out. "So...what if we knew, ya know?"
I turn, "Beg your pardon?"
"The game would be up, wouldn't it? The end of THE MYSTERY."
I smile. She returns to her reading. This is where I came in.
Outside, I breathe in the clean, sweet air. My trousers are nearly dry, and at last I carry the bag containing the book at my side in a manner befitting its original purpose.
Funny...one day you head for the corner market and the next thing you know you're jostled about like a pair of stained jockey shorts in the spin dryer of life--disjointed, as on a morning when you wake up sneezing.
Two sullen looking men in brown leather jackets scrutinize me as they pass by. They glance down at the bag. They glance up at my face. I jerk my head around to get another look at them, only to catch their eyes shooting bullets back at me.
Universe, let's be friends.
Friday, January 20, 2012
TROPOSPHERE
morphing slowly into
some other shape--
some other beingness
right before your eyes.
Not like your life, which
does it behind your back.
The birds are doing strictly bird
things, they don't give a crap
about you and me, unless its to splat
some on top your head
And off the top of my head
I'm rehearsing what I might say to you
tonight, if you ask about her, and why
it all turned to shit so quickly, and
I'll just say that she was the
prima donna type, and me,
just a casual guy who doesn't sweat
the small stuff--and I think it was
'cause I didn't bow down to
her, or even curtsy, somewhere
along the way. Not really knowing,
but banking that you won't be
the same, but hey...
Sitting on the porch, I spot
the feral cat who lives underneath
the house, heading off on his mid-afternoon
hunting expedition. And when I think about
moving from here, I think about
where would he go in this
stark coyote land?
There's a bowl of water that I set out.
Never food.
There's a bowl of water that I set out.
Never food.
He's lean, but he's a survivor,
and I'd never want to turn
a wild thing into something less.
a wild thing into something less.
And I glance up at those birds on a wire--
heads down in a heartbeat--
and off to who knows where,
'cept that it's someplace else, as
I languish here, dreaming of
Adriatic whores, and some way to
attain that kind of altitude.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
HANDFUL OF DUST
A strong semi-classical face.
Decked out in shocking pink.
And who needs a bra?
Her mother was a sorceress.
She has the power to move
objects with her mind.
Compellingly strange.
An ambiguous mystery
wavering between good and evil.
Rising early on Saturday
mornings to watch cartoons.
Coffee enemas laced with hallucinogens.
She has the power to
turn men into murderous zombies.
Sailing into treacherous waters.
Storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
You must make her stay.
Faced with the ghosts of
the past, your summer love
will fade like a press-on tattoo.
Mounting a furious campaign
to find a new love by Columbus Day.
Taking a transatlantic cruise to Zanzibar.
Then, in the rain forest
somewhere near the Indian Ocean--
bees and wasps and flies.
Calls of a thousand strange creatures.
Back in the sunny land
you practice the changing of reality
like a film with an alternate ending.
It is going to be a night to remember.
The scent of sandalwood from an open doorway.
Background music.
The thrum of guitars.
Crimson And Clover over and over.
The sun sets in her amber eyes.
The ink black night.
A veil of white.
The sound of rain,
sharp, like the pangs of regret.
A handful of dust.
Tambourines.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)