The sudden storm flooded Mark's neighborhood,
so we rolled up the cuffs of our blue jeans;
two chubby, graceless kids, just in our teens,
we waded to the center line and stood
(the water curled around our feet, and rain
bejeweled our hair like dewdrops in the crowns
of oaks) intoxicated by the sounds
the brown flood made pulled down the concrete drain.
And all our clumsy adolescence seemed
to wash away with it, and in its place
a childlike carelessness we never dreamed
we'd lose propelled us, stomping, down that creek,
and kicking plumes into each other's face--
so joyful neither one of us could speak.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
#290: February 7, 2007
That night those years ago, up in my dorm
she lay down on my twin-sized bachelor's bed.
The lamp cast its own shadow o'er her head
and smudged to indistinctness every form
and feature, so that in my memory
there's only heat and softness, breath and skin,
and frost off blinded windows creeping in
to edge my nakedness with ice--till she
opened wide arms to fold me in, and pressed
me into her while I shook, as with cold;
we crested there, and she held me immersed
in that warm sea of her, told me to rest.
Linda. And I was twenty-one years old.
She never even knew she was the first.
she lay down on my twin-sized bachelor's bed.
The lamp cast its own shadow o'er her head
and smudged to indistinctness every form
and feature, so that in my memory
there's only heat and softness, breath and skin,
and frost off blinded windows creeping in
to edge my nakedness with ice--till she
opened wide arms to fold me in, and pressed
me into her while I shook, as with cold;
we crested there, and she held me immersed
in that warm sea of her, told me to rest.
Linda. And I was twenty-one years old.
She never even knew she was the first.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
#289: February 6, 2007
The trees were swaying out there in the dusk
between the bright blue afternoon and me,
that leaf-wind noise, that green pine-needle sea
that rose and fell in waves of forest musk;
And I was thinking things can't be as hard
as this, not when these voices in the air
give promise of what secrets they can share,
not when the breeze has beaten down its guard;
The very breast of nature so exposed,
it heaved as though under a lover's touch,
enough to make me stretch out this bare hand
to put aside the veil, strip off her clothes,
and like a lover start to understand
these mysteries I'd never known as such.
between the bright blue afternoon and me,
that leaf-wind noise, that green pine-needle sea
that rose and fell in waves of forest musk;
And I was thinking things can't be as hard
as this, not when these voices in the air
give promise of what secrets they can share,
not when the breeze has beaten down its guard;
The very breast of nature so exposed,
it heaved as though under a lover's touch,
enough to make me stretch out this bare hand
to put aside the veil, strip off her clothes,
and like a lover start to understand
these mysteries I'd never known as such.
Monday, February 05, 2007
#288: February 5, 2007
You'll find Golgotha Church up on that hill,
whose carpenters and masons worked in bones;
with monks' skulls laid in her foundation stones,
She's stood six centuries, and stands there still.
The ribs of holy men her chandeliers,
and torches made of thigh-bones fire those halls.
They say at night the silver moonlight falls
like water through her silent, charnel tiers.
And so, with God's machinery laid bare,
with bodies stripped of flesh and purged of lust,
perhaps these penitents have made their peace.
But when the wind blows through her, and the air
goes gritty with a thousand friars' dust,
she moans, and it sounds nothing like release.
whose carpenters and masons worked in bones;
with monks' skulls laid in her foundation stones,
She's stood six centuries, and stands there still.
The ribs of holy men her chandeliers,
and torches made of thigh-bones fire those halls.
They say at night the silver moonlight falls
like water through her silent, charnel tiers.
And so, with God's machinery laid bare,
with bodies stripped of flesh and purged of lust,
perhaps these penitents have made their peace.
But when the wind blows through her, and the air
goes gritty with a thousand friars' dust,
she moans, and it sounds nothing like release.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
#287: February 4, 2007
Another mulligan tonight, I think;
I just can't seem to get it going yet.
I'd rather put my feet up, have a drink,
and lose my troubles through the TV set.
It must be disappointing, should you care--
if daily you should turn this way your eyes
to find my poem answering your stare.
If that's the case, then I apologize.
I try my best--I think I'm doing well.
Two hundred some-odd sonnets in the book,
I count more good than bad, but who can tell
before unbiased critics take a look?
My muse tonight has suffered this defeat;
but through it my project will be complete.
I just can't seem to get it going yet.
I'd rather put my feet up, have a drink,
and lose my troubles through the TV set.
It must be disappointing, should you care--
if daily you should turn this way your eyes
to find my poem answering your stare.
If that's the case, then I apologize.
I try my best--I think I'm doing well.
Two hundred some-odd sonnets in the book,
I count more good than bad, but who can tell
before unbiased critics take a look?
My muse tonight has suffered this defeat;
but through it my project will be complete.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
#286: February 3, 2007
I met a stranger in a hockey mask
who strode implacably toward town today.
Just who he was I didn't stop to ask;
machetes make me step out of the way.
A little later I passed on that path
a joker in a sweater, green and red,
with finger-knives: one, two, three--do the math;
a charred fedora on his bald, burnt head.
Just when I felt my courage start to fail,
I spied, in blue coveralls, Captain Kirk!
Except he had a knife, and looked real pale--
and when I said hello, he went berserk!
That I beat it but good I need not mention;
as for those three--there must be a convention.
who strode implacably toward town today.
Just who he was I didn't stop to ask;
machetes make me step out of the way.
A little later I passed on that path
a joker in a sweater, green and red,
with finger-knives: one, two, three--do the math;
a charred fedora on his bald, burnt head.
Just when I felt my courage start to fail,
I spied, in blue coveralls, Captain Kirk!
Except he had a knife, and looked real pale--
and when I said hello, he went berserk!
That I beat it but good I need not mention;
as for those three--there must be a convention.
Friday, February 02, 2007
#285: February 2, 2007
He's up the tree like lightning, to a height
that makes me gasp; he hangs there like ripe fruit,
as if the rocks, the creaking wood were moot,
as though to fall from there were only flight.
He's heedless, rushing headlong toward the street
behind a rolling car or bouncing ball,
exasperated by my panicked call,
the fright that cracked my voice and froze my feet.
He's beautiful and ignorant, and I
was just the same before I knew life stung,
before experience made dangers clear.
That's really why we so envy the young,
who can't believe we never try to fly--
who tell our age by how we've learned to fear.
that makes me gasp; he hangs there like ripe fruit,
as if the rocks, the creaking wood were moot,
as though to fall from there were only flight.
He's heedless, rushing headlong toward the street
behind a rolling car or bouncing ball,
exasperated by my panicked call,
the fright that cracked my voice and froze my feet.
He's beautiful and ignorant, and I
was just the same before I knew life stung,
before experience made dangers clear.
That's really why we so envy the young,
who can't believe we never try to fly--
who tell our age by how we've learned to fear.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
#284: February 1, 2007
There's sunken treasure strewn along that reef
they call the Graveyard. Well it's earned the name,
with fifty foundered vessels to its blame--
three miles of coral, keen as new sharks' teeth.
The riches in its caves defy belief--
doubloons of Spanish gold and precious stones,
all guarded by drowned sailors' sentry bones
and safe since their descent from any thief.
Though some still try, they always end the same.
Some nights along the beach you hear the groans
of divers clutching wounds that burn like flame.
That poisoned rock, and what else lies beneath,
has turned sweet girls to bitter, widowed crones,
who curse the God that built it, in their grief.
they call the Graveyard. Well it's earned the name,
with fifty foundered vessels to its blame--
three miles of coral, keen as new sharks' teeth.
The riches in its caves defy belief--
doubloons of Spanish gold and precious stones,
all guarded by drowned sailors' sentry bones
and safe since their descent from any thief.
Though some still try, they always end the same.
Some nights along the beach you hear the groans
of divers clutching wounds that burn like flame.
That poisoned rock, and what else lies beneath,
has turned sweet girls to bitter, widowed crones,
who curse the God that built it, in their grief.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
#283: January 31, 2007
The tremor shifts the ground just like the sea
and throws us gasping, earthsick, while the waves
rise and turn ancient bodies from their graves,
turn Now to turbulent turbidity.
The Past buries the Present in the loam
suddenly liquid, churning temples down;
and like a goddess shrugging off her gown
now Gaia bares her breast through brownish foam.
The force that separates mantle from crust
and pulls the work of centuries apart
like motley costumes splitting at the seam
reveals to us the wages of our lust,
transmutes our bodies into wisps of steam
upon the planet's fiery, pulsing heart.
and throws us gasping, earthsick, while the waves
rise and turn ancient bodies from their graves,
turn Now to turbulent turbidity.
The Past buries the Present in the loam
suddenly liquid, churning temples down;
and like a goddess shrugging off her gown
now Gaia bares her breast through brownish foam.
The force that separates mantle from crust
and pulls the work of centuries apart
like motley costumes splitting at the seam
reveals to us the wages of our lust,
transmutes our bodies into wisps of steam
upon the planet's fiery, pulsing heart.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
#282: January 30, 2007
"You'd better use that thing between your legs
before it withers on you, mark my word!
Get out and drink your life down to the dregs,
for one day soon the thought will seem absurd.
"When you're as old as I, you'll spend your days
scratching your head and wondering where it went;
and memories of all your favorite lays
will show themselves treasure and time well spent.
"So go on, now, and stick it to those girls!
Don't worry if they're pretty, fat or thin.
The time's too short! Plunge in up to the curls!
'Cause who knows if you'll have the chance again?"
Grandpa sucked on his beer. "Believe me, kid:
don't do it, and one day you'll wish you did."
before it withers on you, mark my word!
Get out and drink your life down to the dregs,
for one day soon the thought will seem absurd.
"When you're as old as I, you'll spend your days
scratching your head and wondering where it went;
and memories of all your favorite lays
will show themselves treasure and time well spent.
"So go on, now, and stick it to those girls!
Don't worry if they're pretty, fat or thin.
The time's too short! Plunge in up to the curls!
'Cause who knows if you'll have the chance again?"
Grandpa sucked on his beer. "Believe me, kid:
don't do it, and one day you'll wish you did."
Monday, January 29, 2007
#281: January 29, 2007
Down in the swamp, so deep no juicy worm
can squeeze its fat bulk there, the Blurpin lies
with copper scales fastened over his eyes,
and chained so tight there's hardly room to squirm.
But squirm he does, and bubbles of his gas
swim anaerobic fathoms to the air
where they ignite like fiery warning flares
and singe the wings of vultures flying past.
They say one day the beast will break his chains
and seek the wizard out who built this jail,
though that old man's long dead; still, he won't fail
to make some warlock pay for all his pains.
Beware, practitioners of the magic arts:
the Blurpin's coming, flinging flaming farts!
can squeeze its fat bulk there, the Blurpin lies
with copper scales fastened over his eyes,
and chained so tight there's hardly room to squirm.
But squirm he does, and bubbles of his gas
swim anaerobic fathoms to the air
where they ignite like fiery warning flares
and singe the wings of vultures flying past.
They say one day the beast will break his chains
and seek the wizard out who built this jail,
though that old man's long dead; still, he won't fail
to make some warlock pay for all his pains.
Beware, practitioners of the magic arts:
the Blurpin's coming, flinging flaming farts!
Sunday, January 28, 2007
#280: January 28, 2007
Hold on to this, before it disappears
and leaves you empty-handed, clutching air.
You'll miss it as the cold, relentless years
stretch on and on toward death--so have a care.
Now pick it up and turn it toward the light;
commit each ding and dent to memory.
You'll polish it to shine after tonight,
and bless this call to perspicacity.
So put this moment in your treasure box
against the leaner times that lay ahead;
put velvet over it and turn the locks
on what was done and seen, and heard and said.
Now keep it sure as silver, dear as gold;
you'll live on this someday, when you are old.
and leaves you empty-handed, clutching air.
You'll miss it as the cold, relentless years
stretch on and on toward death--so have a care.
Now pick it up and turn it toward the light;
commit each ding and dent to memory.
You'll polish it to shine after tonight,
and bless this call to perspicacity.
So put this moment in your treasure box
against the leaner times that lay ahead;
put velvet over it and turn the locks
on what was done and seen, and heard and said.
Now keep it sure as silver, dear as gold;
you'll live on this someday, when you are old.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
#279: January 27, 2007
Let's have a drink and sing another song,
clasp hands and wander back from now to then;
for moments here are short, and life is long,
and who knows when we'll come this way again.
The world is full of strangers, cads, and thieves,
and far too nearly empty now of friends;
the years fall through our arms like autumn leaves,
and happy seasons early meet their ends.
So come, embrace and call me by my name!
Lift up your glass, and I'll salute with mine.
In years to come, nothing will taste the same
except our love, and this fruit of the vine.
Let's drink our memories, for they are sweet--
My friend, my brother, till next time we meet.
clasp hands and wander back from now to then;
for moments here are short, and life is long,
and who knows when we'll come this way again.
The world is full of strangers, cads, and thieves,
and far too nearly empty now of friends;
the years fall through our arms like autumn leaves,
and happy seasons early meet their ends.
So come, embrace and call me by my name!
Lift up your glass, and I'll salute with mine.
In years to come, nothing will taste the same
except our love, and this fruit of the vine.
Let's drink our memories, for they are sweet--
My friend, my brother, till next time we meet.
Friday, January 26, 2007
#278: January 26, 2007
Stop to consider Edgar Manfred Sands
in these, the last few moments of his life;
who thinks not of his children, nor his wife,
but only of sales figures in his hands;
Too busy with columnar loss and gain
to note the twinge in his chest growing strong,
so by the time it's clear there's something wrong
he's on the carpet, doubled up in pain;
And so Edgar's life ends: fluorescent light
cold on his pallid brow, crumbs in his hair,
the keyboards' clack and static in the air
as gray cube walls enclose his final sight.
Now then: if you were Edgar, and you knew
it came to this, tell me: what would you do?
in these, the last few moments of his life;
who thinks not of his children, nor his wife,
but only of sales figures in his hands;
Too busy with columnar loss and gain
to note the twinge in his chest growing strong,
so by the time it's clear there's something wrong
he's on the carpet, doubled up in pain;
And so Edgar's life ends: fluorescent light
cold on his pallid brow, crumbs in his hair,
the keyboards' clack and static in the air
as gray cube walls enclose his final sight.
Now then: if you were Edgar, and you knew
it came to this, tell me: what would you do?
Thursday, January 25, 2007
#277: January 25, 2007
My Stabby Thing won't fail to break the skin--
its tapered end is blunt, but hides a sting;
it's pointy and precociously sanguine
and made to penetrate--My Stabby Thing.
My Stabby Thing must be handled with care,
or else there'll be a sticky reckoning;
it has been known to give folks quite a scare
so be gentle with it--My Stabby Thing.
My Stabby thing is quiet, clean, and quick--
it only needs a bit of anchoring;
then cock and press feel the gentle prick
and know it's done the job--My Stabby Thing.
An apparatus worthy of a king,
my pen-shaped pal, My Wondrous Stabby Thing.
its tapered end is blunt, but hides a sting;
it's pointy and precociously sanguine
and made to penetrate--My Stabby Thing.
My Stabby Thing must be handled with care,
or else there'll be a sticky reckoning;
it has been known to give folks quite a scare
so be gentle with it--My Stabby Thing.
My Stabby thing is quiet, clean, and quick--
it only needs a bit of anchoring;
then cock and press feel the gentle prick
and know it's done the job--My Stabby Thing.
An apparatus worthy of a king,
my pen-shaped pal, My Wondrous Stabby Thing.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
#276: January 24, 2007
I've suffered half a hundred spider bites,
but still can't sling a web or climb a wall;
the kids all laugh at my bright spandex tights,
and every time I try to fly, I fall.
I tried getting exposed to gamma rays,
but then I just got sick and lost my hair;
and I'm an earthing--our sun's yellow rays
do nothing for me, which does not seem fair.
No super villains look up my address,
just bill collectors and religious folk.
As caped crusaders go, I'm just a mess:
powerless, impotent--a super-joke.
I may not be bulletproof, swift, or strong,
but I still want to save you. Is that wrong?
but still can't sling a web or climb a wall;
the kids all laugh at my bright spandex tights,
and every time I try to fly, I fall.
I tried getting exposed to gamma rays,
but then I just got sick and lost my hair;
and I'm an earthing--our sun's yellow rays
do nothing for me, which does not seem fair.
No super villains look up my address,
just bill collectors and religious folk.
As caped crusaders go, I'm just a mess:
powerless, impotent--a super-joke.
I may not be bulletproof, swift, or strong,
but I still want to save you. Is that wrong?
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
#275: January 23, 2007
Before Jamie exploded, we all thought
that maybe she was just a little tense.
Given her stressful job, it just made sense,
but now, in retrospect, we all guess not.
She had some trouble with the intercom
just after the board meeting's second break;
she suddenly turned red, began to shake,
and then went off just like a cherry bomb!
Was it her boss's lousy attitude
that drove the poor girl finally to combust?
Or was it pent-up, boiler-pressure lust
for that muscular mail delivery dude?
Good workers can be so hard to replace--
especially so, I'd wager, in this case.
that maybe she was just a little tense.
Given her stressful job, it just made sense,
but now, in retrospect, we all guess not.
She had some trouble with the intercom
just after the board meeting's second break;
she suddenly turned red, began to shake,
and then went off just like a cherry bomb!
Was it her boss's lousy attitude
that drove the poor girl finally to combust?
Or was it pent-up, boiler-pressure lust
for that muscular mail delivery dude?
Good workers can be so hard to replace--
especially so, I'd wager, in this case.
Monday, January 22, 2007
#274: January 22, 2007
"If everything did happen for the best,
you'd think we'd all be better off by now.
Forgive me if I'm not that much impressed
with what the Plan's accomplished here, or how."
"But God counts every sparrow as it falls,
and things are how they have to be, my friend.
The thing is to be ready when He calls,
and not bemoan results until the end.
"Do not be sad--if such a Plan exists,
then even tragedy performs its task."
"No matter how my preacher friend insists
on dumb acceptance, questions must be asked--
"Two answers, neither one likes me one bit:
there's no plan, or there is, and this is it."
you'd think we'd all be better off by now.
Forgive me if I'm not that much impressed
with what the Plan's accomplished here, or how."
"But God counts every sparrow as it falls,
and things are how they have to be, my friend.
The thing is to be ready when He calls,
and not bemoan results until the end.
"Do not be sad--if such a Plan exists,
then even tragedy performs its task."
"No matter how my preacher friend insists
on dumb acceptance, questions must be asked--
"Two answers, neither one likes me one bit:
there's no plan, or there is, and this is it."
Sunday, January 21, 2007
#273: January 21, 2007
He only missed one day--whether some spell
of sleeping, or some illness, laid him low,
some brain disorder, he would never know--
but when he came to, everything seemed well.
A single revolution of the sphere,
during which life had gone on while he stayed
completely out of it--he, undismayed,
began again, perceiving nothing queer.
Twenty-four hours lost--he felt no change.
And so his life continued on from there
until its end; his mourners, unaware,
entombed and left him, sensing nothing strange.
But if he'd had that day to live again--
Christ! What a different life it would have been!
of sleeping, or some illness, laid him low,
some brain disorder, he would never know--
but when he came to, everything seemed well.
A single revolution of the sphere,
during which life had gone on while he stayed
completely out of it--he, undismayed,
began again, perceiving nothing queer.
Twenty-four hours lost--he felt no change.
And so his life continued on from there
until its end; his mourners, unaware,
entombed and left him, sensing nothing strange.
But if he'd had that day to live again--
Christ! What a different life it would have been!
Saturday, January 20, 2007
#272: January 20, 2007
When he was blind she gave him both her eyes,
and did not see him blink and turn away.
Her ears were deaf to all his alibis;
she'd bite her tongue rather than tell him nay.
And so when he withdrew from her his touch,
he left her on a plane devoid of sense;
she, never having dreamed there could be such
a world as this, abandoned her defense.
The darkness in the sockets of her skull
ran down like oil over her mouth and nose,
and all around her, limitless and dull,
the universal wavelengths fell and rose;
The planets turned, the moon drew back the sea,
and no one noticed--nobody but me.
and did not see him blink and turn away.
Her ears were deaf to all his alibis;
she'd bite her tongue rather than tell him nay.
And so when he withdrew from her his touch,
he left her on a plane devoid of sense;
she, never having dreamed there could be such
a world as this, abandoned her defense.
The darkness in the sockets of her skull
ran down like oil over her mouth and nose,
and all around her, limitless and dull,
the universal wavelengths fell and rose;
The planets turned, the moon drew back the sea,
and no one noticed--nobody but me.
Friday, January 19, 2007
#271: January 19, 2007
Dracula's got arthritis and the shakes,
can barely flex his fingers anymore;
Igor's acquired a morbid fear of snakes,
and so can't even crawl through a trap door.
The Monster in the dungeon's learning dance,
so villagers sleep soundly now, and free;
And Larry Talbot's buggered off to France--
his wolf act knocks 'em dead in gay Paris.
The Creature keeps submerged in his lagoon;
he lets the buxom bathing beauties swim;
and Dr. Griffin's leaving London soon--
he swears by Christ we've seen the last of him.
All night the zombies fidget in their graves
and ghosts sing dirges for the good old days.
can barely flex his fingers anymore;
Igor's acquired a morbid fear of snakes,
and so can't even crawl through a trap door.
The Monster in the dungeon's learning dance,
so villagers sleep soundly now, and free;
And Larry Talbot's buggered off to France--
his wolf act knocks 'em dead in gay Paris.
The Creature keeps submerged in his lagoon;
he lets the buxom bathing beauties swim;
and Dr. Griffin's leaving London soon--
he swears by Christ we've seen the last of him.
All night the zombies fidget in their graves
and ghosts sing dirges for the good old days.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
#270: January 18, 2007
He walks down stairs composed of human beings
crouched on all fours, like dogs at his command,
and stretches out to you a taloned hand,
his bearing and composure like a king's;
All round about his head the colors shift--
the world is suddenly liquid and strange;
his thoughts entire geometries derange
and set all moral sanity adrift;
His cape a devil's wings, his eyebrow creased
with fury, his top hat an altar stone
whereon is sacrificed and stripped to bone
your remnant mind, awakening the beast--
So best sit back and just enjoy the show,
in this strange world of Zé do Caixão.
crouched on all fours, like dogs at his command,
and stretches out to you a taloned hand,
his bearing and composure like a king's;
All round about his head the colors shift--
the world is suddenly liquid and strange;
his thoughts entire geometries derange
and set all moral sanity adrift;
His cape a devil's wings, his eyebrow creased
with fury, his top hat an altar stone
whereon is sacrificed and stripped to bone
your remnant mind, awakening the beast--
So best sit back and just enjoy the show,
in this strange world of Zé do Caixão.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
#269: January 17, 2007
The things you want to do have all been done;
that means they must be possible, you see?
How nice to know such hopeful ancestry,
how comforting you're not the only one!
And if that comfort's cold, it also chilled
those aspirants awake in days gone by,
who started from their bedsheets with a cry
and shivered as though they'd almost been killed.
Your darker mind reminds you few succeed--
few reach those possible, unlikely heights;
and dreams of failure keep you up some nights,
gnawing your nails with strange, psychotic greed.
Try not to get too caught up in that game;
succeed or fail--we all end up the same.
that means they must be possible, you see?
How nice to know such hopeful ancestry,
how comforting you're not the only one!
And if that comfort's cold, it also chilled
those aspirants awake in days gone by,
who started from their bedsheets with a cry
and shivered as though they'd almost been killed.
Your darker mind reminds you few succeed--
few reach those possible, unlikely heights;
and dreams of failure keep you up some nights,
gnawing your nails with strange, psychotic greed.
Try not to get too caught up in that game;
succeed or fail--we all end up the same.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
#268: January 16, 2007
"I don't know who she was or where she went to
after that moment we locked eyes and smiled;
I stared at her much longer than I meant to,
those cloudy eyes, that hair--I was beguiled.
"Beguiled's a word you don't hear very often,
but here I swear to God it fits the bill;
and had my ice cream not begun to soften
I might be standing, staring at her, still.
"But people only do things when they've got to,
and so I paid the tab and walked away,
thinking only how much I'd rather not do
those other things I had to do that day."
Grandpa sighed. "After I finished that cone--
well, kids, I never felt so damned alone."
after that moment we locked eyes and smiled;
I stared at her much longer than I meant to,
those cloudy eyes, that hair--I was beguiled.
"Beguiled's a word you don't hear very often,
but here I swear to God it fits the bill;
and had my ice cream not begun to soften
I might be standing, staring at her, still.
"But people only do things when they've got to,
and so I paid the tab and walked away,
thinking only how much I'd rather not do
those other things I had to do that day."
Grandpa sighed. "After I finished that cone--
well, kids, I never felt so damned alone."
Monday, January 15, 2007
#267: January 15, 2007
I want to think of something nice today:
of warm spring days with flowers in the breeze
and blossoms stuck like sequins on the trees
that rain white petals earthward as they sway;
Of sunshine warm as honey and as bright,
that strews each speaking stream with flecks of gold;
those days of growth when nothing's very old
and always hours to go before the night.
For now the morning sky is cold and gray;
the pines trap vapors in their canopies
and harsh, odorless winds set birds to flight.
Bare oak limbs rattle, threatening a freeze,
and rain streaks every window like a blight,
and sunny thoughts can't keep the chill at bay.
of warm spring days with flowers in the breeze
and blossoms stuck like sequins on the trees
that rain white petals earthward as they sway;
Of sunshine warm as honey and as bright,
that strews each speaking stream with flecks of gold;
those days of growth when nothing's very old
and always hours to go before the night.
For now the morning sky is cold and gray;
the pines trap vapors in their canopies
and harsh, odorless winds set birds to flight.
Bare oak limbs rattle, threatening a freeze,
and rain streaks every window like a blight,
and sunny thoughts can't keep the chill at bay.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
#266: January 14, 2007
The seventh night of rain we heard the crack
of concrete echo up the basement stair.
We found the crumbling wound behind the stack
of crates old Mr. Johnson had left there.
Next morning, water stood a half-inch deep,
all smelly, streaked with grease, unhealthy brown.
All day the ichor continued to seep;
the rain showed no intent of slowing down.
And when that stinking fluid drowned our shoes
we rented out a pump from Loughlin's place
and set it churning, nothing much to lose.
The rain strove hard, but couldn't keep the pace.
We found two skulls, and more human remains--
and still ain't seen the end of them damn rains.
of concrete echo up the basement stair.
We found the crumbling wound behind the stack
of crates old Mr. Johnson had left there.
Next morning, water stood a half-inch deep,
all smelly, streaked with grease, unhealthy brown.
All day the ichor continued to seep;
the rain showed no intent of slowing down.
And when that stinking fluid drowned our shoes
we rented out a pump from Loughlin's place
and set it churning, nothing much to lose.
The rain strove hard, but couldn't keep the pace.
We found two skulls, and more human remains--
and still ain't seen the end of them damn rains.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
#265: January 13, 2007
If I could stand to drink my whiskey neater,
Tequila without triple sec or lime,
It might not make this old life any sweeter,
But surely it would save a lot of time.
If I could down the gin without the tonic,
Or gulp martinis, holding the vermouth,
It wouldn't make my woes any less chronic,
But it would make them shorter, that's the truth.
But I can't drink my spirits any faster;
It's wine and beer that makes my soul-weight float.
And while that leaves me less prone to disaster,
It takes a while, and also gives me bloat.
It's sick, perhaps, but life can make you sicker;
And wine is fine, but liquor does it quicker.
Tequila without triple sec or lime,
It might not make this old life any sweeter,
But surely it would save a lot of time.
If I could down the gin without the tonic,
Or gulp martinis, holding the vermouth,
It wouldn't make my woes any less chronic,
But it would make them shorter, that's the truth.
But I can't drink my spirits any faster;
It's wine and beer that makes my soul-weight float.
And while that leaves me less prone to disaster,
It takes a while, and also gives me bloat.
It's sick, perhaps, but life can make you sicker;
And wine is fine, but liquor does it quicker.
Friday, January 12, 2007
#264: January 12, 2007
The flags fly at perpetual half-staff
because it's pointless now to make the change;
we cry because it hurts too much to laugh,
and laugh because the sight's no longer strange.
We sacrifice for gods we don't believe,
whose priests have bound their eyes and tied their hands;
we hate because that's how we've learned to grieve,
and fear because that's all we understand.
And when we look behind us there's just smoke,
And when we look ahead of us there's fire;
And no one calls the jester on his joke,
And no one dares to say the king's a liar.
We watch because of all that we've been through,
and wait because there's nothing else to do.
because it's pointless now to make the change;
we cry because it hurts too much to laugh,
and laugh because the sight's no longer strange.
We sacrifice for gods we don't believe,
whose priests have bound their eyes and tied their hands;
we hate because that's how we've learned to grieve,
and fear because that's all we understand.
And when we look behind us there's just smoke,
And when we look ahead of us there's fire;
And no one calls the jester on his joke,
And no one dares to say the king's a liar.
We watch because of all that we've been through,
and wait because there's nothing else to do.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
#263: January 11, 2007
No one wants to get caught browsing the aisle
where all the sex books are in the book store.
Discovery yields an embarrassed smile
and sudden fascination with the floor.
Those Kama Sutras, every how-to guide,
the recipes for aphrodisiacs,
go unlooked-at when there's no place to hide
from all those judging eyes that scan the stacks.
They'd not run sensuous fingers down a spine,
remove its dust jacket like lingerie
and probe its secret, innermost designs
for knowledge--God! What would the neighbors say?
And so those tomes sit in their cases yet,
And I thank God there is an Internet.
where all the sex books are in the book store.
Discovery yields an embarrassed smile
and sudden fascination with the floor.
Those Kama Sutras, every how-to guide,
the recipes for aphrodisiacs,
go unlooked-at when there's no place to hide
from all those judging eyes that scan the stacks.
They'd not run sensuous fingers down a spine,
remove its dust jacket like lingerie
and probe its secret, innermost designs
for knowledge--God! What would the neighbors say?
And so those tomes sit in their cases yet,
And I thank God there is an Internet.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
#262: January 10, 2007
I've filed my toenails down to sharpened points
and practiced crawling up the castle walls;
built up my muscles, stretched out all my joints,
so I can crazy-walk down darkened halls.
I've spent hours at the glass perfecting glares
and teasing out the gray hairs in my ears;
and I can creep down cobweb-covered stairs
without breaking one strand--that took me years.
So when those teenagers' car has a flat
and they come to my door to use the phone
(my cell reception's nil--imagine that!),
I'll greet them with my polished, chilling groan,
Listen impassively, invite them in--
and then, whoa Nelly! Let the show begin!
and practiced crawling up the castle walls;
built up my muscles, stretched out all my joints,
so I can crazy-walk down darkened halls.
I've spent hours at the glass perfecting glares
and teasing out the gray hairs in my ears;
and I can creep down cobweb-covered stairs
without breaking one strand--that took me years.
So when those teenagers' car has a flat
and they come to my door to use the phone
(my cell reception's nil--imagine that!),
I'll greet them with my polished, chilling groan,
Listen impassively, invite them in--
and then, whoa Nelly! Let the show begin!
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
#261: January 9, 2007
It pains me to compare you to a skunk,
for animals know better what they are
than you, who wouldn't even know you stunk
unless somebody trapped it in a jar
and shoved it in your face. You vagabond,
you villain, scoundrel, ragamuffin, knave!
Whose facial features barely correspond,
whose very flesh seems fashioned to deprave!
And were you to respond, if you could speak
without spitting and spraying like a newt,
your self-defense is surely sad and weak,
and idiotically structured, to boot.
Stupidity and ugliness combined--
you are a perfect monster of your kind.
for animals know better what they are
than you, who wouldn't even know you stunk
unless somebody trapped it in a jar
and shoved it in your face. You vagabond,
you villain, scoundrel, ragamuffin, knave!
Whose facial features barely correspond,
whose very flesh seems fashioned to deprave!
And were you to respond, if you could speak
without spitting and spraying like a newt,
your self-defense is surely sad and weak,
and idiotically structured, to boot.
Stupidity and ugliness combined--
you are a perfect monster of your kind.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Sunday, January 07, 2007
#259: January 7, 2007
For God's sake, just shut up a minute, please!
I'll pay you for just half a moment's peace!
Were I to get down on my hands and knees
and beg, would all this damned yammering cease?
What can I do to make the quiet come?
I'll promise anything, just name your price.
These hours of screaming fight have left me dumb
and now I want my head crushed in a vise.
It seems to me that once we got along;
we spoke together in hushed, even tones.
Once we were friends--correct me if I'm wrong--
and didn't want to break each others bones.
But that was long ago, and far away;
for now, let's both just hush--what do you say?
I'll pay you for just half a moment's peace!
Were I to get down on my hands and knees
and beg, would all this damned yammering cease?
What can I do to make the quiet come?
I'll promise anything, just name your price.
These hours of screaming fight have left me dumb
and now I want my head crushed in a vise.
It seems to me that once we got along;
we spoke together in hushed, even tones.
Once we were friends--correct me if I'm wrong--
and didn't want to break each others bones.
But that was long ago, and far away;
for now, let's both just hush--what do you say?
Saturday, January 06, 2007
#258: January 6, 2007
One night when God was drunk, and all the bars
in Heaven closed to Him, He flung his glass
at a speed limit sign, and told the cars
that honked for Him to Kiss His Holy Ass.
He stumbled past the mansions He had built--
the padlocked gates, the solid gold yard art--
and tried to muster thunder for the guilt
He felt, but managed just one strangled fart.
The Paradise P.D. called up His Son,
but only got the Answering Machine;
at Mary's, also, answer got they none,
but just as well: she always made a scene.
And so God slept it off in Eden Jail
until The Spook came by to post His bail.
in Heaven closed to Him, He flung his glass
at a speed limit sign, and told the cars
that honked for Him to Kiss His Holy Ass.
He stumbled past the mansions He had built--
the padlocked gates, the solid gold yard art--
and tried to muster thunder for the guilt
He felt, but managed just one strangled fart.
The Paradise P.D. called up His Son,
but only got the Answering Machine;
at Mary's, also, answer got they none,
but just as well: she always made a scene.
And so God slept it off in Eden Jail
until The Spook came by to post His bail.
Friday, January 05, 2007
#257: January 5, 2007
A certain shift and pull of winter grass
against the wind reveals a picket fence
splintered with rot and age. A few yards hence,
beyond a rise where most walkers might pass
with little notice, lay foundation stones,
porous and etched by lichen, red and green.
Upon investigation may be seen
small artifacts: pottery. Flatware. Bones.
Still further on, curtained by waist-high weeds,
a chassis sits, its struts latticed with rust.
An elevation that was once a road
fronts desolation now. In spring the seeds
of dandelions blizzard the field, explode
in yellow riot. Now there's only dust.
against the wind reveals a picket fence
splintered with rot and age. A few yards hence,
beyond a rise where most walkers might pass
with little notice, lay foundation stones,
porous and etched by lichen, red and green.
Upon investigation may be seen
small artifacts: pottery. Flatware. Bones.
Still further on, curtained by waist-high weeds,
a chassis sits, its struts latticed with rust.
An elevation that was once a road
fronts desolation now. In spring the seeds
of dandelions blizzard the field, explode
in yellow riot. Now there's only dust.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
#256: January 4, 2007
Forsooth, milady! Say what thou wouldst think
should I, a lowly shepherd of the moors
approacheth thee, and thus present this drink
from my hand (O, unworthy hand!) to yours?
Acceptance! Such delight cannot be told!
And, by success made brave, now should I press
advantage, like those generals of old,
whose small vict'ries engendered greater--yes?
See here, your hand in mine--oh, be not shy!
'Tis like a beauteous bloom cradled by earth!
Another drink? But if thy lips be dry,
a kiss to wet them is of greater worth--
Ambrosia! Thou dost cause the sun to shine!
Barkeep, the bill! Now love--my place, or thine?
should I, a lowly shepherd of the moors
approacheth thee, and thus present this drink
from my hand (O, unworthy hand!) to yours?
Acceptance! Such delight cannot be told!
And, by success made brave, now should I press
advantage, like those generals of old,
whose small vict'ries engendered greater--yes?
See here, your hand in mine--oh, be not shy!
'Tis like a beauteous bloom cradled by earth!
Another drink? But if thy lips be dry,
a kiss to wet them is of greater worth--
Ambrosia! Thou dost cause the sun to shine!
Barkeep, the bill! Now love--my place, or thine?
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
#255: January 3, 2007
You'd think he would be happy all the time:
seven years old, new toys, a daily nap,
his future spread before him like a map
of green hills to explore, wide trees to climb;
And yet, already, he's thinking of death:
his mother's, mine--he mourns us in his bed,
trembling, the covers up over his head
until his cheeks grow damp with condensed breath.
Can't he be innocent of thoughts like these
a little longer? Breathlessly I run
to snatch him from his sheets, caress his head,
and shush this startling sadness; put instead
around his mind a careless childhood ease--
whispering, "Don't you cry; I'm here now, son."
seven years old, new toys, a daily nap,
his future spread before him like a map
of green hills to explore, wide trees to climb;
And yet, already, he's thinking of death:
his mother's, mine--he mourns us in his bed,
trembling, the covers up over his head
until his cheeks grow damp with condensed breath.
Can't he be innocent of thoughts like these
a little longer? Breathlessly I run
to snatch him from his sheets, caress his head,
and shush this startling sadness; put instead
around his mind a careless childhood ease--
whispering, "Don't you cry; I'm here now, son."
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
#254: January 2, 2007
There was an ape who found a ball of gold
buried beneath the trash heap where he played.
It might have been many hundred years old,
such marks of wear and age the thing displayed.
He took it in his paws and rolled it round;
he tried to crack it, egg-like, on a rim.
But it was solid; no fault could be found,
and soon it lost its interest to him.
So the ape left it there upon that hill,
untended save by sunlight, wind, and rain;
and thus that golden ball is perched there still,
as dull and solid as the primate's brain.
Except on moonlit nights--it spins and glows
under the stars, and opens like a rose.
buried beneath the trash heap where he played.
It might have been many hundred years old,
such marks of wear and age the thing displayed.
He took it in his paws and rolled it round;
he tried to crack it, egg-like, on a rim.
But it was solid; no fault could be found,
and soon it lost its interest to him.
So the ape left it there upon that hill,
untended save by sunlight, wind, and rain;
and thus that golden ball is perched there still,
as dull and solid as the primate's brain.
Except on moonlit nights--it spins and glows
under the stars, and opens like a rose.
Monday, January 01, 2007
#253: January 1, 2007
Beginning: full of possibility,
untapped potential, new untraveled roads,
a chance to be the things you'd hoped to be;
a cloud, dispersed, from which the light explodes.
No doors yet closed, no avenues yet blocked,
nothing but "Do I want?" and "Do I dare?"
The future bullet-chambered, hammer-cocked,
and pointed at the bright inviting air.
But with each measured step, decision made,
you may look back, but by then it's too late;
The possible dissolves, the options fade--
for each dream followed, others dissipate;
Till all possible paths resolve to one:
a shadowed highway toward a setting sun.
untapped potential, new untraveled roads,
a chance to be the things you'd hoped to be;
a cloud, dispersed, from which the light explodes.
No doors yet closed, no avenues yet blocked,
nothing but "Do I want?" and "Do I dare?"
The future bullet-chambered, hammer-cocked,
and pointed at the bright inviting air.
But with each measured step, decision made,
you may look back, but by then it's too late;
The possible dissolves, the options fade--
for each dream followed, others dissipate;
Till all possible paths resolve to one:
a shadowed highway toward a setting sun.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
#252: December 31, 2006
Maybe I'll be up till the ball comes down,
Throw some confetti, kiss my favorite girl;
Wearing a lampshade or a paper crown
I'll watch another year dawn on the world;
Perhaps I'll drink my fill of beer and wine
Or, rum punch-drunk, dance on the table tops;
Butcher two choruses of "Auld Lang Syne"
And keep it up till someone calls the cops;
But each new year's put gray hairs on my pate
And creased my skin where it was smooth before;
My brain complains when I keep it up late,
And I can't drink like I used to anymore.
So bring on bittersweet festivity,
and mourn the partiers we used to be.
Throw some confetti, kiss my favorite girl;
Wearing a lampshade or a paper crown
I'll watch another year dawn on the world;
Perhaps I'll drink my fill of beer and wine
Or, rum punch-drunk, dance on the table tops;
Butcher two choruses of "Auld Lang Syne"
And keep it up till someone calls the cops;
But each new year's put gray hairs on my pate
And creased my skin where it was smooth before;
My brain complains when I keep it up late,
And I can't drink like I used to anymore.
So bring on bittersweet festivity,
and mourn the partiers we used to be.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
#251: December 30, 2006
Beware the Wolf-Dog chained behind the shed!
He's not partial to strangers, that's a fact;
It's been a good eight hours since he was fed,
And I don't rightly know how he'd react.
He weighs about two-eighty when he's dry;
His tongue rolls out, a slippery slab of meat;
Got teeth like tent pegs, murder in his eye,
And I can't find a thing the beast won't eat.
He wasn't like this when he first showed up
On my doorstep, a starving, tragic stray;
Became a loving, playful little pup,
Though you can't see the cub in him today.
It's hard having a Wolf-Dog for a pet;
But he's mine, and he hasn't killed me yet.
He's not partial to strangers, that's a fact;
It's been a good eight hours since he was fed,
And I don't rightly know how he'd react.
He weighs about two-eighty when he's dry;
His tongue rolls out, a slippery slab of meat;
Got teeth like tent pegs, murder in his eye,
And I can't find a thing the beast won't eat.
He wasn't like this when he first showed up
On my doorstep, a starving, tragic stray;
Became a loving, playful little pup,
Though you can't see the cub in him today.
It's hard having a Wolf-Dog for a pet;
But he's mine, and he hasn't killed me yet.
Friday, December 29, 2006
#250: December 29, 2006
You always kept some water by the bed
in case you woke up thirsty in the night.
I can remember that--and how the light
cut fault lines through the glass. And once you said
you felt just like that white stray cat you fed
on scraps from old pie plates you left outside.
When she stopped coming round, Lord, how you cried--
the water down your face, eyes puffed and red.
I think sometimes about the night you tried
to make me say I loved you--how the bright
blue tears stood in your eyes, where gold light bled
in angelic refraction; how the sight
drew out my ugly truth, and how instead,
now knowing what I owe, I should have lied.
in case you woke up thirsty in the night.
I can remember that--and how the light
cut fault lines through the glass. And once you said
you felt just like that white stray cat you fed
on scraps from old pie plates you left outside.
When she stopped coming round, Lord, how you cried--
the water down your face, eyes puffed and red.
I think sometimes about the night you tried
to make me say I loved you--how the bright
blue tears stood in your eyes, where gold light bled
in angelic refraction; how the sight
drew out my ugly truth, and how instead,
now knowing what I owe, I should have lied.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
#249: December 28, 2006
To build the box, you lay out all four sides,
Set right the corner angles with your square,
Adorn your plane with shavings as it slides,
Sand smooth the naked wood with utmost care;
Countersink every nail, polish each hinge,
And oil the hasp that locks the lid in place;
Seal every joint with wax, let light impinge
No more in this, your bounded, seamless space;
And underneath that perfect, varnished lid,
Within that cube of darkness you have wrought,
Perhaps not understanding what you did,
You built a prison to constrain your thought--
While I shatter the locks and set mine free,
So it can find what shape it's meant to be.
Set right the corner angles with your square,
Adorn your plane with shavings as it slides,
Sand smooth the naked wood with utmost care;
Countersink every nail, polish each hinge,
And oil the hasp that locks the lid in place;
Seal every joint with wax, let light impinge
No more in this, your bounded, seamless space;
And underneath that perfect, varnished lid,
Within that cube of darkness you have wrought,
Perhaps not understanding what you did,
You built a prison to constrain your thought--
While I shatter the locks and set mine free,
So it can find what shape it's meant to be.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
#248: December 27, 2006
It's beer for breakfast, three-martini lunch,
An afternoon nap slouched upon the desk.
A flask shot helps survive commuter crunch;
At home, the daily scotch--Fitzgerald-esque.
Then fifteen winks courtesy La-Z-Boy
'Fore dinner with cabernet sauvignon.
A digestif? Come on now, don't be coy;
Just one nightcap, my dear, and then I'm gone.
Weekends I'm at the game with a few brews,
The theater with crackers and champagne,
Or down the local pub--but what to choose?
I'm stinkin' by the time I'm home again.
On Sunday I confess all of my sins--
Get shrieved with wine, so hey! Everyone wins.
An afternoon nap slouched upon the desk.
A flask shot helps survive commuter crunch;
At home, the daily scotch--Fitzgerald-esque.
Then fifteen winks courtesy La-Z-Boy
'Fore dinner with cabernet sauvignon.
A digestif? Come on now, don't be coy;
Just one nightcap, my dear, and then I'm gone.
Weekends I'm at the game with a few brews,
The theater with crackers and champagne,
Or down the local pub--but what to choose?
I'm stinkin' by the time I'm home again.
On Sunday I confess all of my sins--
Get shrieved with wine, so hey! Everyone wins.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
#247: December 26, 2006
You may not think so now, but just you wait:
one day when your front door sticks in its jamb
you'll turn around and wonder where I am
to bust it down, but it'll be too late;
When some black critter skitters 'cross the floor
and sets you shrieking, wondering what to do,
you'll wish then I was there with my big shoe,
but I'm not gonna be there anymore.
One dark day soon you'll see it's a mistake
to drive me off like this--you will forget
the bad that, I admit, I've done. Regret's
a bitch, but I've had all that I can take.
In any one of many dozen ways,
you'll miss me, baby, one of these old days.
one day when your front door sticks in its jamb
you'll turn around and wonder where I am
to bust it down, but it'll be too late;
When some black critter skitters 'cross the floor
and sets you shrieking, wondering what to do,
you'll wish then I was there with my big shoe,
but I'm not gonna be there anymore.
One dark day soon you'll see it's a mistake
to drive me off like this--you will forget
the bad that, I admit, I've done. Regret's
a bitch, but I've had all that I can take.
In any one of many dozen ways,
you'll miss me, baby, one of these old days.
#246: December 25, 2006
Nobody gave more money to the poor
nor was more generous to a worthy cause.
his giving nature rivalled Santa Claus;
to needy men he never closed his door.
His friends called him a sun in clouded skies,
the best man any man could hope to know,
and felt blessed to be basking in his glow,
to have such an example 'fore their eyes.
And yet each night, when he pulled down the blinds
in that dark hour when every man's alone
curled with his private thoughts under his quilt,
he counted over such betrayals and crimes,
such lies for which he never could atone--
he lay awake for hours, black with his guilt.
nor was more generous to a worthy cause.
his giving nature rivalled Santa Claus;
to needy men he never closed his door.
His friends called him a sun in clouded skies,
the best man any man could hope to know,
and felt blessed to be basking in his glow,
to have such an example 'fore their eyes.
And yet each night, when he pulled down the blinds
in that dark hour when every man's alone
curled with his private thoughts under his quilt,
he counted over such betrayals and crimes,
such lies for which he never could atone--
he lay awake for hours, black with his guilt.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
#245: December 24, 2006
Some children don't believe the story's real;
But Christmas Eve there'll come a heavy tread
That shakes rafters as he walks overhead
Then slithers down the chimney like an eel;
He'll claw open the flue and slowly creep
Across the floor, leaving a trail of slime
From hearth to stair--then he'll begin his climb
Up to the rooms where children lie asleep;
The good he'll leave--they're flavorless and bland--
It's naughty meat he licks his whiskers for;
He passes like a phantom through the door
Toward sleeping heads, and stretches out his hand...
So children, say your prayers and say them quick,
If you've got an appointment with Old Nick.
But Christmas Eve there'll come a heavy tread
That shakes rafters as he walks overhead
Then slithers down the chimney like an eel;
He'll claw open the flue and slowly creep
Across the floor, leaving a trail of slime
From hearth to stair--then he'll begin his climb
Up to the rooms where children lie asleep;
The good he'll leave--they're flavorless and bland--
It's naughty meat he licks his whiskers for;
He passes like a phantom through the door
Toward sleeping heads, and stretches out his hand...
So children, say your prayers and say them quick,
If you've got an appointment with Old Nick.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
#244: December 23, 2006
It's chaos 'round the Christmas tree tonight!
The little imps run roughshod round the room;
they shake the tree and dim the blinking lights
as parents pray St. Nick will visit soon.
They're fueled by sugar, sleeplessness and greed,
won't suffer the idea of going to sleep.
Mirth is confused with madness, want with need,
while parents are left flustered in a heap.
It's hard to think this is meant to be pleasant--
to muster any cogent thoughts, indeed,
with past and future condensed to the Present
that's shimmering in ribbons 'neath the tree.
We hope that Santa Claus and all his elves
will grant some quiet hours to ourselves.
The little imps run roughshod round the room;
they shake the tree and dim the blinking lights
as parents pray St. Nick will visit soon.
They're fueled by sugar, sleeplessness and greed,
won't suffer the idea of going to sleep.
Mirth is confused with madness, want with need,
while parents are left flustered in a heap.
It's hard to think this is meant to be pleasant--
to muster any cogent thoughts, indeed,
with past and future condensed to the Present
that's shimmering in ribbons 'neath the tree.
We hope that Santa Claus and all his elves
will grant some quiet hours to ourselves.
Friday, December 22, 2006
#243: December 22, 2006
She took me down the trail through stands of birch
and poplar, skipping over Jimson's Crick
whose clay-stained waters flowed orange through slick
blood-colored mud, and finally to the church.
The hollow-eyed windows stared from the past
blindly down weed-choked cemetery lanes
where lettered stones were beaten smooth by rains
and ivy cloaked fire-blackened shards of glass.
Then when she lay me down upon the crypt,
her pale breasts veined just like the moon above
that watched, perhaps less judgemental than cold,
we sanctified our death-bound hearts, and stripped
down to its bones the cage around our souls
whose lock we--we alone--are guardians of.
and poplar, skipping over Jimson's Crick
whose clay-stained waters flowed orange through slick
blood-colored mud, and finally to the church.
The hollow-eyed windows stared from the past
blindly down weed-choked cemetery lanes
where lettered stones were beaten smooth by rains
and ivy cloaked fire-blackened shards of glass.
Then when she lay me down upon the crypt,
her pale breasts veined just like the moon above
that watched, perhaps less judgemental than cold,
we sanctified our death-bound hearts, and stripped
down to its bones the cage around our souls
whose lock we--we alone--are guardians of.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
#242: December 21, 2006
Whatever he's doing, he does it late
at night, and never comes out in the sun.
I've watched deliveries come in by the ton
in darkness, and always by the back gate.
Boxes, crates, some green oxygen tanks,
and other things I can't identify.
Then, once they're in, the hammerings and clanks
resound into the morning hours--but why?
A dungeon, or some private laboratory,
a secret workshop underneath the stair?
Last night I thought I heard across the street
a rumbling groan, and the fall of heavy feet
on damp earth--there's more to this weirdo's story.
Just what the hell is he building down there?
at night, and never comes out in the sun.
I've watched deliveries come in by the ton
in darkness, and always by the back gate.
Boxes, crates, some green oxygen tanks,
and other things I can't identify.
Then, once they're in, the hammerings and clanks
resound into the morning hours--but why?
A dungeon, or some private laboratory,
a secret workshop underneath the stair?
Last night I thought I heard across the street
a rumbling groan, and the fall of heavy feet
on damp earth--there's more to this weirdo's story.
Just what the hell is he building down there?
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
#241: December 20, 2006
Mary was six, and I was eight years old.
We rode the bus together every day,
and chased and tagged until the grass went gray
with dusk in my backyard. Seemed every cold
I had, Mary caught too: small nose rubbed raw,
she'd laugh at my dry cough and feel my cheek
for fever--unaware I couldn't speak
through shivers her fingers sent through my jaw.
The day she moved away I ran across
the road between our houses, my bare feet
cooked red by asphalt. I stared at the sky
while she tugged at her dress, damp with the heat.
The idling moving van said our goodbye
while we two learned the language of our loss.
We rode the bus together every day,
and chased and tagged until the grass went gray
with dusk in my backyard. Seemed every cold
I had, Mary caught too: small nose rubbed raw,
she'd laugh at my dry cough and feel my cheek
for fever--unaware I couldn't speak
through shivers her fingers sent through my jaw.
The day she moved away I ran across
the road between our houses, my bare feet
cooked red by asphalt. I stared at the sky
while she tugged at her dress, damp with the heat.
The idling moving van said our goodbye
while we two learned the language of our loss.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
#240: December 19, 2006
I don't mind if my labor fills your pockets
and sends gold coins cascading down your thighs;
nor whether you bury, invest, or sock it
under your mattress ere you close your eyes--
I don't care if the company stocks plummet
and all your golden parachutes collapse;
if my small efforts could have kept them from it,
you should have looked before you leaped, perhaps.
No stacks of money nor jars of spare change'll
exhalt me like the wind on my damp skin
in Spring; and my paycheck won't buy the angel
whose lilac wings nightly gather me in;
No matter how my worth has shrunk or grown
My value's set through her commerce alone.
and sends gold coins cascading down your thighs;
nor whether you bury, invest, or sock it
under your mattress ere you close your eyes--
I don't care if the company stocks plummet
and all your golden parachutes collapse;
if my small efforts could have kept them from it,
you should have looked before you leaped, perhaps.
No stacks of money nor jars of spare change'll
exhalt me like the wind on my damp skin
in Spring; and my paycheck won't buy the angel
whose lilac wings nightly gather me in;
No matter how my worth has shrunk or grown
My value's set through her commerce alone.
Monday, December 18, 2006
#239: December 18, 2006
Now gently--run your fingers down my spine
and press the indentations where the bone
is knobbed like ancient wood, where years unknown
are writ, fuel for the fire; the scalloped line
where knots mark out the casing of that rod
of wet green nerve, the tissues of the sense
that pulse with electric incandescence
beneath the skin, the secret flesh of God--
And where my skin rises as with a chill
under your touch, and where your hot palms press
my muscles will such living fires arise
that, like a pillar in the wilderness,
consumed by tongues of fire but burning still,
the light and heat of us inflame the skies.
and press the indentations where the bone
is knobbed like ancient wood, where years unknown
are writ, fuel for the fire; the scalloped line
where knots mark out the casing of that rod
of wet green nerve, the tissues of the sense
that pulse with electric incandescence
beneath the skin, the secret flesh of God--
And where my skin rises as with a chill
under your touch, and where your hot palms press
my muscles will such living fires arise
that, like a pillar in the wilderness,
consumed by tongues of fire but burning still,
the light and heat of us inflame the skies.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
#238: December 17, 2006
Just wait a while--we'll know it when it comes.
Perhaps sunset, a faint tinkling of bells
that grows until it echoes through the dells
and forests like a thousand warrior drums;
It will start quietly, that much is sure--
easy to miss for those not on their guard.
Some will be deaf until suddenly jarred
by that cacophony few will endure.
The noise will shake the trees and pull apart
the ancient stone beneath the mountains' feet,
and all not shook to ruin will dissolve
like salt; and so we shall be made complete
in chaos, and the mad globe will revolve
molten and desolate, God's throbbing heart.
Perhaps sunset, a faint tinkling of bells
that grows until it echoes through the dells
and forests like a thousand warrior drums;
It will start quietly, that much is sure--
easy to miss for those not on their guard.
Some will be deaf until suddenly jarred
by that cacophony few will endure.
The noise will shake the trees and pull apart
the ancient stone beneath the mountains' feet,
and all not shook to ruin will dissolve
like salt; and so we shall be made complete
in chaos, and the mad globe will revolve
molten and desolate, God's throbbing heart.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
#237: December 16, 2006
Oh darling, let's get deeply into debt!
Throw caution to the winds and buy a car;
We haven't reached our credit limit yet--
Not destitute, nor restful till we are.
Let's get new curtains, decorate the walls
With floral prints on printed paper bills;
Let's pile up treasures till our rating falls
To the music of a thousand ringing tills.
Let's put another mortgage on our home
To finance travel plans we can't afford;
For otherwise we'll never get to Rome,
Or even worse, we might start getting bored.
What's small in life, my love, let us enlarge it;
We'll pay someday--but meantime we'll just charge it.
Throw caution to the winds and buy a car;
We haven't reached our credit limit yet--
Not destitute, nor restful till we are.
Let's get new curtains, decorate the walls
With floral prints on printed paper bills;
Let's pile up treasures till our rating falls
To the music of a thousand ringing tills.
Let's put another mortgage on our home
To finance travel plans we can't afford;
For otherwise we'll never get to Rome,
Or even worse, we might start getting bored.
What's small in life, my love, let us enlarge it;
We'll pay someday--but meantime we'll just charge it.
Friday, December 15, 2006
#236: December 15, 2006
Flat-footed as a centaur on the cliff
above the forest, watching the slow sweep
of wind through tree tops--like the ocean, deep
and secret, its green mystery--the lift
and settle, like a giant's slumbering breath,
the glass-song rivulets that flow like blood
through granite veins--omnocular I stood,
an Argus; and my woodland shibboleth
rang forth in song over that sleeping wood
I sudden found myself the guardian of.
I longed to stamp my hooves and gallop wild
down precipice into its heart--and would,
but that its breathing soothed me like a child,
and burst my half-animal heart with love.
above the forest, watching the slow sweep
of wind through tree tops--like the ocean, deep
and secret, its green mystery--the lift
and settle, like a giant's slumbering breath,
the glass-song rivulets that flow like blood
through granite veins--omnocular I stood,
an Argus; and my woodland shibboleth
rang forth in song over that sleeping wood
I sudden found myself the guardian of.
I longed to stamp my hooves and gallop wild
down precipice into its heart--and would,
but that its breathing soothed me like a child,
and burst my half-animal heart with love.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
#235: December 14, 2006
I called your house; they told me you weren't there,
the number out of service or else changed;
the lines were down and in need of repair,
and would be, once a truck could be arranged;
I called your office, they said you were out
to lunch, or in a meeting; you'd been fired,
or transferred to the Cleveland branch, no doubt;
replaced by robots, promoted, retired;
So I sent you a note--it was returned;
I tried the Internet--a 404;
drove by your house--vandalized, gutted, burned,
and neighbors never see you anymore.
Your whereabouts are quite the mystery;
It's almost as if you're avoiding me.
the number out of service or else changed;
the lines were down and in need of repair,
and would be, once a truck could be arranged;
I called your office, they said you were out
to lunch, or in a meeting; you'd been fired,
or transferred to the Cleveland branch, no doubt;
replaced by robots, promoted, retired;
So I sent you a note--it was returned;
I tried the Internet--a 404;
drove by your house--vandalized, gutted, burned,
and neighbors never see you anymore.
Your whereabouts are quite the mystery;
It's almost as if you're avoiding me.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
#234: December 13, 2006
I ducked my head and burrowed like a worm
into that dark, tight space; but rigid, stiff
as bone, no pausing to consider if
I should go on--the tunnel hugged my form:
soft, warm, and wet like a volcanic vent
straight to the ocean floor; the scorching air
and musty smell--thinking now, "Do I dare?"
But those walls closed and squeezed, so down I went.
I tugged and pushed and slithered till I looked
on a white light that pulsed in time with my
exhausted, tidal heart; I felt a peace
that burned like cinders--then convulsed and shook,
holding the goal fast in my one good eye,
I thrust toward my eruption and release.
into that dark, tight space; but rigid, stiff
as bone, no pausing to consider if
I should go on--the tunnel hugged my form:
soft, warm, and wet like a volcanic vent
straight to the ocean floor; the scorching air
and musty smell--thinking now, "Do I dare?"
But those walls closed and squeezed, so down I went.
I tugged and pushed and slithered till I looked
on a white light that pulsed in time with my
exhausted, tidal heart; I felt a peace
that burned like cinders--then convulsed and shook,
holding the goal fast in my one good eye,
I thrust toward my eruption and release.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
#233: December 12, 2006
I want there to be monsters in the world:
I want the gates of Hell to crack and split,
disgorge demonic armies from the pit
their black fangs dripping blood, eyes wide and pearled;
I want to hear werewolves bay at the moon
and watch the shadow of a vampire slip
across the threshold; let me hear the drip
of water, and see tracks from the lagoon;
I want the shapeless things dragged from their holes
and all their mythic viciousness made real,
and everything we fear and think and feel
released to feast upon innocent souls--
Let all our horrors look us in the eye
and kill us if they can, or howl and die.
I want the gates of Hell to crack and split,
disgorge demonic armies from the pit
their black fangs dripping blood, eyes wide and pearled;
I want to hear werewolves bay at the moon
and watch the shadow of a vampire slip
across the threshold; let me hear the drip
of water, and see tracks from the lagoon;
I want the shapeless things dragged from their holes
and all their mythic viciousness made real,
and everything we fear and think and feel
released to feast upon innocent souls--
Let all our horrors look us in the eye
and kill us if they can, or howl and die.
Monday, December 11, 2006
#232: December 11, 2006
Oh, you don't have to get me anything
this year, 'cause heaven knows I've got enough.
I don't know what old Santa Claus would bring,
and I don't care to be loaded down with stuff.
My shoes should last another month or two
if I tape up the tongues and glue the soles;
my hat--why it looks practically brand new!
If I stuff dryer lint in all the holes...
My TV (as a planter) works just fine;
my car (on downhill slopes) runs like a dream.
My watch is stuck at twenty-two past nine,
but that's right twice a day, so it's just keen.
No, I'll be fine--don't worry about me;
I just wish I could afford a Christmas tree.
this year, 'cause heaven knows I've got enough.
I don't know what old Santa Claus would bring,
and I don't care to be loaded down with stuff.
My shoes should last another month or two
if I tape up the tongues and glue the soles;
my hat--why it looks practically brand new!
If I stuff dryer lint in all the holes...
My TV (as a planter) works just fine;
my car (on downhill slopes) runs like a dream.
My watch is stuck at twenty-two past nine,
but that's right twice a day, so it's just keen.
No, I'll be fine--don't worry about me;
I just wish I could afford a Christmas tree.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
#231: December 10, 2006
Young Ed decided he would be a bird
when he grew up: dig worms and learn to fly,
sing beauteous songs--and though of course absurd,
it seemed harmless enough for him to try.
His voice was like cracked glass, though, and his song
Sent frightened creatures scurrying to their nests;
he tried the worms, but his guts, none too strong,
rebelled when Edward put them to the test.
But not to be discouraged, Ed built wings
of cardboard tubes and feathers from the lawn.
He climbed up to the roof strapped to the things,
sure of success, and leaped out toward the dawn--
Say what you will, Ed went out with a bang;
and if he didn't fly, at least he sang.
when he grew up: dig worms and learn to fly,
sing beauteous songs--and though of course absurd,
it seemed harmless enough for him to try.
His voice was like cracked glass, though, and his song
Sent frightened creatures scurrying to their nests;
he tried the worms, but his guts, none too strong,
rebelled when Edward put them to the test.
But not to be discouraged, Ed built wings
of cardboard tubes and feathers from the lawn.
He climbed up to the roof strapped to the things,
sure of success, and leaped out toward the dawn--
Say what you will, Ed went out with a bang;
and if he didn't fly, at least he sang.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
#230: December 9, 2006
The sands run out, the glass empty and still,
and nothing stirs outside its dusty sphere;
no hand to turn, no vessel to refill,
and only silence holds its court in here.
The windows darken while the setting sun,
ensnared in naked branches, dips his head
below horizon hills--the only one
who might have told the living from the dead.
Where tramp the feet that once were used to roam
these halls? Where now do vanished voices sing?
Why now a house, where once there was a home?
How does Nothing devour Everything?
The ice glitters on eaves where no one dwells,
and silence blankets stories no one tells.
and nothing stirs outside its dusty sphere;
no hand to turn, no vessel to refill,
and only silence holds its court in here.
The windows darken while the setting sun,
ensnared in naked branches, dips his head
below horizon hills--the only one
who might have told the living from the dead.
Where tramp the feet that once were used to roam
these halls? Where now do vanished voices sing?
Why now a house, where once there was a home?
How does Nothing devour Everything?
The ice glitters on eaves where no one dwells,
and silence blankets stories no one tells.
Friday, December 08, 2006
#229: December 8, 2006
One of these days, my head's just going to pop!
The anger will build up like lava flows
under the crust, worm its way to the top,
find a weak spot, then look out! Thar she blows!
The cap of bone I wear atop my skull
will shoot off like a cork out of champagne;
my hair will curl, and the air will be full
at once of the confetti of my brain.
Maybe the steam escaping through my ears
will make a shrill, annoying, whistling sound;
the power will be such, it might take years
for all my bits to flutter to the ground.
So brush your teeth, kids, and get in your beds;
you sure don't want to see what's in my head.
The anger will build up like lava flows
under the crust, worm its way to the top,
find a weak spot, then look out! Thar she blows!
The cap of bone I wear atop my skull
will shoot off like a cork out of champagne;
my hair will curl, and the air will be full
at once of the confetti of my brain.
Maybe the steam escaping through my ears
will make a shrill, annoying, whistling sound;
the power will be such, it might take years
for all my bits to flutter to the ground.
So brush your teeth, kids, and get in your beds;
you sure don't want to see what's in my head.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
#228: December 7, 2006
I don't feel like the earth is getting small
as I get older--rather, it expands;
countries spread out like age spots on my hands,
and now I know I'll never see them all.
The seas get deeper, mountains raise their heads
impassable between the sky and me,
and all the paths of possibility
are closed off, one for every moment fled;
And one day soon the world will grow so wide
I'll be immobile in the face of it;
my final hours will pass by as I sit
and watch the ground race out to either side;
I feel it in the thickness of the air:
the growing distance between here and there.
as I get older--rather, it expands;
countries spread out like age spots on my hands,
and now I know I'll never see them all.
The seas get deeper, mountains raise their heads
impassable between the sky and me,
and all the paths of possibility
are closed off, one for every moment fled;
And one day soon the world will grow so wide
I'll be immobile in the face of it;
my final hours will pass by as I sit
and watch the ground race out to either side;
I feel it in the thickness of the air:
the growing distance between here and there.
#227: December 6, 2006
I came downstairs for water, and the chill
of winter night lay heavy all around
like mist--the creaking stair the only sound,
all else was preternaturally still.
I trusted to the memory of space
in my feet, felt my way without the light--
familiarity a kind of sight,
with everything in its remembered place.
The skylight in the kitchen let the glow
of moonlight in as bright as morning sun,
but silver, not golden, and therefore strange,
disorienting--I started at one
of our old chairs: the way it was arranged
was ghostlike, almost human, crouching low.
of winter night lay heavy all around
like mist--the creaking stair the only sound,
all else was preternaturally still.
I trusted to the memory of space
in my feet, felt my way without the light--
familiarity a kind of sight,
with everything in its remembered place.
The skylight in the kitchen let the glow
of moonlight in as bright as morning sun,
but silver, not golden, and therefore strange,
disorienting--I started at one
of our old chairs: the way it was arranged
was ghostlike, almost human, crouching low.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
#226: December 5, 2006
There's something out here further up the chain
than you and me--it stalks these wind-worn trails
like some grim ghost, and no man here but pales
at the scream it looses every time it rains.
Joe Wilkes was torn to pieces in his bed,
and Johnson shot it twice before he died,
to no effect. To hunt it's suicide,
and we'd all sooner be cowards than dead.
I saw it once: the moon was high and bright,
and there it crouched, gnawing on Bert Simm's bull--
its white fur stiff with blood, eyes gray and dull,
and eight feet tall when standing at its height.
A wild man, stink ape, demon--pick your worst.
But I won't be here next time the rainclouds burst.
than you and me--it stalks these wind-worn trails
like some grim ghost, and no man here but pales
at the scream it looses every time it rains.
Joe Wilkes was torn to pieces in his bed,
and Johnson shot it twice before he died,
to no effect. To hunt it's suicide,
and we'd all sooner be cowards than dead.
I saw it once: the moon was high and bright,
and there it crouched, gnawing on Bert Simm's bull--
its white fur stiff with blood, eyes gray and dull,
and eight feet tall when standing at its height.
A wild man, stink ape, demon--pick your worst.
But I won't be here next time the rainclouds burst.
Monday, December 04, 2006
#225: December 4, 2006
There's one blue pool out there on Langham's land--
not hard to get to, just behind the shed--
where, if you go on moonlit nights and stand
an hour or two, in it you'll see the Dead.
Sometimes it's loved ones--lost kids, murdered wives,
and such as that--but mostly it's the shapes
of strangers, staring, envying the lives
outside, their eyes black marbles, mouths agape.
They never speak--they just stand there and sway,
and pebbles tossed won't make the shades disperse;
then, close to sunrise, they just fade away
to heaven, hell, or maybe something worse:
A black room with one window to the sky
through which the moon stares like a blind white eye.
not hard to get to, just behind the shed--
where, if you go on moonlit nights and stand
an hour or two, in it you'll see the Dead.
Sometimes it's loved ones--lost kids, murdered wives,
and such as that--but mostly it's the shapes
of strangers, staring, envying the lives
outside, their eyes black marbles, mouths agape.
They never speak--they just stand there and sway,
and pebbles tossed won't make the shades disperse;
then, close to sunrise, they just fade away
to heaven, hell, or maybe something worse:
A black room with one window to the sky
through which the moon stares like a blind white eye.
Appeared in the early 08 edition of Aberrant Dreams.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
#224: December 3, 2006
Nobody can be happy all the time;
There's no person who's jolly every day.
No human, be he juggler, clown, or mime,
Smiles as they do in any permanent way.
No jokester keeps on laughing through the night
After the crowd is gone, the curtain down;
And no aged guru, beaming from his height,
Withstands all Life's hardships without a frown.
It must be something in the way we're built
Unsuits us for perpetual happiness,
Throws weights over the balance when we tilt
Too far, so sorrow's more and bliss is less
Till all comes even. Still, if that were true,
You'd think the obverse theorem would hold too.
There's no person who's jolly every day.
No human, be he juggler, clown, or mime,
Smiles as they do in any permanent way.
No jokester keeps on laughing through the night
After the crowd is gone, the curtain down;
And no aged guru, beaming from his height,
Withstands all Life's hardships without a frown.
It must be something in the way we're built
Unsuits us for perpetual happiness,
Throws weights over the balance when we tilt
Too far, so sorrow's more and bliss is less
Till all comes even. Still, if that were true,
You'd think the obverse theorem would hold too.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
#223: December 2, 2006
Don't worry, love--another year is gone
and we've all got our scars. The new gray hairs,
the wrinkles round the eyes, discovered cares
we'd not have dreamed before--and on and on.
We wear the passing hours on our skins,
and etched on bone, and woven like a thread
through muscles; and the more we bear, we dread
their number, like a tally of our sins.
But listen: when in years to come you've grown
quite old and gray, and time holds no more fear
than breath--remember then this poet's soul;
recall its warmth, and think of how, alone
through all these ruthless years, you kept him whole,
whose words and love will conquer death, my dear.
and we've all got our scars. The new gray hairs,
the wrinkles round the eyes, discovered cares
we'd not have dreamed before--and on and on.
We wear the passing hours on our skins,
and etched on bone, and woven like a thread
through muscles; and the more we bear, we dread
their number, like a tally of our sins.
But listen: when in years to come you've grown
quite old and gray, and time holds no more fear
than breath--remember then this poet's soul;
recall its warmth, and think of how, alone
through all these ruthless years, you kept him whole,
whose words and love will conquer death, my dear.
Friday, December 01, 2006
#222: December 1, 2006
I want you to believe the things you read--
that brave boys, maybe less than ten years old,
climb stalks to heaven, magic beans for seed,
returning home with sacks of giant's gold;
I want you to believe a boy can fly,
fight pirates with his savage orphan friends;
crocodiles, mermaids, schooners in the sky
over London--adventure never ends;
For giants just get bigger as you grow,
and beanstalks wither, leave you grasping air;
the Captain hooks your shadow by the toe
and nails it to the ground with grown-up care;
So hold on to those beans, my son--you must;
and seal your dreaming eyes with pixie dust.
that brave boys, maybe less than ten years old,
climb stalks to heaven, magic beans for seed,
returning home with sacks of giant's gold;
I want you to believe a boy can fly,
fight pirates with his savage orphan friends;
crocodiles, mermaids, schooners in the sky
over London--adventure never ends;
For giants just get bigger as you grow,
and beanstalks wither, leave you grasping air;
the Captain hooks your shadow by the toe
and nails it to the ground with grown-up care;
So hold on to those beans, my son--you must;
and seal your dreaming eyes with pixie dust.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
#221: November 30, 2006
She got the stems, the gams, the set of wheels,
Start at the floor and right up to her ass;
The slippers silver, ruby, made of glass,
The stockings leave you wondering how it feels
To trace that line, that seam joined at the back,
Old-fashioned, like they drew on in the war--
Nylon was scarce--what did they use it for,
Those soldiers? Secret pantyhose attack?
It doesn't matter--Christ, it makes you choke!
A cuff of lace around the upper thigh,
Right where you'd like to cuff a wandering hand--
Black silk obscuring firm, plump calves like smoke;
Her heels inflame the boys, you understand...
Just listen to 'em burn as she walks by.
Start at the floor and right up to her ass;
The slippers silver, ruby, made of glass,
The stockings leave you wondering how it feels
To trace that line, that seam joined at the back,
Old-fashioned, like they drew on in the war--
Nylon was scarce--what did they use it for,
Those soldiers? Secret pantyhose attack?
It doesn't matter--Christ, it makes you choke!
A cuff of lace around the upper thigh,
Right where you'd like to cuff a wandering hand--
Black silk obscuring firm, plump calves like smoke;
Her heels inflame the boys, you understand...
Just listen to 'em burn as she walks by.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
#220: November 29, 2006
His uncle used to make the kids step up
and punch him in the stomach, just to prove
how strong he was. The younger kids would cup
hands around fists; the old man wouldn't move
as each one came forward to take his turn.
The sound of knuckles slapping his plaid shirt
like raindrops, he waited for them to learn
that here was a bastard could not be hurt.
Years later, with his aunt twenty years dead,
the boy would tell him how his cousins used
to imitate him, punch their knuckles red
and go home with their stomachs sore and bruised.
The uncle smiled. "The trick is to be tense,
And hold your breath. Makes all the difference."
and punch him in the stomach, just to prove
how strong he was. The younger kids would cup
hands around fists; the old man wouldn't move
as each one came forward to take his turn.
The sound of knuckles slapping his plaid shirt
like raindrops, he waited for them to learn
that here was a bastard could not be hurt.
Years later, with his aunt twenty years dead,
the boy would tell him how his cousins used
to imitate him, punch their knuckles red
and go home with their stomachs sore and bruised.
The uncle smiled. "The trick is to be tense,
And hold your breath. Makes all the difference."
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
#219: November 28, 2006
I'm not the best and I am not the worst,
But somewhere in that glorious in-between;
I'm not the last, nor yet am I the first--
Not dull, perhaps, but surely none too keen.
I'm not Jesus and I'm not Lucifer,
Nor Gandhi, Buddha, Vishnu nor the Pope;
Not Don Juan, though I sometimes wish I were,
Nor Quasimodo, so I've still got my hope.
Not top, bottom, nor too much either side,
I perch upon the apex of the curve
Like some robin too young to try to glide,
Or else too old to muster up the nerve.
No blesséd good, but maybe worth a damn--
It's hard to say exactly what I am.
But somewhere in that glorious in-between;
I'm not the last, nor yet am I the first--
Not dull, perhaps, but surely none too keen.
I'm not Jesus and I'm not Lucifer,
Nor Gandhi, Buddha, Vishnu nor the Pope;
Not Don Juan, though I sometimes wish I were,
Nor Quasimodo, so I've still got my hope.
Not top, bottom, nor too much either side,
I perch upon the apex of the curve
Like some robin too young to try to glide,
Or else too old to muster up the nerve.
No blesséd good, but maybe worth a damn--
It's hard to say exactly what I am.
Monday, November 27, 2006
#218: November 27, 2006
So--is this what you wanted? This malaise
that stupefies you daily can't be good.
Just selling off the hours and the days
of the only life you've got--and all you could
have been, or should have, falls like autumn leaves
leaving only this frame, crooked and bare;
and all that's left of Spring inside you grieves
for fruitless blooms no gardener can repair.
Sure, you could sell the house, and quit the job,
the irresponsibility of dreams
embraced; but in so doing, would you rob
your wife and kids of their most cherished schemes?
Or stay grounded, society-approved,
stable, and so secure you dare not move.
that stupefies you daily can't be good.
Just selling off the hours and the days
of the only life you've got--and all you could
have been, or should have, falls like autumn leaves
leaving only this frame, crooked and bare;
and all that's left of Spring inside you grieves
for fruitless blooms no gardener can repair.
Sure, you could sell the house, and quit the job,
the irresponsibility of dreams
embraced; but in so doing, would you rob
your wife and kids of their most cherished schemes?
Or stay grounded, society-approved,
stable, and so secure you dare not move.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
#217: November 26, 2006
He walks just like he's sliding over ice,
A dancer's grace--the natural dip and fold
of knee and hip, never the same move twice;
his shoes are hot, but his blue eyes are cold.
Down at the Blue Note seven nights a week,
the women crowded like smokes in a pack
to watch him work, to listen to him speak,
they follow that boy to heaven and back.
And out of Eden, up three flights of stairs,
her chin cupped like an apple in his hand,
he flicks a serpent's tongue to taste her skin.
It may be that she'll never understand
what brought her to his dance hall and this sin;
she falls, and maybe only Jesus cares.
A dancer's grace--the natural dip and fold
of knee and hip, never the same move twice;
his shoes are hot, but his blue eyes are cold.
Down at the Blue Note seven nights a week,
the women crowded like smokes in a pack
to watch him work, to listen to him speak,
they follow that boy to heaven and back.
And out of Eden, up three flights of stairs,
her chin cupped like an apple in his hand,
he flicks a serpent's tongue to taste her skin.
It may be that she'll never understand
what brought her to his dance hall and this sin;
she falls, and maybe only Jesus cares.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
#216: November 25, 2006
I had a robot forty-five feet high
Who came to see me when my folks were out.
We had adventures, that robot and I,
and saved the world a hundred times, no doubt.
Gigantic buzz-saws gauntleted his arms;
He wore ten warheads in a bandoleer.
And together we'd fly over the farms
And forests, making sure the coast was clear.
We fought against Martians as tall as trees
And lizards that put Godzilla to shame,
Brought evil battle robots to their knees
And sent their masters back from whence they came.
Then with rockets still smoking from our flight
He'd put me back to bed and say goodnight.
Who came to see me when my folks were out.
We had adventures, that robot and I,
and saved the world a hundred times, no doubt.
Gigantic buzz-saws gauntleted his arms;
He wore ten warheads in a bandoleer.
And together we'd fly over the farms
And forests, making sure the coast was clear.
We fought against Martians as tall as trees
And lizards that put Godzilla to shame,
Brought evil battle robots to their knees
And sent their masters back from whence they came.
Then with rockets still smoking from our flight
He'd put me back to bed and say goodnight.
Friday, November 24, 2006
#215: November 24, 2006
I know one night Death will come stalking me
on padded feet--its fur will catch the moon
and return violet fire, while I, the soon-
to-be-departed, watch the trees. I'll see
a man-sized shadow, maybe, bend the limbs
under its weight, then vanish like black smoke.
The wind will silence then, all at a stroke,
and Death's eyes will leer down like blood-red gems.
Perhaps I'll hear the roar and see him fall,
the slashing claws, the teeth yellow and bare;
or maybe he will catch me unaware,
a sudden darkness that envelops all.
Or perhaps he'll crouch down, softly nose my hand,
and lead me gently toward that other land.
on padded feet--its fur will catch the moon
and return violet fire, while I, the soon-
to-be-departed, watch the trees. I'll see
a man-sized shadow, maybe, bend the limbs
under its weight, then vanish like black smoke.
The wind will silence then, all at a stroke,
and Death's eyes will leer down like blood-red gems.
Perhaps I'll hear the roar and see him fall,
the slashing claws, the teeth yellow and bare;
or maybe he will catch me unaware,
a sudden darkness that envelops all.
Or perhaps he'll crouch down, softly nose my hand,
and lead me gently toward that other land.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
#214: November 23, 2006
The turkeys are not thankful for Thanksgiving;
pigs also are ungrateful for the day.
Quite selfishly they'd rather go on living
than serve as cold cuts or a meat pâté.
They'd just as soon not lie at center table,
surrounded by potatoes, rolls, and corn;
they'd make a break for home if they were able,
back to the pen or nest where each was born.
It's not that they dislike all celebrations--
ice cream and cakes and party hats are nice;
but they can't approve their own eviscerations,
nor willingly lie on deathbeds of rice.
For you it's ham and roast bird packed with stuffing;
for them, a date with that Eternal Nothing.
pigs also are ungrateful for the day.
Quite selfishly they'd rather go on living
than serve as cold cuts or a meat pâté.
They'd just as soon not lie at center table,
surrounded by potatoes, rolls, and corn;
they'd make a break for home if they were able,
back to the pen or nest where each was born.
It's not that they dislike all celebrations--
ice cream and cakes and party hats are nice;
but they can't approve their own eviscerations,
nor willingly lie on deathbeds of rice.
For you it's ham and roast bird packed with stuffing;
for them, a date with that Eternal Nothing.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
#213: November 22, 2006
Oh I've had friends who could not be my lovers
And lovers whom I would not want as friends;
A relationship that starts beneath the covers
Should not surprise you if that's where it ends;
Oh I've kissed lips before to stop them talking
And held a hand to keep it from a blow;
And I have tickled feet to start them walking,
And laughed through bitter tears to watch them go.
I've suffered through the carnal contradictions
Of love and lust, of hate and happiness;
And I've pronounced curses and benedictions
O'er heads I've loved or could not care for less;
You'd think a fool could not continue long
Thus without gaining wisdom--but man, you're wrong.
And lovers whom I would not want as friends;
A relationship that starts beneath the covers
Should not surprise you if that's where it ends;
Oh I've kissed lips before to stop them talking
And held a hand to keep it from a blow;
And I have tickled feet to start them walking,
And laughed through bitter tears to watch them go.
I've suffered through the carnal contradictions
Of love and lust, of hate and happiness;
And I've pronounced curses and benedictions
O'er heads I've loved or could not care for less;
You'd think a fool could not continue long
Thus without gaining wisdom--but man, you're wrong.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
#212: November 21, 2006
The way you curve between shoulder and hip,
hands stretched above your head, a violin
of flesh; your sides invite my palms to slip
the alabaster polish of your skin--
I'd fold your fingers, tune your humming nerves
with feather touches down your arms, and know
you vibrant, vibrating within those curves
while I stand straight and rigid, like a bow--
I'd lay my cheek along your thigh and wait,
the hush and stillness; I could disappear
into the music we anticipate,
this symphony that only we will hear--
The way you answer me, taut as a string--
I move my hand over you, and you sing.
hands stretched above your head, a violin
of flesh; your sides invite my palms to slip
the alabaster polish of your skin--
I'd fold your fingers, tune your humming nerves
with feather touches down your arms, and know
you vibrant, vibrating within those curves
while I stand straight and rigid, like a bow--
I'd lay my cheek along your thigh and wait,
the hush and stillness; I could disappear
into the music we anticipate,
this symphony that only we will hear--
The way you answer me, taut as a string--
I move my hand over you, and you sing.
Monday, November 20, 2006
#211: November 20, 2006
Watch carefully, for this is not a trick:
I'm going to disappear before your eyes!
Don't blink, because it happens pretty quick,
And I'll be gone before you realize.
You'll posit me a master of disguise,
Say I slipped out unnoticed with the crowd
Like any one of half a hundred guys
Who leave scratching their heads, completely wowed.
You'll wonder, did I somehow hypnotize
The audience, or give the lights a flick
And through a trap door seem to vaporize?
You'll wonder how such trickery's allowed--
While round about your heads my essence flies
And dissipates like vapors in the skies.
I'm going to disappear before your eyes!
Don't blink, because it happens pretty quick,
And I'll be gone before you realize.
You'll posit me a master of disguise,
Say I slipped out unnoticed with the crowd
Like any one of half a hundred guys
Who leave scratching their heads, completely wowed.
You'll wonder, did I somehow hypnotize
The audience, or give the lights a flick
And through a trap door seem to vaporize?
You'll wonder how such trickery's allowed--
While round about your heads my essence flies
And dissipates like vapors in the skies.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
#210: November 19, 2006
This stagnant pond, where once the water flowed
as clear as glass, now lies coated with slime,
little recalling that happier time
of leaping fish and sun, before it slowed;
Before it stopped, the stream talked to the stones
and sang along with songbirds in the trees
who dove to bathe and dine on water fleas,
while basso bullfrogs hummed the lower tones.
Now all is silent; under that thin scum
no serpent moves, no monster stalks its kill.
Nothing but black mud, bones, and airless space.
Whatever sang here once perhaps sings still,
but far away; while in this poisoned place,
all Nature couches motionless and dumb.
as clear as glass, now lies coated with slime,
little recalling that happier time
of leaping fish and sun, before it slowed;
Before it stopped, the stream talked to the stones
and sang along with songbirds in the trees
who dove to bathe and dine on water fleas,
while basso bullfrogs hummed the lower tones.
Now all is silent; under that thin scum
no serpent moves, no monster stalks its kill.
Nothing but black mud, bones, and airless space.
Whatever sang here once perhaps sings still,
but far away; while in this poisoned place,
all Nature couches motionless and dumb.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
#209: November 18, 2006
The Great Old Ones forgot where they were going,
Took one wrong turn at Mars and oozed away;
When they'll be back we've got no way of knowing,
And Cthulhu's getting lonely in R'lyeh.
The dusty air has dried out all the shoggoths;
The Mi-gos packed their jars, called it a day.
There's nothing going on now at Yog-Sothoth's,
And Cthulhu's blowing bubbles in R'lyeh.
Old Dagon's church in Innsmouth has gone quiet;
The townsfolk all have gone to sea to stay.
The ghouls under the kirk are on a diet;
The Necronomicon once caused a riot--
Now it's for sale, but nobody will buy it,
And Cthulhu's still a-snoozing in R'lyeh.
Took one wrong turn at Mars and oozed away;
When they'll be back we've got no way of knowing,
And Cthulhu's getting lonely in R'lyeh.
The dusty air has dried out all the shoggoths;
The Mi-gos packed their jars, called it a day.
There's nothing going on now at Yog-Sothoth's,
And Cthulhu's blowing bubbles in R'lyeh.
Old Dagon's church in Innsmouth has gone quiet;
The townsfolk all have gone to sea to stay.
The ghouls under the kirk are on a diet;
The Necronomicon once caused a riot--
Now it's for sale, but nobody will buy it,
And Cthulhu's still a-snoozing in R'lyeh.
Friday, November 17, 2006
#208: November 17, 2006
His dissolution came as no surprise
to him; he'd been awaiting it for years.
Stoic, almost Grecian, he shed no tears,
even before it liquefied his eyes.
His arms withered, his legs shrank down to bone,
his ears dried up and fell like autumn leaves;
his teeth vanished as though purloined by thieves,
yet his dessicate tongue voiced not a groan.
For as his body crumbled into dust
and maggots rutted through his sad remains,
his mind still dwelt above in flowered halls;
he thought, through clouds of pain, how God is just
and numbers every songbird as it falls--
right up until the insects ate his brains.
to him; he'd been awaiting it for years.
Stoic, almost Grecian, he shed no tears,
even before it liquefied his eyes.
His arms withered, his legs shrank down to bone,
his ears dried up and fell like autumn leaves;
his teeth vanished as though purloined by thieves,
yet his dessicate tongue voiced not a groan.
For as his body crumbled into dust
and maggots rutted through his sad remains,
his mind still dwelt above in flowered halls;
he thought, through clouds of pain, how God is just
and numbers every songbird as it falls--
right up until the insects ate his brains.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
#207: November 16, 2006
I'm groggy and bone-tired; my brain is wrapped
In cotton and my ass plated with lead.
Coherent thought's a project should be scrapped,
As every second image is a bed.
It's hard to work on just five hours of sleep,
With bland blank screens inducing lethargy;
Bad, bored, and boneless--sluggish, I should creep
Through gardens and find rocks to cover me.
Oh let me dream of dreaming; let me fall
Through scented linen onto mounds of fluff;
Let me rock like an infant there, and crawl
Out only when at last I've slept enough.
And should you find me snoring at my desk,
Please douse the lights, punch out, and let me rest.
In cotton and my ass plated with lead.
Coherent thought's a project should be scrapped,
As every second image is a bed.
It's hard to work on just five hours of sleep,
With bland blank screens inducing lethargy;
Bad, bored, and boneless--sluggish, I should creep
Through gardens and find rocks to cover me.
Oh let me dream of dreaming; let me fall
Through scented linen onto mounds of fluff;
Let me rock like an infant there, and crawl
Out only when at last I've slept enough.
And should you find me snoring at my desk,
Please douse the lights, punch out, and let me rest.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
#206: November 15, 2006
I know it's scary now, but just hold on.
You'll get used to the bright lights, the cold air;
The loud noises get easier to bear,
and soon those prodding doctors will be gone.
That frightened-looking fellow with the beard
and that exhausted woman on the bed
will keep you close and warm, and on your head
will place like jewels all they had hoped and feared,
and give you strength to bear them, like a king.
So close your eyes a moment and be strong.
This world, so loud and cold, is not a place
to hold too dear; and right now everything
you need is holding you, kissing your face.
Don't fret. You'll have this sussed before too long.
You'll get used to the bright lights, the cold air;
The loud noises get easier to bear,
and soon those prodding doctors will be gone.
That frightened-looking fellow with the beard
and that exhausted woman on the bed
will keep you close and warm, and on your head
will place like jewels all they had hoped and feared,
and give you strength to bear them, like a king.
So close your eyes a moment and be strong.
This world, so loud and cold, is not a place
to hold too dear; and right now everything
you need is holding you, kissing your face.
Don't fret. You'll have this sussed before too long.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
#205: November 14, 2006
When there's nothing left to fuck up, and the clouds
Rain ashes from the burning atmosphere,
When stars wink out like Christmas lights, and clear
Blue skies give place to poisoned purple shrouds,
When tiny creatures turn the oceans red
And drop new fossils toward the ocean floor,
Innumerable black bones litter the shore
And toxic sludge strangles each river bed,
When Earth tires of our foolishness and throws
Our deadly unconcern back in our eyes,
When everything is sick and nothing grows--
When Was becomes the victim of Is Not,
And Consequences overwhelm their Whys,
And God lies dead in His heaven--then what?
Rain ashes from the burning atmosphere,
When stars wink out like Christmas lights, and clear
Blue skies give place to poisoned purple shrouds,
When tiny creatures turn the oceans red
And drop new fossils toward the ocean floor,
Innumerable black bones litter the shore
And toxic sludge strangles each river bed,
When Earth tires of our foolishness and throws
Our deadly unconcern back in our eyes,
When everything is sick and nothing grows--
When Was becomes the victim of Is Not,
And Consequences overwhelm their Whys,
And God lies dead in His heaven--then what?
Monday, November 13, 2006
#204: November 13, 2006
November, and the Bradfords are ablaze
in residential spaces where they grow
each a lone, burning matchstick; now the rays
of setting suns all round about them throw
a panoply of color: orange and red,
like tangerine and pomegranate flesh,
and yet already browning where the dead
and flamboyantly dying cells enmesh.
Ahead another autumn, maybe two,
topheavy, all their fruitless limbs will crack
in middling winds--uprooted then, and new
ornamental arbors will fill their lack.
Many of us are losers at that Game--
though once we stood as proudly, crowned with flame.
in residential spaces where they grow
each a lone, burning matchstick; now the rays
of setting suns all round about them throw
a panoply of color: orange and red,
like tangerine and pomegranate flesh,
and yet already browning where the dead
and flamboyantly dying cells enmesh.
Ahead another autumn, maybe two,
topheavy, all their fruitless limbs will crack
in middling winds--uprooted then, and new
ornamental arbors will fill their lack.
Many of us are losers at that Game--
though once we stood as proudly, crowned with flame.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
#203: November 12, 2006
In Spring the Moon is full here every night
And faeries strew gems 'mongst the morning dews;
The sleepy owls blink in the golden light
While gnomes polish their stones and mend their shoes.
In Summer dryads sleep beside the brooks
And willows trail their fingers in the waves;
The Sun drives trolls and ogres to their nooks
And firefolk dance over forgotten graves.
In Autumn shadows stretch like bony hands
To tangle up the Moon, and spirits walk
The fens where werewolves hunt in growling bands,
While banshees wail with faces white as chalk.
All Winter, aging angels come and go;
Their molt blankets the frozen earth like snow.
And faeries strew gems 'mongst the morning dews;
The sleepy owls blink in the golden light
While gnomes polish their stones and mend their shoes.
In Summer dryads sleep beside the brooks
And willows trail their fingers in the waves;
The Sun drives trolls and ogres to their nooks
And firefolk dance over forgotten graves.
In Autumn shadows stretch like bony hands
To tangle up the Moon, and spirits walk
The fens where werewolves hunt in growling bands,
While banshees wail with faces white as chalk.
All Winter, aging angels come and go;
Their molt blankets the frozen earth like snow.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
#202: November 11, 2006
Suzie Excusie would have been on time,
Except her daily planner skipped the date.
She would have called, but couldn't find a dime,
And anyway, she's hardly ever late.
Suzie Excusie would have called you back,
But vandals cut her phone line for a lark,
And also painted all her windows black,
So she dared not go out--she hates the dark.
Suzie Excusie meant to feed your fish
the way you asked her too--but then that night
The President told her his earnest wish
She leave at once for Greece, on the next flight!
Suzie Excusie wonders where you've been.
Why don't you call her? She thought you were friends!
Except her daily planner skipped the date.
She would have called, but couldn't find a dime,
And anyway, she's hardly ever late.
Suzie Excusie would have called you back,
But vandals cut her phone line for a lark,
And also painted all her windows black,
So she dared not go out--she hates the dark.
Suzie Excusie meant to feed your fish
the way you asked her too--but then that night
The President told her his earnest wish
She leave at once for Greece, on the next flight!
Suzie Excusie wonders where you've been.
Why don't you call her? She thought you were friends!
Friday, November 10, 2006
#201: November 10, 2006
The human hearts in jars began to beat
in Dr. Stein's laboratory last night,
with no pipes, electrodes, nor eerie lights--
just formaldehyde and rhythmic, pumping meat.
Sensing a miracle the doctor rose,
returning moments later with his wife
who gasped and sputtered, "Herbert, is it life?"
To which her husband shrugged and said, "Who knows?
"They cannot reproduce--they lack the parts--
and without bodies, where have their souls gone?
With no minds, how to query their intent?"
And so the baffled couple watched the hearts
pulsing unhurriedly until the dawn,
uneasily unsure of what it meant.
in Dr. Stein's laboratory last night,
with no pipes, electrodes, nor eerie lights--
just formaldehyde and rhythmic, pumping meat.
Sensing a miracle the doctor rose,
returning moments later with his wife
who gasped and sputtered, "Herbert, is it life?"
To which her husband shrugged and said, "Who knows?
"They cannot reproduce--they lack the parts--
and without bodies, where have their souls gone?
With no minds, how to query their intent?"
And so the baffled couple watched the hearts
pulsing unhurriedly until the dawn,
uneasily unsure of what it meant.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
#200: November 9, 2006
You should have seen the look on your mom's face
the moment she first touched your crowning head,
as you pushed your way into the world, and spread
the veil between her womb and sight, like lace
over a window, drawn and then--so bright!
Both in her eyes and bursting from her skin,
a radiance of love she'd stored within
and then, opened by you, shone forth her light.
And standing in that glow, with its gold rays
dazzling and nearly blinding me, I heard
your voice and saw you lifted, pale and wet,
and trailing clouds of glory--so amazed,
I wept, and spoke entranced a single word
whose sound and import terrify me yet.
the moment she first touched your crowning head,
as you pushed your way into the world, and spread
the veil between her womb and sight, like lace
over a window, drawn and then--so bright!
Both in her eyes and bursting from her skin,
a radiance of love she'd stored within
and then, opened by you, shone forth her light.
And standing in that glow, with its gold rays
dazzling and nearly blinding me, I heard
your voice and saw you lifted, pale and wet,
and trailing clouds of glory--so amazed,
I wept, and spoke entranced a single word
whose sound and import terrify me yet.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
#199: November 8, 2006
Down in Cray Wood an ancient black oak grows
And stretches spindly fingers toward the sky;
In Autumn, when its limbs are bare and dry,
It sounds like rattling bones when the wind blows.
Leaves flutter like dark moths around its feet
And moonlight pools like water round its toes;
Mist rises from the damp earth, twists and flows
Through spaces where the light and shadows meet.
And some nights, when the fog sits on the peat
And the old moon hides itself, wherever it goes
When spirits walk, you just might hear the cry
Of owls, or ghosts long dead, while the cold beat
Of hearts unbodied pulses past to fly
Out toward what destination, no one knows.
And stretches spindly fingers toward the sky;
In Autumn, when its limbs are bare and dry,
It sounds like rattling bones when the wind blows.
Leaves flutter like dark moths around its feet
And moonlight pools like water round its toes;
Mist rises from the damp earth, twists and flows
Through spaces where the light and shadows meet.
And some nights, when the fog sits on the peat
And the old moon hides itself, wherever it goes
When spirits walk, you just might hear the cry
Of owls, or ghosts long dead, while the cold beat
Of hearts unbodied pulses past to fly
Out toward what destination, no one knows.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
#198: November 7, 2006
I got up on the wrong side of the bed,
Quite literally--my forehead smashed the wall,
Caving the sheetrock. "Jesus Christ!" I said,
And stubbed my toe on moldings in the hall,
As though in punishment for blasphemy.
My throbbing toenail, scraggy and ingrown,
Snagged the carpet, and like a flesh Slinky™,
I tumbled down the stairs, bruised to the bone.
For a moment I lay still and tried to breathe,
My eye gouged on my dislocated thumb,
Awake just moments--I could not believe
The Three Stooges film my life had become.
I limped to my bedroom, put on my clothes,
And while shaving, sneezed and sliced off my nose.
Quite literally--my forehead smashed the wall,
Caving the sheetrock. "Jesus Christ!" I said,
And stubbed my toe on moldings in the hall,
As though in punishment for blasphemy.
My throbbing toenail, scraggy and ingrown,
Snagged the carpet, and like a flesh Slinky™,
I tumbled down the stairs, bruised to the bone.
For a moment I lay still and tried to breathe,
My eye gouged on my dislocated thumb,
Awake just moments--I could not believe
The Three Stooges film my life had become.
I limped to my bedroom, put on my clothes,
And while shaving, sneezed and sliced off my nose.
Monday, November 06, 2006
#197: November 6, 2006
My son, forgive me--however I'm screwing
you up, I swear it's not the way I meant
to do it. I just don't know what I'm doing,
nor can I judge results from my intent.
Each day in horror I can see you growing
higher up, older, further from me too;
It kills me that I've got no way of knowing
what my failures and faults will do to you.
When you're a man, and I have watched you living
the way you've learned to live by watching me
for years, I hope that you will be forgiving
and know I wasn't all I'd hoped I'd be.
I'm sorry, son--please don't despise your dad,
who never could have dreamed he'd be this bad.
you up, I swear it's not the way I meant
to do it. I just don't know what I'm doing,
nor can I judge results from my intent.
Each day in horror I can see you growing
higher up, older, further from me too;
It kills me that I've got no way of knowing
what my failures and faults will do to you.
When you're a man, and I have watched you living
the way you've learned to live by watching me
for years, I hope that you will be forgiving
and know I wasn't all I'd hoped I'd be.
I'm sorry, son--please don't despise your dad,
who never could have dreamed he'd be this bad.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
#196: November 5, 2006
O Lords of Nature, shield this fresh-flung seed
From strangling rains and fierce, germ-scattering wind!
Give these young roots the footholds they will need
So I won't have to fertilize again.
Nurture these seedlings, let their blades unfurl
Green banners in my battle for this earth.
Under this dirt I've hauled, let tendrils curl
And wrap my yard in verdant, springy turf.
Let no erosion wash away this grass!
Three weekends' labor lies upon yon slope.
I'd hate to think that I'd busted my ass
For nothing--so, ye gods, fulfill my hope!
You safeguard Nature's blessing--please bestow it
And grant me peace...until I have to mow it.
From strangling rains and fierce, germ-scattering wind!
Give these young roots the footholds they will need
So I won't have to fertilize again.
Nurture these seedlings, let their blades unfurl
Green banners in my battle for this earth.
Under this dirt I've hauled, let tendrils curl
And wrap my yard in verdant, springy turf.
Let no erosion wash away this grass!
Three weekends' labor lies upon yon slope.
I'd hate to think that I'd busted my ass
For nothing--so, ye gods, fulfill my hope!
You safeguard Nature's blessing--please bestow it
And grant me peace...until I have to mow it.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
#195: November 4, 2006
Don't say the word "forgive." Don't even breathe
if you intend to give voice to the thought.
It's worse than pointless; how can you believe
my mercy could at any price be bought?
Would you request the dying man forgive
the serpent who put venom in his veins?
Or the broken prisoner who's condemned to live
forever bound, the maker of his chains?
It burdens me, this hate--its bitter taste
that always taints the sweetness on my tongue
and lays even the smallest joys to waste
so that, like soldiers, dreams die hard and young.
And yet I cannot slough it off, nor yet
can I forgive, while I cannot forget.
if you intend to give voice to the thought.
It's worse than pointless; how can you believe
my mercy could at any price be bought?
Would you request the dying man forgive
the serpent who put venom in his veins?
Or the broken prisoner who's condemned to live
forever bound, the maker of his chains?
It burdens me, this hate--its bitter taste
that always taints the sweetness on my tongue
and lays even the smallest joys to waste
so that, like soldiers, dreams die hard and young.
And yet I cannot slough it off, nor yet
can I forgive, while I cannot forget.
Friday, November 03, 2006
#194: November 3, 2006
I like to think of you laid on the bed,
on crumpled linen, as if just tumbled there;
recumbent, unselfconscious, flushed and bare,
your pulse the ocean pounding in your head.
I love to draw the organs of my sight
along your ribs, your breasts, your naked feet,
with the essence of us trickling to the sheet
between your thighs and drying there; I might
compare you to a goddess couched in air,
an Aphrodite spent and sweating light;
But that's not how I think of things. Instead
I want you solid, mortal, with your hair
all mussed; groggy with lust, legs sore and spread,
immodest, messy, imperfect--and right.
on crumpled linen, as if just tumbled there;
recumbent, unselfconscious, flushed and bare,
your pulse the ocean pounding in your head.
I love to draw the organs of my sight
along your ribs, your breasts, your naked feet,
with the essence of us trickling to the sheet
between your thighs and drying there; I might
compare you to a goddess couched in air,
an Aphrodite spent and sweating light;
But that's not how I think of things. Instead
I want you solid, mortal, with your hair
all mussed; groggy with lust, legs sore and spread,
immodest, messy, imperfect--and right.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
#193: November 2, 2006
I don't know what to tell you. It's not there.
I've turned the taps, but water will not flow.
It's not that I'm lazy or I don't care;
I do--but where it's gone, I just don't know.
Maybe I need to exercise my mind,
Think more, and deeper; read philosophy
Instead of children's books. Then I might find
A theme to answer these sad quandaries.
No need to read further--just skip ahead,
or else look back. I'm just filling up space.
As soon as this is done I'll go to bed
And hope tomorrow will correct this waste.
My apologies. Now I'm almost done.
Come back tomorrow for a better one.
I've turned the taps, but water will not flow.
It's not that I'm lazy or I don't care;
I do--but where it's gone, I just don't know.
Maybe I need to exercise my mind,
Think more, and deeper; read philosophy
Instead of children's books. Then I might find
A theme to answer these sad quandaries.
No need to read further--just skip ahead,
or else look back. I'm just filling up space.
As soon as this is done I'll go to bed
And hope tomorrow will correct this waste.
My apologies. Now I'm almost done.
Come back tomorrow for a better one.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
#192: November 1, 2006
I found a hole that was almost my size
and so I laid me down a while to rest.
I pulled the dark brown earth up to my chest
like a blanket, then I yawned and closed my eyes.
I didn't mean to stay--but soon the sound
of wind through weeds enervated my brain,
and when I thought to stir myself again
I'd sunk too far into this hungry ground.
Maybe somewhere above me flowers bloom,
and mother birds feed hatchlings in the tree
whose leaves cover this man-shaped patch of grass
where now I lie, immobile and entombed,
dreaming that, someday, travellers who pass
might stop and wonder what became of me.
and so I laid me down a while to rest.
I pulled the dark brown earth up to my chest
like a blanket, then I yawned and closed my eyes.
I didn't mean to stay--but soon the sound
of wind through weeds enervated my brain,
and when I thought to stir myself again
I'd sunk too far into this hungry ground.
Maybe somewhere above me flowers bloom,
and mother birds feed hatchlings in the tree
whose leaves cover this man-shaped patch of grass
where now I lie, immobile and entombed,
dreaming that, someday, travellers who pass
might stop and wonder what became of me.
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