Drowsy Fatal and Destined

Fingertips on organs-

Piano dialogues and your twenty-dollar expectations.

A Resurrection song

for the angels under my bed.

Echoes of children absent upon arrival,

still asleep in the alley at midnight.

A little girl named war,

the other

Envy,

instead of abandoned,

more like enchanted.

HERB

Wrinkled

Sun spots

Hoarse voice

“Let me clarify”

“You realize – Sir”

There is a moon

Many Stars

And Bull shit

NOVEMBER 2009

Whiskey drunk by candlelight writing a masterpiece while strangers slide through fog

Fade into alleys

Tiny glimpses of brilliance scratched on napkins

Inspired by shadows

Flickering

Shifting

Dancing

I want this to be hard to swallow,
Like ice cubes and sand.

DO NOT be a worshipper of martyrs and fiction,

those characters of present and past the point
Of just existing.

Keep listening to the message
through headphones turned up too loud,

avoid the newspaper headlines,
shambles,
decay,
bullet casings all over
the sidewalk on your street
Keep walking,
talking,
dreaming,
evolving
ignoring

From the Love letter you wrote My Wife I stole the following Ideas

Through unlocked doors,
two flights down but it’s too far to walk
or fly so I will stay here reading your letters,
accounting for all the small parts of me.

I had wanted to cuss like Jimmy Connors,
the million dollar kid with dreams.
He was the talk of the town last Sunday night when
the air was sweet and balmy.

I made it out and got my socks wet
over cheap drinks and cheap thrills.
I was under the influence,
understanding blue skies and trees
like skeletons sleeping away the afternoon
in this paper thin everlasting memory that you can pin on your wall.

I saw the coast lined with words and hospital beds
so I made the phone call to warn you the sun will be setting
so stack the lawn chairs under the awning
and pull out your handgun, paper and pen,
start combing the obituaries for an influence.

You just said “hello” and I said “I was dying because
your kiss was slow,
cold,
upside down with the wheels still spinning”

Bad Poetry about Bad Poetry

It is so easy to write trite crap
drink some cheap boxed wine
mimic Frost
It is a snap

Rhymes, erratic line breaks and such
talking about old High school girl friends
and how you miss them so much

skies so blue, sun so shiny and roses that are red
publishers, pub patrons and instructors
will wish you or themselves dead

so take your mixed emotions and
boy band pop son lyrics to another class
better yet, wrap them in a tight little ball
and stick them up your..............

Kalamazoo MI 2007

Whiskey Breath

From the abandoned house trailer
with torn screens where raccoons sought shelter,
slept and had babies that chewed the vinyl seats.

Where the pecan trees scratch the sides of an aluminum barn,
blown along with dead leaves
and gasoline exhaust by the lake breeze.

Between the fishing boat with a rusty propeller
and patched cover and wood splitter
that revs and cracks maple logs,
their tree sap dripping down the sides.

I was born from muddy ground
soaking my socks and a brush pile burning.
Leaves and embers floating over cottages
and extinguishing in the wet sand with a hiss,
like fish batter splattering from the deep fryer
and my grandma's voice
"Time to eat and say grace"
and learn life's lessons
of watching your fingers
and watching your toes.

Taught by wet gloves,
tire tracks from different directions
and sea shell wind chimes.