Poetry

why do you glare at me so bright
that blank stare of a dare to
express myself on hallowed white

but, no SIGNS, no rules, no lines to read between

the owner’s manual makes it official
yes, i am the full-fledged owner of a blank sheet of paper
now i can scribble

or perhaps write a decree → nail it to a telephone pole → invest in a ream of this stuff

‘cuz, it’s starting to get crowded on the page
i’m thinking of hanging this masterpiece on the wall
flipping through a fresh leaf or two

but the idea of driving a nail or a staple
through my trusty friend
kind of bugs me . . .

and i’m easily bugged about friends with nails or staples in them
they hang around until someone rips ’em down
shreds of dead trees littering city streets
torn-down friends
abused and forgotten

then there’s newspaper for a blanket or for packing dishes
now, i’m worked up over newspaper blankets and empty bowls

all these marks
in the once-empty space . . .
breadcrumbs
guiding the eye on its path
don’t look back ← we might ram a tree

i’m reading between the lines . . .
thumbing my way
through once-virgin forest
pondering my navel
and the miracle of recycled paper

you must un-pre-un-pre-un-PRE-APPROVE me
and you cannot replace my apartment windows
my roof, my plumbing,
my air conditioning, my heat
get your facts straight
i don’t need 258 channels of spam

paper with too many lines
so small, so tight
can’t read between them
but somewhere buried . . . deep beneath them
a Medieval twist of the trident

damn all this modern symbolism
not a syllogism in sight
so much lead on the paper
you can’t even see the poems on it

and the symbolism’s messing with my feng shui
can’t take me out for a walk
mow the grass
trim the hedges
water the flowers
or even wipe myself up and down

could paper my walls with it, i suppose
nope, it’s an apartment
never mind the feng shui makeover

turn me sideways
i’m looking crooked
or maybe the mirror ain’t straight
either way
time’s-a-ticking
if there’s a sensible solution
perhaps this ink
ain’t flowing out my veins . . . in vain

these words
ain’t no manifesto
or deed to the door of my soul
no, more a proof of purchase
a canceled stamp
says we’ve arrived
nothing about the condition
of the contents, though

as thunder rolls
through the darkness
punctuated by the flickering glow of lightning
and the impending threat of tornadoes
i walk outside to take a look
come inside and jot these thoughts
electrified

sometimes all it takes
is a grand display of nature
to seduce my creative mind
into doing crazy things
albeit crazy things
like spreading my propaganda
on digital sheets of paper
marked with virtual dots of ink
0s and 1s in a one-lump game

time to press the alarm button
oh, the trees harmed
to create this poem
words alone, cannot withstand
the sandstorm of this human condition
playing games with life the way we do

Earth turns, and we play till we drop
these words are worthy of a straight-face font
there‘s plenty of pulp to this reality
the pages are filled with
juice of the pen

should i abandon my clutch
of unwritten poems
or should they breathe
as free-roaming thoughts should breathe?
it’s possibility I see
watering seeds
one row at a time
letters on the page color the lines
between act and effect
and to that end
I resurrect my unwritten poems

we hired a band for the wedding but
the groom never showed up
all those invitations wasted
somewhere, a tree lost its life
for a train wreck
the pastor has no poem
to suit the moment

drop a dime in the jukebox, instead
listen to the strains
of country love gone wrong
makes tears in my beer
taste better

drain the glass
head back to the back
for a moment or two of relief
then step out into the rain
taking the long walk home
i jazz to myself
about climbing trees
got to write a poem
about climbing trees

if everyone climbed a tree
we’d all have something in common
never mind, we were all “born”
that’s just too common
to deserve a pat on the back

but, say each of us humans
adopted a tree for every year of our lives
started climbing our trees
or just looking up at the sky through their branches
feeling their bark
inhaling their scent
tipping our cups
as we sip from the same
troubled bubble of air

if we each climbed a tree
we’d realize / chopping down trees
especially, now that we’re in them, means
“One Jarring Case of Suffocation”
not a recipe in Grandma’s kitchen
other treats not in her cookbook
“Acidic Rain-brewed Instant Coffee”
and “The Nuclear Fallout Breakfast Sandwich”

yes, chopping down forest
will strangle us
polluting the water
will poison us all
and nuclear war
is not a game for shared planets
according to the rules of sanity

so, never mind tomorrow’s poem
i recycled it today
words i wrote yesterday
leaflets blowing with the falling leaves
no nails in trees, walls, or totem poles
stapled instead
to my virtual forehead
walking around; jumping up and down
flapping my ode in the wind

but the crowd’s so accustomed
to my crazy behavior
whenever i mention a correction
i might as well be talking to a flea
feasting on the neighbor’s dog

which might explain
why my message in a bottle
meant to heal the world
floated back on the evening tide
with a note on the back of my note inside

written in red ink: Just be thankful
no one’s nuked your island.

You have humped America’s flags into sweaty rags.
written your personalized brand of history,
your name on this, your name on that:
sneakers, Bibles, baseball caps, museums, plaques
and other writings on the wall,
do you see greatness in the mirror—
greater than the greatest great?
The question is, is that great enough
for the greatest of all greats?

You have a tale longer than your tie.
Tried and convicted on a trail of stench, dragging
your tail through the droppings you left,
while wringing the next mark dry.

A reading of the entrails reveals
facts are solid facts. One cannot stop the aging
of a certifiable old shit; cannot excuse
the rubble left by the wrecking ball in his head.

Yes, I’m still talking about you. So, stop shampooing
in your golden bowl long enough to show me
that famed, crazed,
racist rage!

Then,
continue washing the guilt off your face.
Don’t stop for hairballs;
pull out the plunger and plunge!

The worst you can do is
make it worse.

as autumn’s chill descends
and leaves paint the floor of Earth
as daylight withers into quickened sunsets
as frost lays its bones over the land
i sit in the deep of night
the shadows that darkened my day
have slithered into my memories
locked there for the foreseeable eternity
my breath is slow and even, a sign sleep is near
the candlelight spins my imagination
i curl up into a poem

outside, the wind leaves no doubt
the last of the leaves will fall
a promise of autumn snow begins to flutter in my mind
calling on my muse, we begin to weave a dream
a dream of naked trees — the cloudy sky so low
i could almost grab a slice of heaven
put on my wings and fly
as the vision unfolds, so do the recollections
of many a dream long past
i can tell the tale a thousand times
but it always comes out with a seasonal twist

spring, summer, winter
i have a poem for all but fall
now, at the midnight hour
i recite my soliloquy; then put pen to page
the ink stains on my hands, proof that I was here
the verse, simply a testament
to this assemblage of words
comes the midnight hour
and with it, a shot of rye
i do not deny the passage of days
i do not struggle with nature
as the world around me disrobes
so do i unveil my mindthere’s a storm brewing outside
i brace myself against thoughts of doom
with just one life to live
i have to say i’ve made mistakes
mistakes deep as oceans
love mistakes, money mistakes
decisions, decisions, decisions
i’ve poured my soul into making amends
and i have many amends yet to make
as the landscape glistens
in the pulse of dawn’s first rays
the dream fades
and in its place i find a poem
a lasting recollection
of this season passing by.

I’m the Moolah of addiction
pushing proceeds of affliction
demand for my brand of self-infliction
at an all-time high

the division of humanity
a principal condition
of this nuclear religion
in a split-hair decision
the jury fully bribed
rendered its conviction
and the mandatory incision
was surgically applied

it’s in the books—
the balance of power
my side of the ledger—
fatter than yours
Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers . . .
I’m a natural born demon
don’t tax your brain
you’ll never be able to demonetize me
shame, shame, shame; I pull the trigger
you’re a stiff on sale at my target range
rigor mortis with a baseball bat
I’m the guy running ‘round in a baseball cap
ready to cap your pathetic ass

I’m the best kind of evil since Evil Knievel
but the best is yet to come
we’ll charge ’em all with words
then commence to hurling stones
run right through their heathen ranks
assault their flanks
with spears, arrows, and bows
it’s far too slow, though, to reach a conclusion
soil soaked in blood—just half the solution
the war’s not won; it’s an empty illusion
got to incinerate their entire delusion

prime the cannons; rain hell from the sky
that’s how the other guy
will balance the equation
fuel the machines of brut devastation
kill each other without hesitation
flip the switch of annihilation
sip the Kool Aid; it’ll soften the blow

and, that’s the end of my proclamation
I’ve been around since before creation
banking on a race seeking domination
I’m the sole beneficiary of its mutual cremation.

damn
gravel in my shoe again
toe’s sticking through the hole in my sock
i kneel
adjust my worn-out footwear
stare at the patterns in the cracked pavement
how many miles
to my destination
somewhere beyond this highway sign?
sign says, “Slower traffic, keep right”
i’m on the shoulder
can’t get much slower
well, that’s not entirely true
before leaving home
i was going nowhere
before going nowhere
i had dreams

red car, yellow car, black car, white car
color don’t mean that much to me
i ride in ‘em all without reserve
got to conserve my energy, though
haven’t eaten in two days
don’t know which is louder
the rumble in my stomach
or the sound of trucks
rambling down the road
cars blur by
and into the sunset
one more hour
and i’ll call it a day
one more hour with my thumb out
i’ve got nothing else to do
but, hope is on my side
and one thing’s for certain
a ride always comes along

truck drivers, motorcycle riders
delivery men, and policemen
moonshiners, fanatics, drunks, and drug addicts
vacationers, hippies, and families with children
gamblers, preachers, horny men and women
a menagerie of virtue and vice
all with one thing in common
they stopped on the side of the road
and let me in
each taking me someplace i’d never been
some with ulterior motives
some with a sense of adventure
some needing someone to talk to
some fed me
some fucked me
some tried to rob me
some even blessed me

i’ve stood by the road in torrential rain
endured thunder, lightning, and relentless hail
trekked through blizzards in the mountains
melted in the desert’s merciless sun
bathed nude in ice cold rivers
slept under the stars by the overpass
I’ve been to every state in the Union
mostly on the back of my thumb
it was a great way to get there
when i didn’t care where there was and
didn’t need to get there
in some kind of a rush

i stepped out of nowhere’s door
many years ago
picked up an education
my companion for a lifetime
and, here now i stand
at home by the side of this highway
certain as certain can be
that soon again i’ll be
exactly where i’ve never been.

i look at myself
in the mirror each day
study this decaying flesh
draped on ancient bones
the truth of a thousand lies
buried behind these tombstone eyes
gas on a funeral pyre
match in hand
i set the mess ablaze
wrap a noose around my neck
head off to work myself to death
i’m a train wreck wrapped in a business suit
a facade in need of a coat of paint
polluting the world nine-to-five
looting the gullible
causing trouble wherever I go
i’m living in a bubble
of iniquity
layers and layers of duplicity
shield me from this complicity
i am the prince of greed and collusion
ask me what i think of myself
i’ll tell you i like what i see in the mirror
delusions set aside, it’s a matter of pride
if i tell you the truth, the illusion will die.

lizard dreams
got to let my spikes down
catch a little shut-eye
try to remember
that tune i forgot
walking off the blues the other day
mumbling hints of jazz.

i must be a rock
because here I am again
ready to grow moss
still eating kelp like Popeye
swilling wine like Bacchus
got to get my muffins
out the oven.

was born half warlock—half witch
conjured up a parade when i was nine
no bubblegum on my heel
that’s not the way i roll
mine’s stuck to your shoe
look, but don’t disturb it
it’s a masterpiece
of elastic art in the making.

on the precipice, i stand
the canyon below
gathering shadows in its hungry maw
my eyes plunge into the last of day
so near, her rays
i can almost touch them
one more step and i’ll be in Heaven

been chasing the sun for years
with every step, i’m farther behind
here on this ledge, watching it slip
into yet another sleepless night
weary bones chafe my soul
the razor’s edge between right and wrong
dulled by this religion of holy addiction

footprints in the dust, useless waypoints
swept away by wind and rain
don’t know from which direction i came
too many hours spent following clouds
gas in the tank for a trip to the dealer
but not enough change in the ashtray
for a tune-up

hallucinating romantic notions
into happily hazardous delusions
i fight with my demons over loaded dice
it’s a battle of pirogues; we drown in the drink
night-after-night; it’s a three-ring circus
i wake up stomped into pachyderm fodder

damn, it’s a long way down
but i just can’t stand to sink any lower
i step away from the crag
plot a course though the starlit night
compass pointing toward dawn,
my destination’s not on the map, but i realize
Heaven’s not waiting at the bottom of a cliff