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.
