You Think You Saw But Did Not See

A small boy and a smaller dog

sitting on a curb, in the late afternoon.

A Rockwell painting; alive.

An image to conjure thoughts of our glorious age-

stirring pride

and warming hearts.

But the dog is tired and thin

and the boy's smudged face echos the pups hunger.

I suppose they're waiting for a parent

or a sibling who's running late,

but more likely

he and the dog will sit,

their shadows will draw longer

and the sun will fade to orange, then pink.

Walk-In

Some things don't stay in your closet-

hitching rides on old baseball caps

and long, moth eaten winter coats.

Those bones were thought to have turned to dust

long ago

swept away by broom or

that they had floated away,

through old walls, down dark stairways

and into a fiery furnace

deep

deep

below.

In truth, many do;

disappearing into the sea of time,

taken away grain by grain

with each mornings tide

however,

most remains,

the ones most foul and

most telling-

the ones shoved furthest away:

creep about in the shadows

waiting silently

and steadily;

breathlessly

and hungrily,

watching-

So when you sit at the head of the family table

you won't wonder why everyone is staring;

you'll feel the skeleton fingers running though your hair-

for no closet is deep enough.

Good Morning

Sharing a bed-

kids have it right;

we mucked it up.

Friendship and support,

linen forts and secret missions.

Nothing felt better than laughing,

sometimes crying;

camped out in a circle of three,

hoarding cards and ice cream.

Walks of shame were never there in the morning;

only the slip-sliding of socked feet

racing to the kitchen-

mom was making waffles.

Feelings wouldn't change when the sun came

even if you woke someone up

with a pillow to the kisser.

We adults have it wrong-

the companionship is gone;

replaced with pomp and circumstance,

lust and primeval passion.

There's no room for the dog

and the morning coffee outweighs a morning kiss.

How does it all get better?

How do we reclaim the days of innocence?

You don't, you make due-

so skip the coffee;

go for the kiss

and make waffles.

Rain, Desire, Adventure, and Love

1.
Rain has fallen silently in the night.
it has come and gone, whisked
from my windowpane,
by a swift wind
and now some distant desert country is
suddenly moist and cool.

I am unaware of this
save a small feeling of content
in the back of my head,
the remnants of rainfall on my path
and the prevailing wind.

But the rain is due for another show
and along this trail the wind changes once more
darkening the skies
like cocoa powder dropped into
the pearlescence of milk.

The air is dancing about me-
harsh bits of pebble
skittering along a red rock road
and the distant barking of an unsheltered
dog scratching at a back door.

Storms breed unease in many
but this day, this moment, I'm smiling
for the cool moisture drawn from
the swaying trees is licking at my face
and the warmth of drink still remains
tucked inside of my coat.

2.
A cigarette glows
and the Countess reclines further
into the
soft
red
leather.

She is staring through you
her gaze is blazing with
greater fire than the smoking thing
in her lips
and you feel the heat slowly moving
from your head to toe.

On cue, a silver tray floats in
and the smell of single malt libation
wafts from a set of crystal,
clinking slightly as it's set
halfway
across
the room.

Your eyes never break gaze
as you stroll towards your life preserver
hoping that with the slug
you'll manage to remain afloat
in her stormy eyes.

After you've downed the third
you make your way to the arm of her chair
pulling out your own brand and
as you set it in your lips
a lighter snaps on just below
her face is
glowing,
staring.

Pausing to see her face
in the lighters flickering light
you are made aware of every hair
on the back of your neck
man overboard.

3.
He sits in a rich velvet chair
surrounded by the blue haze of pipe smoke
and the walls lined with books, are barely visible.

The gentile whir of a phonograph in the corer
announces it's journey to the next song and
as the silence breaks,
filled with the gentile scraping of strings,
he settles into the next, worn, page.

Despite his plush perch of velvet
and the delicacy of the music
his eyes are wide with horror;
sweat dots his brow, and his fingertips
are white grasping the binding.

The smoke, books and chair
are nothing to him now as he
flashes down the Amazon river
spear and darts blurring by his pith.

The natives are restless.

4.
Hundreds gather
swaying to the swing of a big band
high heels dart by, spats embrace shined shoes and
legs rush in and out of a great club.
Conversation is growing thicker than the london fog
just outside.

The brass section is waving,
great golden instruments glinting
in the light of a stunning crystal chandelier
casting it's rainbow of color across the hall;
the smell of champagne
hangs in the air.

In the middle of the floor
a single white dinner coat and
a captivating, red gown float in small circles
drawing the eyes of the high society crowd
their slander slows
and only the gasping of lonely hearts is heard.

They two are separate, unaware of the room
dancing on a private plane;
her face is still,
her gaze is fixed
and her smile is all the music he needs.
The light dims and a soft spotlight is upon them;
casting a moon-like glow,
highlighting their love.

The band has fallen silent,
no notes could compliment
and any great solo would be lost
for only deaf ears remain.

The couple dips and trots,
spins and tightly embraces
and, when the music in their hearts comes to an end
they each bow
and walk off
hand in hand.

Commonly Unshaven

1.
I have this old tube
radio;
it's a record player.
I love it, as dusty as it gets.
It works beautifully;
warming up after a lovely click.
I'm sad though,
when it begins to play
because the sound is that
of today.
All the warmth of the
golden glow
is wasted.
The radio and I
are misplaced
in time.

2.
China clinking;
chipping.
muffled orders passed to
men with sweaty brows
and stained aprons.
Squeaky vinyl,
torn and scuffed;
duct tape patches.
The tables are uneven
wobbling.
Rattling of a fork
fallen, a knife
meeting porcelain.
Praying the man
ducking under
the counter leaf
has washed
his hands.
I hope my coffee
isn't filled
too high.

3.
Ugly.
Despicable.
Reprehensible.
You get the idea,
but it's what I think;
and you're still here.
It was the reading glasses.
You don't know
Johnny Cash.
He was bad
trying to be good.
You thought I was a square
it turns out I have curves
that can make you vomit.

4.
I always giggle at myself
when sitting
in dirty underwear,
fighting a cold.
I can see the postcard
moment;
hair akimbo
unshaven
nose running.
Like that crazed portrait
of Poe;
but half naked.

A Night with the DPS and a friendly dog from hell.

1.
Where the hell has Ginsberg gone?
These people need a good, hard look at themselves.
Talk of finance seems to permeate the air
and yet the arts were impoverished long ago;
reduced to weekend enthusiasts or the wealthy eccentric.
Where are the coffee houses broadcasting prose;
the parks teeming with free people in revolt.
More nights lost to sleep, coffee turned cold.
Why are the midnight diners lost to sundry drunkards
and the streets vacant save the homeless
and the mindless corporate drone.
It seems the white picket fence has returned
and we are all to be crucified upon it.

2.
We're all doomed to dreaming of soaring through the stars
while naked, sweating through already soiled sheets.
Our contentment is based on our ability to ignore
the influence of the rotten, spoiled world around us.
I'm not one to smile when getting a ticket
for smoking on a sidewalk;
standing amongst the butts and the ash
recounting "Yes sir's" to an officer
with excellent penmanship.
It begins to mist as I saunter home,
becoming a pitter-patter against my coat.
I'm thinking of my putrid bed
and where it's going to take me.

Untitled

To be bored with the workings of the heart is to be dead
and those who declare themselves unamused
are naive.
Pain and happiness are not so far apart;
emotion not so childish.
A shriveled existence of cowering from your soul
is not an option; my words are powerful
because I am aware of myself.
They will grow because I refuse
to look away.

Cheeky

1.
Laying in the grass
staring up at the many constellations
named after glorious tales
goddesses, battles
and Native American rituals;
they are signs of fallen heroes
points of light that carried sailors home
and yet all I do is sit
thinking of the patterns of moles
on past lovers backs;
I feel a rain dance coming on.

2.
Solitude is not solace.
Solitude should be tolerated;
appreciated in small doses
and praised for its restful ways
but never accepted as the norm
never allowed to stay long
for to share one's thoughts is joy
to have them accepted and appreciated is love
and love is solace.

3.
The feeling of approaching sleep is comforting;
the confirmation that I'm still alive
and the realization of the stricken hour.
The air itself seems to become lazy
and despite the shielding of carved glass,
my eyes have been bombarded enough.
It is then, by way of shuffling feet
I find cool tiles, and introduce grinder to beans
and grounds to steaming water;
the smell of stimulant, fills the room.
Wide eyes and racing blood,
more confirmation of my humanity.

4.
A turntable moves my fingers better.
Television steals my gaze,
the radio asks for money
and people need too much attention.
The crackles of a record put me into a trance
sharpening my imagination
tuning out the vacuum.
Flipping the vinyl every few songs
is a necessary break;
a chance to stretch and pour a new cup.
Keeping all of my actions personal and tactile.
So there I sit,
listening,
typing,
turning,
pouring
and repeating.

5.
Poetry is nonsense
it's just a jumble;
some broken sentences
wandering about
a vague, florid mess.
Poetry is literary misdirection;
a word-smith's slight of hand.
Veiling a lack of structure
with pretty words;
there's never a point.
Moreover, you will be poor
and will have no following;
you're images are easily forgotten,
plagiarized in greater works
Write a novel they said,
people get novels.