Snare and Piano

1.
Cold Glass
tints of green and
brown
Sleepy eyes staring
at glossy wood.
Put your feet up
on the
rail;
relax.

Looking up,
checking the
mirror
amidst a crowd
you feel
safe.

Spin around
meeting the smiles
of a thousand
unknown
possibilities-
friends;
lovers.

Another round
another laugh
tapping the oak
a coaster
slapped down
cold
sweet
and sour.


2.
Keep fighting
the inkling
to be
a silent
observer.

Make a joke;
smile into the eyes
of a
beautiful
woman
or be a bastard
make an impression
start a fight
or
drown
within
yourself.

Sometimes
you need to be
your own
inspiration.
Make your
own
scene.

3.
Blue light
comes for
me.

The night
abandons.

The sun is
hot
on my trail.

Introspective, shaken.

The search
for inspiration
at my desk or
in my bed.

Typed
or handwritten.
Spoken or
cursed

Pencils lack the
longevity
Pens constantly
lose traction
over bumpy
roads.

Tomorrow I'll be
carving a tablet
of stone
while hanging
from
the rafters

like a bat.

2.
Holding my tongue
is a three person job;
always knowing the
correct
and proper way
to entertain notions
and diffuse
tension.

But I don't
tolerate
much.

Don't expect me
to be thrilled
at all your
accomplishments.
Don't expect me
to look up
from my clinking
ice cubes
and shake
your hand.

Waves of clear
ice water
dancing against
golden liquor.
Never break the
concentration
of a person
deciphering the mysteries
of their cocktail.

I bite.

3.
Chasing the dream;
wondering when stiff drinks
and toilet paper will be
given out as
rations.
Essentials of the
common
human.

I need bread and
water
I want
coffee from drinking fountains
and scotch
from the government;
economics of an
impoverished soul.

I'm ashamed to want a house
and a partner to hold;
dodging materialism and misogyny
by a hair's breath
wondering if love
really is
demeaning.

All the while
you're
sitting in your
breakfast nook
shoveling organic sugar
into
"free trade"
or
"pure conscience"
coffee.

How's that
working out
for you?

4.
It's been too long
since
the messages taken over
the phone
were more important
than
the doodles in
the margin.
Tiny circles, nonsensical
devices and
lyrics from something
in the back
of my mind
Always outweighing
the dentist's follow-up
or the long past due
phone bill.
Someday
I'll refinance something
Till then
this rocket-ship
needs
a cloudy blue yonder.

5.
A gentile saxophone
plays an outro
in the remaining few
minutes of the four o'clock
hour.
A last dance for a busy night
The raspy speaker
speaks the
slow sensibilities
of the 1930's
"...goodbye and farewell
I shall return to shore soon..."
With that
the golden light fades
a few cracks
a pop
and a thumping loop
as the needle
revisits
the end.

Dreaming of My Shady Rock

1.
Searching a world
of advice;
throwing my arms up,
begging for clarity.
Guidance comes.
It flows uninterrupted
constantly luring me
in the wrong directions
buying and selling my
emotions on a public
market.
Fighting to put a
dollar sign
on my sanity.
Filth is all the response
that I receive.
But as I wrap my arms about me
and begin to weep;
the air whispers:
You
Will
Remain.

2.
Contemplating
the bones in one's head;
the skull as a whole
just underneath
moist tissue.
Always balancing
a fishbowl of brains
on your spine.
Beer, scotch and
the occasional tequila
sloshing about
the fatty mass.
Young mothers,
disgruntled ex's
and violent, pulsating music
batting it about.
Antiquated theories,
archaic practices,
and egotistical educators
trying to pry in.
You're hoping for the best
when walking down
a simple set of
stairs.

3.
Looking for gray
despising the signs of youth.
We all sit in the a hell
of assumption
uncultured
immature.
I can do nothing
but wait for time
and the wind
to break me down
till I resemble
the voice I emit.
I suppose then I can
find comfort
in being pegged
as
out of touch.

4.
I love the caress of changing shadows
wandering over my body
while this car drives down
a windy road.
Canyon after canyon,
a soft stream flowing beside
the hard black ground
reminding me of old movies.
I want to call this scene a wrap
and lay on the smooth stones
listening to the water
it's lazy trickle
lulling me to rest.
Then off again
out onto the open plains;
always dreaming
of my shady
rock.

5.
I hate hearing
that men
lack the ability to love

She told me that men
think that love is cute
and useless;
that sex is the only gain
we have in mind.
We are desperately clinging
to the playtime
of our youth
keeping
the same
destructive behaviors.
Blowing up
our sisters doll
and wondering why
she's crying.

I cry.
I cry when she's
not there.
I cry when her scent
walks by
years later.
I sob when her skin isn't
against mine;
and I break down
when I'm
assumed to be stone.

I love.
I will love.
I have loved.
I've given my soul
in search of
love.
It was
blown into shards.

and she wondered
why
I was crying.

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.

I Need Some Air

1.
The first conversation;
thinking of longevity,
feeding off of desire.
We spoke of a passion for words,
the delicate imagery of candles
and a love of generations past.
Each taking turns leaning over the table
lips meeting as a sign of approval.
I miss that version, It was perfect;
in that moment we were destined
it was decided beyond me.
The world around was a blur.
Time has passed, feelings have changed
and the nuances are lost;
but I remember enough,
to weep.

2.
Young love is disgusting,
there is no honor among the the coming of age.
Hands held and cast away, promises whispered
and broken.
Windows fogged, and innocence
abused.
On the rare occasion when seriousness,
true care, and honesty linger;
the world beyond is discovered.
Maturity has not yet been attained
and the lust for deeper meaning outweighs
such saccharine notions.

3.
Regret is honesty.
You could have done better,
you could have changed.
Maybe you would have kept your job,
lost some weight or stayed out of jail.
Maybe she would be here.
It is said that if you do your best
then there is nothing to regret.
I respectfully disagree.
You don't know your limits
so everyday,
you're failing.
Acknowledge that you
are nothing but a speck
and the world
will be wide open
Regret is honesty.

4.
One thought
one slip
and I'm falling
like some alcoholic
touching gin to their lips.
I need pictures, conversation
but it all leads to destruction
sobbing and headache.
Such a calm evening
until I think of her
then my face tightens
and my vision blurs.
This must end;
I'm the only one
still here.

5.
I hate myself for feeling;
loss dominates my body
just below the surface.
I have brave faces and
a desire for quick love;
nothing will quench me.
She's gone off with another
and another and another;
I am buried in the paperwork
of her new dating life,
a cold case, never to be reopened.
I never wanted another.

6.
A vacation in heaven
wandering through the snow
sharing an old high school bed.
Dusty Poe books and class projects,
younger faces framed,
braces and purple hair.
A warm family, scrabble
and the mountains, god the mountains!
We took trips to the local bar
with mounted animals
and a worn dance-floor.
Second and third Christmases
spent in a double wide
and a snow covered chalet.
The family was wonderful
beyond my dreams.
It was heaven
and now the thought of all that
takes me to hell.