Friday Morning

Two young women, interviewing, I’m sure, at the medical

school on top of the hill. One in gray business suit, a little

too tight in all the right places. She’d asked at 7:02 when

the shuttle was going to leave. As soon as Gene clocks in,

I told her, pointing to Gene, the only other person in the building

wearing the shirt I was, as he walked in the door. Instantly,

she was gone, and she did not return until 7:15, asking where

the shuttle was. The other candidate came down about 10

minutes later and said to the first, did you show up late?

Shouldn’t be long, the gray suited one said, citing me

with a point over her shoulder. They stood there staring

into their own reflections on the pre-dawn sliding glass door,

waiting as though our shuttle would transport them to some

new place, something entirely unlike anything they’d yet known.

First Day Of Spring

Waiting for the sun warmed landscape, the colors

and the air, of spring, the energy to move

from one’s broken in nest out to the broken ways

the world continues each and every year

To fall with the rain from roof tops

to the ice cracked concrete and flow

through the streets of awakening cities

makes all the standing in snow OK

The whitewash is so vibrant in the grey

scaled mornings that imagining any colors

replacing its reflective sheen the most

wonderful dream, Sitting outdoors, driving

cars quickly with windows down and music

up and laughter and light and living and

I believe in the hope that hatches from this

frozen seed, to sprout and spread across communal

lawns, cling to bricks stacked and mortared

centuries ago, creep from basements and back

rooms into the long missed sun as that sky wide

cloud departs for its season of rest!

Déjà vu

Another strange instance where I feel

like I’ve done this before, that last time

it must have turned out OK or I would

certainly remember it, instead of having

this odd nagging that this time we may not be so lucky…

Answering Myself

I look to those who came before me

for some motivation, some inspiration,

any kind of idealistic spring board to take

(off) from, but I’m left with the same

answers they’ve questioned, the same

weight of cityscapes they couldn’t

place, that are still stationed before me,

without the might of some sprawling

tragedy, will stand long after I’ve stopped

The Hard Sell

There’s a lot

of room, enough

for just about any

thing you can think of...

Flowing

Tomorrow through the required fields,

corn a few months out of season, half

thawed in the freezer, while application

fees cannot be paid online due to an internal

server error, the wobbly ease of tense jargon

for simple crimes begins its long awaited

phase from the conversation, distance recounts

the millisecond delay, noticeable only after

the adrenaline starts flowing

3 November 2011

This is that brand new house, too big and

suburban for this neighborhood. Hard to

imagine how much it went for, all snap

together plastic and the stickers still on

the window panes. Every light on inside,

without curtains, the whole family sitting

around the dining room table at 8:30 on a Friday.

This is that Jack-o-lantern, only two days

spent, rounding about the edges

For Whatever Reason

For whatever                            reason,

he keeps thinking of the word: ‘transient.’

The night is  dragging on.

His book melting  through his fingers

as the rain eats through the words

in the red, yellow, blue neon storm.

Shaking off the pulpy mush he thinks,

‘Shit. Now I have to wash my hands,’ and walks inside.

Busing From The North Shore

It’s cold as I climb to the

back of the bus. All the faces

of the city talking at once

right in my ear. So many open shirt

collars and loosened ties meandering

with wine, “How did he do that?”-ing

to shiny necklaces and

slender dresses that sip wearily beside

the shock and awe of Carson

painting Warhol with his ass, the sheer

disgust at unattainable brilliance,

the glimmer in the eyes of the old men.

I ghost through, pleased,

perplexed, tired, but the bus is pleasant

as usual.

Easing Back In '08

The world smelled clean as I walked out into the bright afternoon. The day to day droll of waking up and punching in to turn around, clock out and bed down had taken its toll and the sunshine was hardly a blessing, or pleasant. I had been as dry as the city for this last few weeks, so when it rained, I called around, but all I  found were leaky faucets, runny mouths. I’d get worried sometimes that, maybe, that was it. I’d bled all I could. I was finished. But no one lives forever, and that’s just too much time to waste.

It smelled like soap by the doorway and I found Jess walking in, as I was walking out. Jess, Ian, and Rob all lived on the first floor. Three young men under the stairs, staring the night time down like a mean dog in a pack of lethargic wolves. Their growls raising up to our third floor safe house. I could never speak ill, with a longing sigh, even when there was no sleep at four a.m. on Tuesday mornings. In our passing I asked Jess how it went. He said, “Fine. I’ll see ya around.” That made me laugh on my way around the corner because that porch was the only place I’d ever see him. The trees finally looked green in the early summer sun.

Hurray!

Inspiration in sensations of the higher plane

Visions of faces in imaginary places

making sense of inceptions in the back of the brain

A beautiful clot in the drain of the day

The so-called necessity divides work and play

Compost

I love this cold. The earth dying as far as I can see,

and if anything survives, there will be another spring.

There will be another fall. Action is for the mindless,

the uncoordinated in the handling of possibility, but

shit can only roll down so far before it begins to pile

back up, before the roots start to take hold in the soft,

nutrient rich leavings of the dead, and there are

as many “living” now as there ever was in the entirety

of “before.” That’s a lot of mulch to be had. A lot of

shit to feed on. It’s time to blossom again. To reveal

our true nature in the light. To finally begin to feed on

more than the shit they let fall on us, bury us in these

decades of dormantness, lost deep in the pile. The time

has come to turn our faces toward the sun and bask in

the life we receive from it. To look out and past where

we’ve come from to the true nature of where we find

ourselves. To begin again in the understanding of what

has been handed down to us and what it is we see and

what we truly believe in. What they’ve left us is dead.

It’s their waste, and we’re just wading in it. We can’t

wait too long or else we'll up and decompose along with it.

Granted Anything Comes After

Imagine the plastic husks

                  of unfathomable future

                  humans. In the acres

                  of discarded, meatless trinkets.

Uncovered in unimaginable

                 numbers! What or why?

                 How possibly? They cry!

Hilarious

So a cell phone salesman

walks into a bar and

the bartender says

“We have domestic drafts

on special for $2,” and

the cell phone salesman orders

a #9 and opens a tab

on his debit card.

Rabid

Rabid attempts

to relive the thrill

of living. That shaking

anticipation of not knowing what to expect.

Rapture like a shudder out from the spine.

A Pretty Good Plan

Credit

The Classic Swindle

Medicine shows, door to door salesmen,

telemarketers and spam emails, now

the major corporations have signed on,

giving some credibility to the schemers.

If we can call them that. This kind of

technological fraudulence has a sinister

undertone thanks to our modern era’s

obsession with the idea of money.

At least when the man in the nice suit

took all your cash back then, you could

still get a job to earn it back.

Smoke

What is that hanging

in the air? The humid

lounging of lazy summers,

battling to sleep late,

shifting days to daylight,

stealing moments from

vacation’s lament of lounging,

poundings in the head,

hounding for a message,

a moment, anything

to know that the feeling’s

not dead, when we all

know it is. Not noticing

instances surrounded only

by dread, holding out for

visions that no longer come

if the lamps are lit, soldiering

for wages like the camp’s open,

modern blows from living in

these days of long pants, strong

hands molding clay, on only

the off chance, the pot has replenished

itself like perennial, watered plants.

Each Time

The active regeneration of cells,
like egos, like relationships, like
routines. Like cities and structures,
each time sure it’s better than before,
each time already forgotten what before
ever was Each time
Each time

Expanse

A tiny red and green spider walks over

the edge of the table, pausing on the vertical

eave to feel around in my cigarette’s alluring

exhalation with its fingerless hands. I lean

in to take a closer look, and despite my

colossal weight advantage, I take heed as

it rears, putting its dukes up, warning

of such personal invasions. I sit back.

Along an invisible path, the spider climbs

to the top of The Town and The City, before

I take it by the web and toss it into the oceanic

expanse of the grass.

Wailing

She walked out of the A-Plus already
in hysterics. I saw her as I pulled in
to the only open gas pump, right in
front of her. She plopped down and
pulled her knees to her chin right next
to the ice cooler. She was either unaware
or unconcerned about the shortness of
her sundress. Even before I turned the
car off, with the music at the obnoxious
summer volume I was playing it, I could
hear her sobbing words. I got out and
began to pump my gas, but I couldn’t
understand her any better. A boy came
out of the store and consoled her immediately,
adjusting her posture to achieve some
propriety. I was trying to not watch
too intently. She kept repeating something
about $180 or a missing purse. With her
petite frame and exasperated, sunken face,
I couldn’t figure if there was any real problem,
or perhaps if it was all the side effects of
a poorly planned dosage. The boy gave her a cigarette,
as the meter rolled onto my $10 limit, and
the silence was momentary before an errant
exhale erupted into a brash and choking wail.

This whole time, two well dressed guys had been chatting
like old friends on the non-pump side of the car in front of me,
unphased by the noise, unconcerned with the happenings.
I finished my transaction, thanked the gas pump for thanking
me, and snaking the car past the outstretched legs of the poor girl,
I pardoned myself to the guys through my open window. You’re good,
the closest one said, not flinching a bit. I took one last glance
at my passenger side mirror to wonder if the world in fact
was so terrible in that place, at that time, and turned the volume
back up to where I could stand it, to enjoy some wailing of my own.

All At Once And Once Again

The coming together of other entities

The matching energies around dead wood

The exchanging of labels, the raise of chemicals in

the brain, The comfort of society

The comfort of company on summer nights

Hold Up

It was noisy. Not noisy enough to feel comfortable talking, but that’s not what this was about.

“Sarah,” he called from his stool like a snake, the kid I bummed a smoke to already. Richmond, he’d said then.

“She hit me,” the guy left of the girl at one of these round tables, awkwardly, like there were two others I didn’t notice. “She hit me a couple times.” The girl moved form the condensation of her light bottle to the resting elbow of his arm. “I knew what you thought. I didn’t punch her. I wanted too…” He trailed off in his recollections, finishing in tones I couldn’t hear over the speaker behind me, but he motioned with the butt of his wrist toward his own nose. She said, starting in a laugh, “What are you thinking?” They both stood as she finished off her last swig, and they left.

I went back to reading the closed captions of survivors of the world’s latest premeditated tragedy. How easy it is to blame the individual when these things happen. Imagine if someone along the line, anyone, had given that guy a paintbrush, or a flute, or, Jesus, a pen even. At least then he could have developed some kind of apath- Excuse me, empathy.

The squeaky voice of an understanding female broke my view of the scrolling words, “You do make a difference.” It spanned octaves with an invented rhythm. Maybe he was trying to be a teacher. But by the time my eyes got there, he was standing, her arms around his neck making him (feel) better. This wasn’t about touch, or emotions either. This was about something far more complex. Something far more irrational. I look a quick once over the place, everyone seems personally involved, as the healer breaks her hold, but not her gaze, saying, “I love Chevy Chase.” I turn my attention back to the television.

“His was a war that was going to be waged with words after he was arrested.” The expert said. Apparently. I’m unsure if they’d give the perp his chance. At least he’d found a forum the general public paid attention to. Although the irony of “Crusader” seemed lost on the media’s purse strings. That’s almost what this was about. Me, looking around, to see who’s noticing. Not too many people. Although I was the only person there alone. At least, the only person not engaging anyone else. No one seemed to mind. It shouldn’t take much longer. 

“I’m sure next year’s camp will be the biggest ever.” The interviewed owner said, credits running on his lapel. I’m sure he didn’t run a free getaway. I’m also sure he was not thinking about that. He’s thinking about his liability. If only america was so free. A red hat walked in. No. Odd. America can loose ten or fifteen people a day, that’s a bar sitting historical average, but as long as it’s somewhere else, we don’t actually see it. That’s kind of what this was about too. Twenty one people see it, a major metropolitan neighborhood says, “That’ll never happen to me.” Like poverty. Or complete socioeconomic collapse!

Before you get any crazy ideas, this is definitely not about murder. Nothing personal. People think they matter, until they’re a number, which they assigned you at birth, so you can retire, we think, affording the liberty of golden years from all our ‘work’ paying in. That’s not a crazy idea, it’s a solid plan. Sure. We had a solid plan here tonight, if only this fucker shows up. Mice and men. This is about irony.

He was ten minutes late and the place had exploded. Lord knew if I’d be sitting here when the time came. I could have just disappeared into the crowd, ditched the apparel, drank some liquor, maybe taken what was in my pocket and bought a ticket for anywhere west of Youngstown, started fresh, started clean in those woods the government preserves until they need them, some call it camping on the weekends, we have no idea where we came from, that’s what this is about, a little bit. Where’s your responsibility in society? I was only doing what I was told too. But I was the only one there. At twenty minutes, I notice no one was smoking name brand cigarettes, if only we could can our own beer, film our own movies, create our own creations, our own lives, we ca- Yes. Red hat.

“Hello everyone.” He said very loudly, eerily calm, just inside the door. I remembered there was music playing. I grabbed the green cap out of my bag and fashioned the veil over my face and in my shirt like my partners. “We’re here for money,” he noticed the cooler, “and two six packs of Red Stripe. That’s it. Now get out your wallets!” 

Good Sense

It echoes so far, sound

does, not as far as light,

but not as local as taste,

and still I can process all

three. Although, I may not

like what I see, or hear or

smell, there’s nothing

to be done about them, so

I may as well enjoy it.

Always There

Always moving,

always in transit, always

something next, one more

thing to look forward to, another

day to make some money and

spend it on food.

Always everything I need right here,

always the world as it was, still

near by for those moments

of extreme modern lament,

right? Not like they’re there,

right outside, or on my way to

work, or explored on days

off, but others do, so it’s

vicarious in beer filled evenings

at the corner stop

Popular (History)

Can you imagine that all history

inexplicably was aiming for

  Right Now!

   To be witness to it!

       Ever! Even with the staggering

numbers of humanity, to be allotted

a chance to view

and to feel, and love and hate

and loathe, and loose!

To internalize away the necessity

of loss in physics!

The emotional misunderstanding of

math!

Each grade school home work

assignment a genocide

on the universal trance of sameness

Too Long

Time too long, anxious.

I don’t want to be early,

but sitting here is so damn tough

There must be

something doing

somewhere

right now

So tight right now

Each second making the most

of its position

opportunity

good fortune.

Part 2: The Key

Stepping out in strange habit,

turning the dial on the knob,

realizing, only after hearing

that latch click, what I’ve done.

Part 1

            He stepped onto the porch, smiling a cigarette in his lips, jacketless and comfortable, and took a seat on the wooden chair by the door. He lit his cigarette, dragged, and held it in his fist, looking at it as he exhaled. The fast paced music inside was moving easily through the screen door, and it found him, suddenly, in his nodding at half time, leaning back, looking over his raised view, feeling very satisfied.

Cosmetology

The essential shift

Eternal motion of tectonic reality

Revolutionary existence shimmering

                        on the heat drenched plane

Motion of matter through time

Subtle rippling of 360 degrees

            Odd dominion

                                    Strange parameters,

            Rooms hidden in walls

            Burrows in the soil of a living planet

            Shelter once again in the womb

            Peace in total acceptance of

                                                the past

                                                            Roots

Livelihood for the sake of living

            Ecstasy in the intrinsic essence

                                    of the sublime

            Undeniable even now,

                        Most obvious,

                                   So lost

                                    So left behind,

            Bitter release of the runt’s litter

            Turning away in the most tender love,

            Realization of necessity in realms

                        misplaced cognition

                        hypersensitivity

                        morality

                        policy

History

What a tremendous fog outside,

can’t see either end of the block,

but the mist moves so quickly

            under the street lights.

What wonderful clarity of old VHS,

makes me wonder what the difference

was. Why bother recording the present

if the future is already incompatible?

Labor (Fruits There Of)

Sheets stained, tossed floorways

never to be washed, read over, thought

about again, as the rush to ruin

more drags wallets through the machine

in linten pockets of dusty denim, mashed

up and pulpy, to be found, carefully

unwrapped, only to be discarded from

frustration, along with the piles

of perfectly readable pages.

Lover, Like The Earth

We, lover, like the earth touch

Below royal blue patterns

Tender moving textures

A medieval temperature

A message below the skin

Freeform sculpted plaster

Vitriolic outburst

To shock to fuss to cast a spell

A generation laid out

Desiring a garden maze

A variation on magicians, christians, and dudes

Maybe

Waking up in a field

of flowers opening

            to the sun.

No one’s sure

            if it's feathers

            or snow

but something’s falling

all proud,

            with a angelic

glow

            like maybe heaven

            is real

                        and maybe it's right 

                                              now.

Working '07

And I hear telephones in my daydreams when I'm not at work

But I enjoy myself sometimes and it scares me

Life shakes his head when he hears my song

And the glint off his jade medallion hurts my eyes

But sometimes I dream when I'm asleep

That we always were good friends
And the pain in my head is just my ideas dying to get out

But they scream so damn loud my ears bleed

And my eyes roll back

When it’s like that I can see them sometimes, those ideas

And we talk about what they can do

But the closer we get to an agreement to cool them off, shut them up

The fucking telephone rings and I'm back at work

Memory

Tired, torn asunder, uninspired eyes

holding hope in tiny drips on pillow casing liner

The sky’s still wide on its shortest side

The skyline tied in knots

The mind’s design in time denies the trial of these drops

Of Mind

Too many late nights, along
with too much remembering, make
old words confide new
meaning into the nights
we all forgot.
How much we knew
and how much we
didn’t think to care.
Nights, these days, when
we're too tired to live,
breathe needles into
the fading memories
of our lives when
they were still ours.
The needles settling into our
arms and legs and hearts
and make us gruff at
9 pm for 7.25 an hour.
Punching out for relief
that still comes in
swigs and puffs
but with real reason
to forget and real
loneliness to subdue.
We've all learned
the map now. We've all
seen the way. We've all
fought and fought for a
path of our own, but
they all lead us to the
same dead end alley
in different cities
in the same state of mind

YouToob

I saw Mr. Jack

            Kerouac

on television

            reading from

his commercial

            masterpiece,

and my modern

                        upbringing

made me cringe.

                        As I watched

            the broadcast

                        explanation

            set to the heppest

                        jazz sounds

            I cringed.

                        Where is the validity?

                        Where is the reality

                                    in sitting on tv

                                    and pushing product?

                                                I thought.

But as the segment concluded

            and the cut to break

                        was counted down

                                    on silent hands

I watched his face

            and he did not look up

                        from his words.

He sought nothing

            from the tv host

                        the studio audience

                                    or the lit camera.

He kept his work open

            and his eyes on

                        his voice

as if he knew the difference

            between telling his story

                        and selling it.

Decorative

anything else other than desperately trying

to dig myself out of this oddly, sudden hole,

I leave it to the powers that be, the coinflip,

pickahand of willitrain, or not, disappointed

with my indecision, certain the sting of each will,

wishful, watching the curtain move in the open

window, hopeful for any sign of forced entry,

hearing only the up tempo chatter of the care free

blaring like crows signaling day break,

gut wrenching laughs in the hold it in sense

of waiting, the punchline welling up in our stomachs

for years, like beers, why can’t it all be so plain?

Lamenting '07

And I hear telephones in my daydreams when I'm not at work

But I enjoy myself sometimes and it scares me

Life shakes his head when he hears my song

And the glint off his jade medallion hurts my eyes

But sometimes I dream when I'm asleep

That we always were good friends
And the pain in my head is just my ideas dying to get out

But they scream so damn loud my ears bleed

And my eyes roll back

When it’s like that I can see them sometimes, those ideas

And we talk about what they could do

But the closer we get to an agreement

The fucking telephone rings and I'm back at work

Desk Work '08

            A familiar truck pulls up and takes a familiar amount of time to get situated.

           

The doctor lady in 504 just called down complaining about the piss and shit in her toilet, the layers of dust on her desk, and all the pubic hair in her bed sheets. They teach us to take responsibility. I don’t do that anymore. Empathize, apologize, take responsibility, they say. I take responsibility for my own shit. If I fuck up, I take responsibility.

            I offered to move her, cause even when Paul got back, I knew he’s wasn’t gunna clean it. I was surer than hell he wasn’t doing that, but she was all ready for bed, and moving her stuff down the hall was too far to go. She laughed when I said that housekeeping’d gone home, and that I was literally the only person who could do anything, but, unfortunately, I was unable to leave the desk. That is, at least, until Paul got back from the 8 o’clock run. She thought she’d got it bad.

            “I’m going to be staying here,” she started, “a lot. And with the surgery I’ll be having, they’re working on my eye next, I cannot be around a lot of dust.” She had been in a car accident. She told me that when she checked in. She also told me about the surgery on her eye. I hadn’t asked.

            These folks just like to let you know.

            I wondered if she realized I was the same guy, but she continued on about how sometimes this place is nice and sometimes its crap. I tell her I understand and I’m sorry, but at that exact moment, if she didn’t want 517, there was nothing more I could do for her. She volunteered to clean the bathroom herself. Then she hung up. I only charged her $50.00. Before taxes, of course.

            Ms. Coasten’s still sitting with Lil’ Bob in the truck right in front of the door, counting out 5 dollar bills. 

Rucky Schmucks

Two cats in over their heads

sit talking over two tables

with their dates getting bored

quickly, interjecting more and

more often less and less

significant one liners.

Long Time

The quick talk kicks in

            its been a long time

                        since I’ve met up with him

An ‘e’ to end every line

            A memory to destroy

                        every mind

It’s been a long

                        time

It’s been a long

                        long time

August Monday

Home movie memories of lives we’ve

                left behind. Look out of the

picture framed portrait right into

the mirror. Burnt out bathroom

light bulbs, bloodstained bathtub

                love in full bloom

Life likes to be tricky. Silly is

god’s sense of humor. The irony of

karma. The ebb and flow of the cosmos.

Luck lies in

                little shards

around broken window splinters

so small, so sharp that even

picking them up leaves hard hands

stinging and bloody. Bumpy walls

are too hard to put a fist through

when the world

                                decides

                                                to step

on your chest. Breathing’s easier

after you pass out. Breathing’s easier

when there’s smoke inside.

                living is easier while your dreaming

but dreaming’s tough with life around

These days leaving for work

is a breath of fresh air

                Just because I have to walk

Just because I have to

       Just because

When did the road curve?

                like waking up, strapped in

head throbbing, resting on the powdery airbag

like her breasts

When did I lose sight

of the path?

                Where were the tracks

and when did I miss the

train?

Is there anything out

side this snow globe?

                Anything other than this

  comfortable christmas

                mantle piece?

Projectionist

These moral projections flash over me

Like an old time movie, black and white

And jumpy and over heating and

Ripping in half with a thum thum thum

And burning the theater down

Stolen

Find focus

Not this scatter bombing

“Art is not chance

Unless by chance

(“I’m banking on luck,

                        this city,

                                    my looks,

                                                and not giving a fuck.

{“By the way, I stole this riff”}”)”

Nite Life

This would be the night to trip

on the music.

But those pictures behind my eyes

don’t come as easy as they used to.

But I still see their shadows

everywhere.

Self Titled

It wasn’t even sound 
that was moving him, 
that close to the full 
stacks piled three high. 
The air vibrated like sand, 
moving the crowd in its ruckus 
back and forth. The speaker 
tubes weapons. A drone of body 
heat and the crashing like 
on beaches, humans form waves 
when packed together like any
other molecules, a cohesive 
liquid of shouting and free fist 
pumps, straining lungs with 
the amplified voice coming 
from the man on stage.

Flares

Itching from steps with

            hats pulled down

Embers flaring in the pulsing light

Leashes tighten with particles

Skin pulls across rib bones

            constricting lungs

Putting pressure on the heart

Draining out a soul      Exploding

Fireworks in a neighborhood

Trash can fires turn tribal

Torn from flesh Torched in brine

Midnight yields to the beat

Street vacated, smoking

Flashes of freedom drive away

Eyes squared in the rear view

Squinting, tired, ready

Lord, have mercy on us.

                                    We know not what we do.

To find reason again

                                    is our grail.

To be deemed purposeful

                                    will be our promised land.

Eden was beautiful to look at

                                                before Eve gave fear to sight

                                                                                    and touch.