For Twenty?

“America, I was a communist when I was a kid.
I’m not sorry. I smoke marijuana every chance I get.”
- Allen Ginsburg

Not exactly sure as to the contents
of that bowl, strange tastes, but
the feeling’s there. Like stopping at
Wal-greens after work on a frantic
Valentine’s Day. Like last second
anniversary chocolates. Like hung
over morning Taco Bell. Like spending
money at all, really. But, it’s a holiday.
Time for celebrating the little things.
Like friends and family. Like watching
a hockey game. Like listening to an old
record. Like taking time before work
to pick shake off a side table, three months in the making.



A boy was digging with a tiny pale and scoop
in his deserted backyard one wavy, early afternoon.
Not six feet down, he found a horned skull, antlers
pointing toward the sky. He dug a bit deeper and
got a hold of the bone. He fussed and pulled till
it broke loose of the sand. Startling was it’s strikingly
human form. An internet picture drew global interest.
Suddenly, there appeared motorized shovels, reporters,
helicopter flyovers. Uprooting the settled dust around
the instantly fabled spot. Below, they found a rib cage
and two strikingly short tibia. American headlines read:
Satan’s body discovered, end to world suffering anticipated.

Ice Your Knuckles

Little early for the birds, eh? Nah,
just’a little late for the spring. Easier
for us to worry ourselves over? Eh,
let’s just sit around for a while and talk
about the hurtles, then triumphs
of our day. Battle the knowledge like
sunshine on us, unsatisfied.
Devastated, or determined. Regardless.


Late Night

Someone hammering at midnight, cell
phones vibrating on a marble counter,
the cliché tire screech, dog bark, drunk
couple combo, the leaves rustling, the
keys dangling, the lighter, just about dead,
the streetlights keeping everyone safe,
the faucet dripping, the electronic locks,
the dream weeping, the books shifting,
the cat got into the chips, a vacuum running,
a tubed tv on, without input, the rain that
will or has passed through, the squad
car, the ambulance in opposite directions,
a low radio as a plane crosses the signal,
an impatient mouse on a plywood desk,
the floorboards stretching, the disk whirring,
the trash rattling, the heavy steps, well
past closing time, the underground rivers
of sanitation keeping us alive, a click,
a crack, a crumble, indiscernible plastic,
metal, stone, another bus, then a train,
a closing window pane, and above it all,
a silent moon.


We find our hero, alone, in a room, contemplating,
or keeping awake, perhaps, for the sake of consciousness.
The room appears dirty. Clothes, worn, scattered about.
Food scraps, old dishes, bottles on the table. Papers strewn
everywhere. One overhead light turned on. Shallow
breathing. Wristwatch clicking away. The electric hum
of the city through walls. The exhausted apathy of late
nights, teetering, so dangerously, close to the edge of
disdainful, morning dismay. Our hero leans back, one
hand holding an elbow, the other supporting a chin, all
resting on the internal wrestling of the bestowed title.

Easily the villain could have been cast into this scene,
or the creditless extra, holding continuity to art’s attempt
at realism, but its the hero. The static hero, complete, stoic,
helpless, as in self-sustaining, hopeless, as in only advanced
by the victim’s account. The dynamic hero, we see ours
adjust, leaning right on the arm of the chair, pulling an
ankle to rest on a knee, uncertain, questionable, until
the quest is concluded, derived from inner strength, or
particular circumstance? The tragic hero, strong, willing,
confident, dead. The heroic hero, boring. Our hero, sitting,
staring out an oddly placed window, back into the room,
the reflection of another dark night.



A tank of guppies peering
out the port holes trying to find
that stream, out to sea

All waiting in line for thier turn to look
at the blue whales and white sharks out there
in their beautiful, well fitting styles

Allowing from the well sealed point of view
all kinds of ideas of reefs and caverns
unknown, if they could change their states of mind

Always, front of the line, back of the line, to witness
constantly the ocean's possibility laid
out before them. Wavy, honest testimony

of living beyond the glass

Preacher's In Love

Rubbish. Rubbish all. Rapture resonates through
the empty room, yet everyone missed it. The rub
so blatant, we assumed it'd be easier to steer
clear, while, we were told later, ish.
But we all forgot why we asked in the first
place, so the trashman kept clattering outside
the window, singing his dirty song.



Drivin' himself in, today,
much rather'a delined the offer,
or had sway on the itinerary,

keepin' it well below the suggested
flow of traffic. The alignment
off, fightin' the wheel to keep

straight. Windshield wipers
ineffective. Window's up and down dance
to keep the opacity down.

Envious of those walkin' with
their leisurely umber'ellas, willin'
the weather to relent on this widespread

day of rest. The speaker's jazz
saxophone says no to the gas pedal
as the light drops to green, but

his responcibility addled mind moves through
countless, baron intersections slowly. The trian
of cars stretching for miles behind, silent.

Do It Again Tomorrow

If you turn off the radio
the birds will start singing.
Let the PC sleep too, and
when you wake up, you can

go outside and meet up with your friends.
Turn your cell phone off and
connect with those people around you.
Turn the television off and

go have adventures of your own.
Take off all your clothes and enjoy
this season's colors in remarkable detail
as the sun dips, effortlessly below the skyline and

do it again tomorrow.