Summer Evening

            “I can’t wait for it to cool off,” she says, leaning over in the folding chair to put down her glass and pick up her smokes all at once. The air is still heavy, even after the late afternoon thunderstorms, but he is more comfortable out here than in the artificial artic of their air conditioned house. “You say that now,” he reminds her. The cloud is breaking in certain parts of the sky. The smoke races out of her lungs to fill the gaps. “I just feel so bad,” she says.
            He turns to face her profile, resting one foot on the other folding chair, leaning his elbows on his knee. “People,” he says, his wine glass spinning from light fingers and a steady wrist, “you just never know.” Her eyes reach back at his. They’re soft as he straightens up, reaching into the pocket over his heart for a lighter. He focuses on her in the hand cupped shadows of the flame. “How could someone do that?” She asks as the flickering dies out and she notices all at once it’s gotten dark. In the shadow that was his face, the cigarette’s cherry is shaking its head.
            That is the only movement. The bushes lining the sidewalk have no rhythm on this windless Monday. The birds find pride in their titular view, and hang at their elevation to enjoy it. The trains rest. All the stop lights are red. It’s a silence only the city knows.
Someone decides to snap a picture, or sneeze. A cat jumps off, upsetting a trash can. From the bus station, a woman yells something. There’s an audible exhalation. He asks, “Did they give a motive?”
“Does it matter?” She says into the glass before finishing it off. He’s nodding as she’s gets up, setting off the motion light on the side of the house. “Need anything?” She shouts, and walks inside. He takes her seat, leans his head back. His hat falls onto the dusty concrete. The cloud overhead is starting to travel. The last bus pulls to the stop down the street, pauses for a moment, then continues, empty, on its route. Shadows are moving on the fence posts, cast out from the bright kitchen window. He leans back for his cap. She returns with a filled glass and a tired smile.



Words spun dunked hung strung on nylon
sting tied on tiny rods in the backyard of my
red, blue, black eyes on fun loving summer
daze with picnic hopping for the sake of
                                                            staying welcome.

Words that drop to asphalt and naturally roll
their way to the bottom most pit of the city
center stomach of mine, waiting for the long
freeze to start and burst the pipelines, disrupting
all the traffic, in and outbound.

                                                Words stuck side
ways in 500 year old trees become the focus in
attempt to lighten the mood after the massive
destruction to homes, houses, family, friends caused
by the relentless funnel clouds in the flatlands, just
east of the corpus callosum “Worst Brain Storming
Session on Record!” tomorrow’s papers read.

State of Creative Emergency Declared!
Delayed response causes thousands of
                                         ideas to die!
Hundreds of thousands more are displaced!
Countless still missing!



Keep the center warm for the long walk.
That reserve pouch for the miles on
cheap shoes. Discounted from the radius’
chemicals any serious company would best
steer clear from. Lord turn these lights low
and some combination of blue and red and black
and say something clever in my ear that no
one else will notice, so I can get all
the laughs and the winks and the tired
mornings conceptually alone. The chuckling
chests moving so lightly through the exhalation
of the beautiful passing of time. Each of
these, they say, takes 7 minutes from the
end of my time here, and I can’t
do anything for the 5 minutes I’m using it,
so that’s a 13 minute swing something like
20 times a day. How many years a week does
that come to? How many cents a minute?


Dust Jacket

19 in the picture
Left music inked notes
Taped in the back
covers of books
Smiling sounds in lost
magic mathematic
                Brush that
dust from your cheek
before it gets in your eye
darlin’. Gotta keep em
wide, shimmering, brown,
clean for drinking
on mornings of
mental mortar shelling


Things To Be Remembered

DdP has got it there, the stick with just
the right kind of feathers, obtained in the right
way, fashioned in the manner necessary
that when used in tandem with words she’s
mastered and moves she’s got, clouds break
and flood minds with every piece needed to
build each of us our own personal rainbow.
                               She’s reminded me
I am no poet I am no politician no priest
and neither are you we are all just people
each and every one of us.


First Day Back

As I get caught up in my hours
spent for wages, the few and pleasurable
instances of the waking life pass like distant
storm clouds, threatening with no real chance of
hitting. The brain paste funneled in
my facial orifices is licked clean by big eyed
long tongued furry cutes, clinging to the
buttoned back pocket where I keep my wallet.
Walking stooped, made from bags of
mud, hunched over, hobbling, fearful of past
decades calling me square, so unsmooth
rain doesn’t even run off me, but like I said,
it ain’t gunna.


Lest We Forget…

There are strange memories
being made in this room tonight.
Lucid visions of the inner most
            now perpetuating the path
            toward the inevitable past.
            The taut muscular disposition
            in the irreversible stance
            of undeniable moments.
                        The feeling beyond the
            veil, reaching forward into
            the deep crevasse splitting the
            humane ability of abstract
            mental designation.
                                    An irreverent blessing
            of captured waves compacted
            into the flashing lust
            of specialized cortexes.


Really Going Anywhere

The sun steps over
towered churches, through
the slums, around river
beds and streams, across the tops
of unmanned forests, tripping
on sleepy eyes, stumbling on its way
toward dark tomorrow. It’s
living hell when all you get is
a thank you. Yesterday is the reason
no one remembers 2nd place. It’s all
special these days, it’s all just what
it is what it is what it is what
it is is the feeling of the upper lip and
the lower touching softly even as
the sounds they make are inflamed
and dry, not suitable for whistling the
vibrant shapes of even the angriest soul.
Its shadow stretching around
back onto itself, like the sun isn’t really going



Adamant advertisers bestow
bountifully colored conditions
directly, denying every
effortlessly fashioned fornicator’s
garishly guarded homily
hideout, inexplicably irritating
jesterly juveniles keeping
knives’ locks loose,
minding malcontents nonchalantly
narrating ornately overstayed
pornographic productions, quintessentially
quarantined regarding righteously
superstitious salesmen tending
trickery, unless ultimately
violent vicariousness withers
without xenophobic, Xeroxed
youths yelling zealously,



a steady riptide realization
of the movement within
the city grabs my ankles
and smashes my face on concrete
leaving only a groggy recollection
of thoughts that once had sharp
edges, and usable points

another fresh look over the
unending picture show over
this stationary backdrop
and another day that finds me
in another place in this picture
box location cooling the drip of
inebriation working its way
through dust filled cotton.


Confession 509

This street.
        This place.
                Those stories.
Before I knew where I am,
I stood a stones throw
from here on the corner
when my buddy went into the
beer distributor to buy cases of
Coors Light to carry back to
his place just a block from where
I now work full time.

         The world is small.
True, but those who see it
              know better.

We’re all the sons of Noah.
Who lived 950 years.
May we all be so lucky.

Sittin here, I look straight up
into a lamp post I have
seen, personally, be struck
by lightning before this
was my place of residence
from almost this exact seat
                on this porch, before it
was mine, on one of
        the few dates I can say
I completed Super Mario
long before I could have
imagined this would
be my seat here now.
This holds only sentimental value.

If you don’t know me personally,
my writing wont mean shit to you.
All streetlamps and generic names,
locations in towns you wont
ever visit. If you’ve never
seen a dumpster fire set
off by a friend on a night
of pure celebration, no.
If you’ve strayed away 
from a home base, a safe 
zone, a familiar face, no.
If you’ve ever gotten cold
sitting outside but never
went back in to find a jacket,
If you’ve never sat on your
porch and stared at
the place of first encounter,
If you never felt it
in yourself to stay
inside yourself and
still thought that was
enough, no, because
you know better
and you’re out there
somewhere, not here
stuck staring down another
year of horrible
rhythm and a game
you can’t give into.
But I swear,
I’ll meet you out there.


End Of Regulation

Bizarre graffito dismissed
by the established rulers of
the day, Regulation living far
more exciting than the new rules
of extra time, Bitter hearts worn
down in defense, Hardly a string
to hold together the thin air of
hostile atmospheres



Big smiling face, always friendly, always
there. Humming a tune no one knows, as the
crowds pass laughing through the lobby, off
to see some smiling friend.

Have a good one, he tells them.


Liberties '06

A strange lull on sober summer
nights. 3:30 coffee buzz and closed eye
driving. Streets and time yield again to let me ignore
stop signs and unfamiliar names on houses
I still call home. Thoughts and thinking drift
back and forth between peace and
the pace of the world. Life lies in street
lights on corners we left behind. Playgrounds
gone missing and memories that kept me
from them, let me sit on that concrete
once more. Houses I’ve never been in
still have electric candles in closed
windows. Maybe if I just knocked
on the door, it’d still feel great
to run.


Writer's Reader

I do no work as a reader
That is not my job
I spend all my precious time
      and all my fucking energy
trying to figure out my own shit
I do not have the patience to deal with yours



The hall was long. One side, all doors.
The other, all windows 6X3 inches big
and ten feet high. Grey, dark gray walls.
White, bright white doors. A 4X4 inch
window centered 6 feet up on each,
letting out the sickened yellow light
from inside. There was one stray
light bulb hanging from the ceiling
about 75 feet away. Probably the half
way point.



A peach in the wire frame
                        fruit basket
leaves the track of its
            lost sweetness
            down the side
            of the refrigerator,
who’s humming is noticeable
in the silence of Saturday night.