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.

Creative Nonfiction '08

How can this be called journalism?

The celebrity news team of MSNBC

                                                advertising

the fucking presidential election.

“This is so inspiring!”

one face reports

                                                very objective

“You need to watch this!”

                                                very subtle

with the overtly red, striped, starred,

blue, and mostly white

epileptic nightmare