It's not that I'm getting
older

but that
I feel I missed out

on all the the great things
the iconic stuff

that I could wax poetically
about

like seeing Milton Berle
or Henny Youngman on stage

at  a Catskills Resort
a place like the Concord Hotel

mind you

not the older versions
of those legends

but the younger swinging
tuxedoed

swagger muffins

shouting jokes
into  those old-fashioned

silver microphones

Last night I dreamed of rippling
turquoise

and sybaritic rhythms
as if

I was in my own echo chamber
made

of sea glass shaped
like a giant

tongue

The older I get
the less I search for

truth

because these days
a white face and honking nose

work for me

it's the simple and absurd things
in this life

that are all I need

Silver paint
on particle board

made
to look vintage

Times Roman Font
painted on sheet metal

water lapping at the shore
speed boats growling

clouds moving in then
moving out

sun
piercing through

I'll stop talking

It's a still life this
universe

silent
and  the voices

we hear are our
own

Fiery red
black handle rubber tires

that made shallow tracks
in the grass

when I pulled you from here
to there

we needed each other
I realize that now

My wheels spin my brain
in full throttle

two gears
drive and reverse

but no longer park

Clear pool turns
white

and browns at the
edges

as the yoke starts to
harden

and butter
sizzles and pops

scattering drops
some

do somersaults
while some

fall to their demise
surreptitious

or otherwise

it's the mind's  attempt
to give shape

to a panful of
nonsense

The street glistens
from a recent hard rain

tires splash
thru muddy puddles

neon flickers
and buzzes with the din

of dining
and drinking

to whom it may
concern

A canopy of green
beginning

to turn pink
as twigs and dry leaves
crunch

below my feet

a gray stone bench
dead

ahead
where I will sit
and silence

the senses

Dangling from the fence
freshly greased

drops falling
on the pavement

quiet but grimy
music

Blue Screen
volume low
static hum

you sleep then you're
awake

walking the line
between

consciousness
and dreaming

Numbers faded
under caged glass

hands shake
but they move

progress slow
yet steady

Bulbs

in their day
they banded

read

No Vacancy

but not now

today
one lit
the other
burned out

as if to say
some days good

but on balance
mostly bad

Cold
Clear

it moves
powered by the moon
seeping

into cracks into
crevices

Water
Wet

it's pale light
still glows
with a low hum

the knobs still clink
when pulled and with
a dollars worth of quarters

popped into the slot
you can choose

happiness
sadness
or the candy bar

wrapped
in silver and gray
what was it called

Zero

Topographical
blue—
almost turquoise

mounted
on a leather desk
but ready to roll

as if the world were my marble
and I could shoot it back
down the alley

Glossy sunset
palm trees bending
a couple

almost a silhouette


they don't walk they float
above the sand with arms
not locked

fused
like Legos like
cogs

in a machine
grinding against
the tide

in the distance
at the edge
Diamond Head Rises

close but still
too far

An aquamarine strip
across the top

of the white porcelain sink
with

a few dabs
on the brushed nickel

the twinkles
in the blue solution

a galaxy far and away

my eyes glaze as I ponder my
escape

Brown stains on the porcelain
make the cup

look like bad teeth and bad
decisions

the short window of cleanliness
and innocence

before sugar daddies
and Milky Ways folded

into themselves
a galaxy leaking over the rim

Electric blue
cuts through red,
and white  splashes—

drops of drizzle
slide sideways,
skimming the street’s sheen,

garish glare
across
puddled reflections;

my mind drifts
like the lights

back and forth
between the two

Morning clouds
give way
to blue—

the burning off
of dross,

as I give way
to rote movement:

physical,

mental,

spiritual—

shedding
what no longer
serves,

like leaves
falling slow
into light.

A pick chops ice

the smell of bounty
caught

from the right side
of the boat

coins jingle
paper bills shuffle

God provides so
they say

as well as pirates

It's what you do
rather

than what you say
two scoops

in a waffle cone

thunder

lightning

rain drops
pelt the window

your face

insanity never felt
or tasted

so good

Hanging

paper mache skulls
painted guitars
gaudy sombreros

black smoke rising
to blot out

the sun

red trucks
Departemento De Bomberos

no no no
no Policia

why

they might show up

wall nope

a thin line

if crossed
Papa will say
is South

of sanity

Awake now
the bed's been made

with wrinkles
in the checkered spread
flattened out

no more calamity
the thunder and rain
gone

away

like magic if magic
was about

loss

August
but crisp with bite

cold white sun

I remember that day
the lake

so far away
for me and others

wanting
and not knowing

why

Slots buzz and ring
coins clatter

neon
splashes

like spilled paint

they say


New York
is the city that never sleeps


it's a caffeine-fueled insomnia

but in Reno
you're lucid dreaming

and frantically searching
for the door

the one that leads
back

to consciousness

The sky is blue—
blue

like a cloudy marble

imagery
I love it

especially when it has nothing
to do with

nothing

They say I'll never
outgrow you intellectually

on balance, you'll always
be my better

but for a time, a short time
only

I'll have a seat at your table
although

before we sit down
I'll pull

your chair out
for you.

It's gone, but
we still

hang on to some myth
of an endless Summer

of growing and renewal
or

come to think of it

Isn't that Spring

veins like pistons,
arm up, arm down.

tiny, crude memories
hit with each stroke,

unasked, unwelcome,
and I wonder why

Before
ghosts
echos

basically before
things

got weird

there were nights with
devlish grins
late runs for chips

twinkies
ding dongs

and other food
we didn't really want to eat

and maybe

just maybe
there were clues

you know

a flickering street lamp
buzzing soda machine
or other stuff

not quite right

but were we really
looking

splattered
on canvas

tattered hat
shabby coat
worn pants

painted lips
three-day growth

against a fleshy
beige backdrop

we weren't born this way


what happened

The rain drives sideways
so

be careful

on the road they call
"Trucker's Alley"

Dear John,

the Bagnall Dam Zone
is just your speed

lots of people crowded in bars
gone to seed

but places
where you could tend
serve drinks and dispense

your brand
of dimestore philosophy

we all need

Your arms are wings
made of wax

and you soar,
flapping hard,

knowing you need
to get as far

from the sun
as you can—

even though
you so desperately

want to fly into it.

Archie,

out here,
in Seligman,

this wind
does not whip your face

there is no wind;

just  hot white heat
that makes it hard to write--

but I do it
even though the sun makes
the paper

a mirage-- or mirror
I don't know which

if a mirror,
then it's your reflection I see

not your face
but your lines your words

and how you'd best
describe the emptiness

and your sense of it.

Ah, the Southwest!


well,
that's all for now

All the best,

Whit

Robert,

I’m writing to you
because

you’re the only one
who

would get me
and this,

driving three hundred miles
and not

remembering

why,

and in an attempt

to get in front of panic
and paranoia

you let the neon
and the smell of fry grease

hand you
your story,

your purpose,

like a plate of barbecue
and flat beer.

All the best,

Whit

the mud is still fresh
from last night's rain

but twigs still crunch
beneath my feet

the leaves are green
as we are deep into Summer

birds chirp
squirrels scale

the trunks of trees
and I wonder


and about the price
of tea

in China

louvered windows refract the sun's rays

I see life through  a glass *****

This year looks much different than last

We are what our eyes judge our first impression of things to be.

My eggs are runny

What we thought we
had

more of

a gold-plated
something

showed we never had
to begin with

a successful person doesn't
wear a watch.

Flurry of cats
sonic boom
glass down
man down

next stool over

Life's slow--
then it's
fast

day
night,
jammed
into
nothing

Metal Parachute once
bloomed
now rusted

refuses

but  the Ferris Wheel
still winks at clouds

like newspaper headlines
crazy

or maybe just
nonsensical

Cat
no tail
walks

sideways
along the porch

black or blue

in this light it's
hard to tell

coffee brewed
smelled

bundled

newspapers
foreign tongue


a code
we need to break

I threw my body
into you--

heart and soul
too

But you were someone
else's

gift

love,
just not mine

hurling
sliding

with finesse
effortless

so it seems

all my life I've chased
watching

you swoosh and cut
a path

I wish was mine

heavy
burden

weary

as the world
turns

with

progress—
slow

but steady

hopeful

trucks

rumble
and coffee's bitter

but sugar helps and keeps
fueling

all those jacked up hopes
and dreams