Fallen leaves scamper at my feet,
like a scourge of plagued rats.
Unlike the rats, they are welcome at my feet,
but much like the rats, they mean only death.
For they are the harbingers of a great fire that will sweep our lands,
red, orange, and yellow,
and will signal the turning of the seasons,
the coming of ice and frigid gales,
the feeling of death,
which will ravage my heart.

He who rides his horse
through the mountains of love
while spitting down on those
in the valley of seething hate
should be struck from his horse,
and cast down among them,
for he is no different.

The child points and says,
"Look, mommy, look!"

The poet points and says,
"Look, world, look!"

The collective groans,
then sighs.

Mommy
responds after
a long pause:

What?

I am from New Jersey.
From the paradise of small towns
And the inferno of concrete jungles.
I am from truck tire playgrounds,
Porch Clubs, and the whistle
Of the Riverline.
I am from divorce.
From alcoholism and denial,
From broken doors and hearts.
I am from next to hell.
From pouring out full forties
For one's homies passed away.
From too many candlelight vigils
And sidewalks littered with fourth grade pictures.
I am from the garden state.
From cows, corn, and Clinton,
And tractors in the parking lot.
I am from tradition.
From pasta and seven fishes,
From "Mafiosa!" screamed in the streets
And "No WHOPs" pasted on storefronts.
I am from love.
From three parents and four siblings,
From six dogs and duplicate holidays,
And the smell of tulips and holly.

“YOU’RE JUST LIKE YOUR FATHER!”
screams the judge,
wielding a whiskey and a weaponised Women’s Weekly,
as I flare inside but choose instead to smile meekly.  
Was my Dad the spawn of Jeffrey Dahmer?
Or the bloke who used to watch Kojak, on a Sunday, in pyjamas?
In fairness though, the absence of the villain of this piece,
last seen clubbing in Ibiza with a girl who’s not his niece,
does nothing to lighten this affair.
Especially with his crimes bequeathed to me, his heir.
The charges apparently too ignoble for repentance,
I brace to bear the brunt and bile of sentence.

Her glib-gab gores each guilty glance.
Each chapter claimed by circumstance.
Her words a whip, envenomed lace,
lashed out anew upon my face.
It matters not that he’s elsewhere,
I stand accused for the genes I wear.
I’d serve notice now, demand redress,
if he hadn’t eloped to a vague address.
The urge to silent scream? Repressed.

Repeal rejected, defence disbarred.
Appeal affected, mis-trial marred.
A deafeningly dead deal is on the cards.
I pause perpetually and play the clock,
Until “New Witness!!” echoes around the dock.

Youngest courtroom entrant in our history,
identity unknown and gender still a mystery.
“Oh, look how wonderful this is!” coos the judge.
Now as sticky sweet and seasonal as fudge.
“Of course this cherub must approach the bench,
with the defendant as mouthpiece to represent”.
“Pray tell, sinner, its testimony loud and clear"
*Cue a minor mandate that only I can hear *
A pause. A private parley.
The pup's prose presented without palaver:

“I will grow, just like my father”.

.
Etched in smoke, burnished by olden sun,
The runner grasses wave below into maze,
For eyes in cloud to clutch on mottled vermin,
Higher in stations, a judgement for all grazer,

Pleated feathers arched in weightless stone,
Are blades as steely as any burnt ploughmans
And airs that break, lift hawk far into sun shone,
As quake of earth strikes up a still haired louse,

For blades of green shall call, bleed in grasses
And whisper will shout, downing smallest might,
Tiny beasts who crawl among waveing masses,
To hawk over hill, sheering in raiments of light.

deep in the meadow
as all rebirths within in the sun
in the midst of early spring

darkness is descending
and beneath the fallen raindrops
i am the only nonliving thing

"I'm sorry, I forgot again",
My heart says to my brain.
"I'm sorry I forgot again,
I didn't mean to cause you pain".
"I'm sorry I forgot
I've never learned the ways of thought.
I'm sorry I forgot,
He's always been my soft spot".

I do believe in ghosts,
And how they linger on street corners.
How they leave invisible kisses
On the cheeks of their mourners.
I do believe in ghosts,
Even ones who aren't dead,
Who are just ethereal memories
Playing tricks with your heads.
I do believe in ghosts
Who aim to help and hurt.
Hopefully I'll be one too,
When I am buried in the dirt.

in the river of good company

I dedicate this poem to
Mr. Harlon Rivers,
one of the best poets (here)
and from his good company,
i could drink all day and
never be quenched

~

Preface

sometime, the heart wants it wants,
denial, temporarily from your vocabulary, excised

sometimes, beauty keelhauls you, gets you
awestruck inspired, then arrogance overcomes
the brilliance of common sense and you go ahead and
mess with perfection despite every sensor flashing
uh oh, duh, oh no, fool on the premises, lockdown needed!

do believe this condition can be found in the medical books
under I, for Inspiration, Incantation, or S for Stupidifacation

my heart wants to write a poem,
cause I was a witness, sitting twenty feet
from the heavenly crime scene,
and every intonation swept my brain into that secret place,
when I heard KD Lang singing "The Valley"^

~~~

in the river of good company**

simple sentiment but good god
all I ever wanted and so oft lacked
such was my fate, one I made,
had plenty good words for boon companions,
the occasional touch of a woman rippling waves
cross my face, a love lapping slapping
of concentric pebble rings,
till like most good things
gone good goes bad,
it just happens to evaporate and
you think someday, maybe,
you will walk again in good company

the brain says quit right here
but the heart brooks no damning tantrum of sanity imposition,
for those handful of deepest, not quite six feet under
palpitations of insensible, cutting glimpses of that word I hate so,
memories,
of when
you walked in good company

men women no different - it is that heated aura
tween bodies that confirms that you are once again
a human being, just a being, temporarily
enhanced, elevated, by good company

so go ahead sweet talks ya, that devil id a/k/a desire, says -
one more for the road can't hurt ya,
write that poem -
and perhaps one good man, glory hallelujah, a good woman,
will read it and you can stop weeping you idiot,
do it so you will be back, nuttier but nurtured,
drinking from the river of good company,
mouthing not even dare whispering,
satisfied satiated, loving and loved
~
all reposts greatly and  grateful appreciated!



4/2/17 9:24am