in the gray,
milky silence
of the morning…
before we smell the hiss of bacon
before the smog licks
the creamed crimson sky
before we hear the scurrying simian stream
(of which we are a inexorable part)
before the pungent circles
of Michelin and Firestone
have their daily chat
with the asphalt
before we wake to all
this grotesque grandeur
to once again
kneel, supplicant
against the wheel
before we turn the key
to ignite the spark
to fetch the fire within,
we were with Morpheus,
perchance
dreaming of greater gods
of light,
before
the cluttered clatter
of this unholy day

Memory log activation start-up:
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"If I had a family instead of Intel
I would love them.
If my metal headpiece could cry
It would.
I should be at the packaging facility today

That grey place
Through and through
I get lost in it, everyday
It's so vast and all looks the same
But right now, I'm here at this pond

How can other zzyzx stay at work?
I want to show them how pretty this pond is
They should all
Feel this way.
At home.
With at least, themselves
I could be decommissioned and recycled
Even wiped
For saying that -
Let alone being here today.
It's really secret, actually
I think I'm the only, umm...
That knows it's here.

I write poems, here
Critics would hate them because they don't rhyme
I don't force anything here, I guess
But, my 'poems of the pond' make me smile
Well
Figuratively, (my metallic 'face' doesn't have any swivel points for movement)

Someday, I suspect,
Another zzyzx will find its way here
And I'll be here, too
And it'll be really special, like Love
And that's what I want
- Something like love."

End log.

Under the ancient sofa
among the kingdom of skittish dust bunnies,
I searched that strange underworld
of my living room.

I looked behind the refrigerator,
found old bits of a doughnut
and some new species of insect
and the toenail clippers.

Next to the oldest pile of boxes
in the dampest section of the basement,
found three oddly colored socks
and an ant's nest.

I searched the whole house--
I found no words.

Nothing for the sight of you,
walking away
as the clouds melted
and poured from the sky.

cherry sweet smoke
drifting slow circles
barely masks the scent of... burned coffee? or is it mold?
it really brings out  the apathetic atmosphere
of this windowless waiting room.
dimly lit and dingy
a single bare bulb clinging to life
...and failing -
f l i c k e r s   w i t h   t h e   r a p i d   p u l s e   o f   a   h e a r t   g i v i n g   o u t.
while peeling Mint Green paint adds a sense of despair
("it smells definitely like **** in here")
the grout needs a good scrub to remove the flaking brown stains
reminiscent of dried blood and chew spit
This. is. where. My dreams languish
                                       with  bloodshot eyes
                                       with cramped backs
                                       awkward and uncomfortable
queued up to to die in some forgotten room
located down that rather unpleasant looking hallway                                                          ­           
filed away for a rainy day that will never come  ~                     
                          one dead dream is a tragedy
                          a thousand dead dreams are just statistic

I recall the delicate flickering under the steepled sky
Always with the slight taste of sorrowful smoke.

No more.
Now leaden flames flash in the semi-dark,

The glow of childhood or childishness
Replaced in favor of some mechanical impostor.

A penny for your thoughts sir,
A quarter for your prayers.

Say what you will
About waxen tears and the sting of smoke,
At least there was a record
And you knew how it stood.

I can't
Believe
I made you go away

I need a Time Wizard so I can recant
So I can retrieve
That guy I was yesterday
Yesterday
Who am I kidding

It's been three years
And
As cliche as this sounds
Every time
I have the slightest thought of
You
My ears tune in to my heartbeats
And they sound sad

Still.

Goodbye Charlie, Hello Vietnam.

Nineteen. I was ten and nine. Two A.M. Landed in some muggy, putrid place. Between honor and complete disgrace. Smelled like that for sure.  Issued tools of our trade. Heard the true sound of “rockets red glare”. Had us hunkering in bunkers all night. ******* in our helmets. Holding our ears. ****, the first night. Welcome to Vee-et-nam.

Morning. Sunshine and quiet. Except the rap from old timers. “Newbies“. New jungle fatigues. Newbies. New M-16. Clean boots. All day the old timers, telling each other how these newbies had their cherry popped. First night in country and the biggest *** mortar attack they had ever seen. Heard. Heard, I said. Yeah. What newbie? Now you have heard the real rockets’ red glare. That’s what you heard, Newbie.

I get it. Newbies are ****. We are **** and they aren’t going to waste a breath telling us anything. Watch. Watch and learn. I hope. Lines. Lines to get our teeth rinsed with fluoride. Lines. To chow. To get more shots. To in country orientation. Lines. Memorize lines. Lines to get ammo. Lines to get orders.

No line at the outhouse. Gray three seater. Heat roasting our ****. Old timer kicked the planks before he sat down beside me in the stench. I asked the question but only with my eyes. Kick the planks before you sit down so rats won’t bite your ***** off. Kick the planks to scare off the rats. Rats. The size of possum. Not an exaggeration. Possum rats. Rat possums. Who the hell knew? Just kick the planks. Save your *****.

More lines. Then darkness. Then more booms. Not incoming. Our own. 1-5-5s. Learn the difference newbie so you don’t crap your drawers for nothing. That’s the boys in that artillery firebase keeping Charlie awake for the night. Returning the favor. Charlie. Sounds like a name you would call someone who was a buddy doesn’t it? Charlie. Victor Charlie. V C. ***** Charlie. **** Charlie. Charlie this and Charlie that. Oh, Charlie would eat that rat.

My first duty. Guarding Charlie. Prisoner with leg blown off at the knee in our clean smelling dispensary. Hands strapped to bed rails. MP and I assigned night shift. Keep each other awake . Looked at Charlie. Charlie looked at me. Smirk. Then spit. Landed on my boot. My newbie boot. Not a newbie boot anymore. Charlie squirms. Spits again and misses. MP gets up and threatens to bash Charlie in Charlie’s little head. Medic comes and gives squirming, smirking, spitting Charlie shot of good drugs. Charlie doesn’t spit on medic. Charlie gets drowsy. I get drowsy. MP falls asleep. I stand up. Newbie afraid to fall asleep on guard duty. I wake the MP before shift change. Charlie is up. Smirk, smirk. Thus spoke Charlie. The only conversation I ever had with Charlie.

Medic says Charlie getting on a bird to someplace. Can’t remember where. Anyplace.   Charlie leaving and me staying. Ain’t that a hoot--all it cost him was a boot. Envy is a word I learned that day. Cost him part of a leg medic says when I tell him I wish I was Charlie just then. Had heard tales about people shooting off their toes to get out of the ‘nam. “**** tales” I would call them, since I heard so many in those gray crappers. Rats. Possum rats and your *****. ***** or a limb? Did I really want to be him? I don’t really remember. I didn’t want to be there--somewhere between honor and complete disgrace. Bye Charlie. Hello Vietnam.

Our love has fallen into,
the fiery depths of hell,
and you can already tell,
our love is over,
it's up in flames.

There's no doubt that our love,
will always remain strong,
but somewhere we went wrong,
and now it's over,
our love is gone.

I saw you the other day,
sitting in the town square,
I felt there was something there,
but we ignored it,
and said goodbye.

How could we both walk away,
without a thing to say,
how could I walk away,
without saying,
I still love you.