On a wood slat bench near City Park Lake,
I blew dusk into darkness on clouds of an exhausted Cohiba.
Dry, starless, midwestern summer shadows
sound like one-handed applause wrapped
in padded outrage. A rogue drake stirs unseen behind
nearly visible bushes at the water’s edge.
The rest of the tacet brood turn
condescending beaks at his faux pas.

It is the silence of trespassing,
disregarding closing time,
defying petty ordinance
to the tune of two frogs and windsong.
The empty side of my lips
curl in half a smile.
The appall in a proper rent-a-cop
would be irreverently rewarding.

Life doesn’t get any better than this…
At least it feels so now in the dizzy,
near fainting, larger-than-normal ****
on a larger-than-normal cigar. Regardless,
it’s a fine moment in time.

There are two types of people in the world.
People who don’t have enough shoes
and people who…

There is one type of people in the world.
People who don’t have enough shoes.

The poorest people dream
of one pair of shoes-
a right and a left,
a pride to possess.
The not-so-poor-people dream
of two pair of shoes –
one pair for casual,
one pair for dress.

The not-so-poor-
but-not-so-rich people dream
of four pair of shoes-
one black and one brown,
one to walk and one for play.
The not-rich-but-better-off-
than-the-not-poor people dream
of multiple matching shoes-
one for each outfit,
a new pair each day.

The richest people dream
of endless lots of shoes-
two for every outfit
winter, spring, summer and fall,
some that match their pets
and some match nothing at all.

Yes, there is one kind of people in the world.
The kind who love shoes,
and that makes us the same
black, white, yellow or blue.
So, let’s love all people,
people with shoes.
And give shoes to the shoeless
so they can be loved, too.

It was a small book
he gave me
full of empty pages
and promises.
Like dads who pull quarters
from behind their childrens'
ears
a son
hopes there is magic
in a blank book.
So, I drip letters
from my pen
stacking them
like dragons
or a
firetruck
or a
memory that smells like
the honeysuckle we drank
on bicycle rides.
I pray he finds
a quiet place
where he can hold these thoughts
as firmly as held
his Ninja Turtle sword.

When I dream
I can taste her
running down my face
warm in afterthoughts
full of joy
tinged with fear
that I'll never get enough
or be enough
but I cannot stop wanting her
warm in afterthoughts
running down my face
when I dream.

she twinkles over meadows
at the dusk of the day.
she mesmerises sweethearts in the dark.
her light is captured treasure
sought for mason jar displays.
i ran to catch her warm endearing spark.

among the other glowers
in the field of the dance,
her light shines always brighter than the rest.
with pure and whole intentions
i pursued in true romance
til i trapped her love inside my bottled quest.

i held her as possession,
admiring as a prize,
a crystal trophy worshiped at my whim.
she smiled a forced conviction
always giving through those eyes,
but her light, possessed, began to slowly dim.

some light is made for holding,
some light is made to stay,
but she was made for freedom like a lark.
i loosed her o'er the meadows
at the dusk of the day
to luminate more lovers in the dark.

Here's a small verse
For my Dwarf pal, Porter.
It couldn't be much shorter.

You take them for granted,
But your dog never does.

She speaks truths like
a politician
with agenda.

didn’t care about
the moon
       ‘til I saw her
lunar skin
       didn’t understand
her eyes
       ‘til I saw the stars
within
       didn’t treasure her
fair feet
       ‘til they touched
Orion’s belt
       didn’t know about
the night
       ‘til she lit up
all I felt.


#npmmoon

If I was as good as I remembered I was
My records would never be broken
The women would sing of my legacy
And my name be religiously spoken.

If I was as good as I remembered I was
My sainthood would be secure
For my charity and humility
In a heart, great strong and pure.

If I was as good as I remembered I was
I’d be praised by all my fans.
If I was as good as I remembered I was
I’d have been another man.

Page 8? One word?
F. Scott Fitzgerald puts fruit in his lyrics.
I could never stop at one.
I bit into "soppiness" and
it squirted in a way
to make a fatted grape jealous.
I peeled the skin of "Swinburnian"
and it juiced the air
with an argument between God and hell.
I plucked The Tree
in This Side of Paradise and pulled down
a "Celtic" apple shared by a mother
a Bishop and a Monsignor.
"Thirsty" spoke
but did not leave us hungry.
And his basket was so sweet
that Carmen Miranda could
wear his words.

he had a barbershop on Broadway.
it sat perfectly
midway between the river and
"the other side of town".
you passed George's
whether you wanted to or not,
but people wanted to.
he made them forget the mortgage
their ugly spouse
and tragedy.
he was half entertainer
half evangelist
which didn't leave much for barbering.
he chased away heartaches
like tufts of hair blown
across the green
and white tiled floor.
his guitar came out
more regularly than his clippers
and sermons were included
in the basic package.
you paid for the song and
the therapy,
the haircuts were free.

Last night I asked Mother Sky
to lay me down
under the stars.
She covered the long day
with her black/blue quilt
tucking away
my rapid heart.

Brushing the unkempt hair
from my eyes
she warmed me
with deep sea breaths
and showed me how much
she loved me.
Her finger drew
a shooting star
as she measured
herself in a whisper,
"From here, my dear,
.........................to there."

Mother offered me
a drink from her ladled cup.
I chose the big one
with both hands
consuming every drop
until my lips finished
with a satisfied "Aaaaaaahhh".
I handed her the twinkling chalice
which she hung again
by the North Star.

I resigned my head
to the grassy pillow
my eyes lost in retreat.
"Will you sing to me?"
I asked sightlessly.
From the corners of Endless
she coaxed
soft soothing melodies,
while the Sandman
strummed willow trees
to her song.

Does the robin have a Monday
Where he can’t get out of bed?
Does he wake with one eye open,
Feathers tussled on his head?
Does he curse the tardy sunrise
As his wings begin to squirm?
Do you think he really gives a crap
If he gets the early worm?
Do you think his wife starts chirping
‘Bout the raven guy next door?
Do you think he’s tired of hearing
How she wished that he’d do more?
Do you think he longs for younger days
When life was much less stressed?
Don’t you think he’d give a million grubs
To stay sleeping in his nest?

You chase me with a word
like a bratty brother
chases a little sister
with a cricket
holding the legs of intimidation
near my ear
taunting
as you have done
many times before -
sometimes with a cricket of inferiority
or a cricket of slavery
but always a cricket of judgement.
You portend to have the power
to put it on me
until the tear in my eye
becomes enough....  

My teeth gnash
wrapping around the finger that dangled
the last cricket of taunting,     
a pest of manipulation,
held with your insect-filled arrogance    
and I chew defiantly
masticating your ability
to ever chase me again.
Choose it now
swallow or spit
it's irrelevant -
your threats are dead.

The moon
has been divided
by poets so often
that there is scarcely enough left
to make a cheese sandwich.
Let us not be so astronomical
in our dreams that
we disregard the world
right in front of us.

It started
in the corner of the dining room.
His favorite leather shoes set aside
to repair on a more convenient day.
He would get to it –
eventually.
In the meantime, both umbrellas
that bang and bump
in the floorboard of his litterbox car
made their way
there
next to the shoes.

Higgin’s yard sale had treasures.
A 16 lb. gold-glitter bowling ball,
a new set of silverware
(new to him)
and a VHS of Rocky III
which he always wanted to see
but would never see
hidden deeply in a
hoard of lethargy.

He goes to the Dollar Store
for soap and brandless chocolate,
returning with discount storage
boxes to organize the
growing meant-to’s in the corner.
But for now
he put them…
"uhhhh, there next to the other stuff".
Spring is almost here anyway.

Here.
Was.
Gone
just before the Summer, Fall, Winter
and the next Spring…
and 15 Springs after that.

One day he woke
on the body-worn sofa
entombed
by stacks of the Hays Daily News.
His cold, unhygienic feet
reminded him of the shoes
he could no longer see
buried ‘neath
piles of misshapen intentions
and a dead cat
staining scattered old calendars
all crossed off with
“How did I get here?”

Where do you go when you're lost?
Is it a purgatory
Way back in your chest
Behind your heart
In the corner of a shadow
With your ams wrapped around your knees
Hoping that an angel with a map
Delivers a way out?
Find me when you get here.

When heaven has closed its doors
in shame
When only the smoke from the barrel
lingers
When law and lawless carpet the
streets
Will anyone remain to point a
finger.

wrapped in the cocoon
of my surname
he ripped at
the silk string walls of liberation
since before he knew
he was a butterfly

working against the confines
rejecting barriers
silently in the dark
he persists fervently
as the wind is unaware

and the world

casual lepidopterists
taking for granted
his dangling from
a rough branch
in the family tree

this larvae
is not unlike other larvae
except for the heart
hanging
exposed in the air
in life
in earnest
in waiting
in not waiting

I wanted him to be
a worm longer than
I would dare admit
because he needed me
still slow and common
but less than I needed the security
of restriction and
my definitions

he pushed
as God intended
pressing beauty out of struggle
flying
against the turbulence of my fear
flying
with the inspiration
that I told him he could do anything
hoping he wouldn't be
quite so eager to do it

but, god, it is glorious
rising above the world
neon hues announcing promotion
on regally scalloped wings -
a banner in the sky
for the coming of age

I dreamt of heights
in secret thoughts
occasionally rebuilding
invisible wrappings around his soul
longing that he would eclipse
my reach

but in the reaching
he would always touch his wing
to mine
just to remind me
that he is never gone forever
but just to color the world
better than it could have been
without him

Flipping tiny pages
She strolls to the table
Apologizing with her quiet eyes.

"Do you need a menu?"
Something on my face tells her
I seem sure of my decision.

There's a hole in her smile
That hangs down to her heart.
"I'll have the chicken fried steak."

I thought I really said, "What's wrong?"
Subserviently, yet sincerely, she is sweet,
Like it's been beaten into her.

"I'll have that right out to you"
Her invisible mental interpreter yelled,
"I wish I could tell you everything."

The order book closes.
Obligations disappear into an apron.
The kitchen draws her in like a space ship.

A hologram of her sadness remains.
Until her lingering spirit is torn by
A gray-hair parade displacing the haze.

Why did I sit next to the bathroom?
Incontinence breeds strange bedfellows,
And I'm feeling more pissy by the minute.

I question my choice of eateries
In demographics, and relevance.
But a 5.89 lunch special trumps pride.

My table in pre-gorge state
Holds electronic slates
And this rigid collection of organizing tools.

Moses' brother shuffles by.
"Is that one of them tablets?"
As I imagine him holding the original ones.

The waitress sidels in, balancing plates
With stuff covered in gravy,
A mis-shapen roll in a basket,

Her reconstructed grin
Not pasted on quite as straight
As the first approach.

The old man displays his yellow teeth
Waiting for her to dismiss herself.
So she does.

"How do ya like that thing," he says.
"It's my brain," I tort.
We fake laugh together.

White coffee cups appear like spring fungus
On every table near me
She is placing and replacing them all

...Again and again
Like she needs a reason
To be nearby.

Then she fills the jellies, and butter pats
Overflowing in make-do bowls heaping
Beyond full, tumbling as little avalanches.

She picks each packet as they fall
In a never-ending fruity fruitless failure
That frames the fabric of her fears.

Through the silhouette of
The antique man
Her hand trembles as she loses faith.

From his wrinkled mouth
Dusty words settled on my head,
"A guy just walked up and shot my son."

His skinny finger pointed like a gun.
"I know how you feel," I offered,
Recently lost my son, too."

His eyes turned from inward to outward.
Patted me on the shoulder.
"Bless you, boy."

"A parent should never see
Their child in a casket."
And he walked away.

I left a $5 tip on a $6 tab,
As if that would lessen her pain,
Or my empathy.

In every scene

The music, whether real or imagined
Sustains our fears and joys
Suspending the resolution in the final act
The baton held high over the finale'
For the happiest ending ever.

Brightly robed seniors scatter
Freshly earned smiles in bunches
For the procession of post-matriculation
Crowned by grandious pomp
With too much circumstance.

The audience stands and applauds.
The curtain is drawn...
Wet-cheeked fans linger in the after-doubt
As parents try to decide what's for dinner
For the rest of their lives.

Returning to their dressing rooms,
The oily-faced stars of 13 seasons
****** backpacks from bedroom floors
While leaving ***** socks and intentions
Believing they will come home again -

But they never really do.

"Bye! I love you!"
Her perfect hair waves goodbye.
A tail of chiffon disappears
Into the halo of brilliant sunlight
Framing her departure.

Shuffling to the window
A voice whispers
"They are gone so fast."
Not the babies.
The years.

Leaves on the maple
Bow their heads in stillness
Wind closes his mouth in respect.
A moment of silence
For the absence of youth.

From the foring branch
The sparrow's eyes reflect my soul
Knowing there is no song for
Such a time as this.
Grieve, sparrow, grieve.

This seizing world surrenders
Reflecting on the change.
Our neighborhood street
Forbids its traffic.
The postcard goes quiet....

      ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A chattering skateboard
Awakens the air
With a mother's touch
Urging the breeze to rise again.
Blow, Wind, blow.

"You're insane!" she screamed, the darkness emphasizing the exclamation point on a two lane country road with the headlights turned off. At 60 miles an hour, the moon mocked her hysteria illuminating only white lines on the asphalt resembling heart beats on a hospital monitor. If the blips stopped, so did our lives.

I laughed believing no one can die at 21. The difference between terror and confidence is a little circle. There is unjustifiable bravery if you hold the wheel in your hands. Begging was followed by crying (which was usually my role on earlier dates) where somehow I found joy in the cruelty. I had driven the road a hundred times before and knew the "Humpty Dumpty" **** and when to hit the gas to make her stomach leave her mouth. Each curve had its own reward and unforgiving consequence. I was sure I smelled ***, but that was okay. It was her car.

Years have past and those memoires had been filed away until I spoke to her the other day.
"When are you going to take me for a ride?"
I should have been torn for a meaning. I'm sure she meant both.
"Lights on or lights off?" I quipped.
"Surprise me."

Lights off.

She screamed twice.

Rousseau lingers in the souls of lethargy. "I know
that [civilized men] do nothing but boast incessantly
of the peace and repose they enjoy in their chains..."

Efficiency is a masquerade for same old,
same old; undaunted herds recycle cud,
new food demands passion.

Allegories of independent thought
paint extravagant ethereal world portraits
in many shades of one color.

Legends are born in feebleness - dilitary hammers
riddle red cap gun ribbons sparking
outrage insufficient enough to make a statement

Let them cry muted cries
in one act plays to empty seats, as they
preen unripe scabs to detour unresolved issues

Yearning is vacant, yea, absent, as an
occasional yeoman's hail song is heard
in the distance milking a lily for a reason to go on

?s are the only things that exist
in reality. No one knows who they are
in the bell tower...they simply ring the bell.

Whittlers
and
old fishermen

lie

as recreation,
personalizing wooden benches
beneath
dirt-soiled overalls

just outside Johnson's

Five and Dime.
Stories piggy-back
legends birthing holy folklore -
religious fables told with bowed heads
in reverence to tall tales.

I'm 53
until the umpire yells
PLAY BALL

I'm 53
until the new kid steps in
and tries to relieve me
from moving the piano

I'm 53
until 10 p.m.
when I look online to see
my kids have a party going on

I'm 53
until I'm at the stop light
next to a guy
with a bigger muffler
and crooked cocky hat

I'm 53
until the boys call
in need of a drummer

I'm 53
until someone mentions
ROAD TRIP

I'm 53
until the young guns
want to wrestle for
bragging rights

I'm 53
until they start a story with
"Remember the time..."

I'm 53
until the Red Hot Chili Peppers
walk onstage

I'm 53
until the college girls walk by
in their summer wear
my stomach
drawing into my chest
and my stroll revives swag
as the cute one turns to say
"Good morning, Sir.
Can I get that door for you?

I am 53.

The Poet says,
"It is easy being a painter.
You only paint what you see."

                                                                              The Painter says,
                                                                              "It is simple being a poet.
                                                                              You only write what you feel."

                                    God says,
                                     "Poet, if you are not a painter,
                                      And Painter, you are not a poet,


Then you are neither."

On Saturday
any Saturday
every Saturday

multi-themed pedestrian parades
pour down commercial corridors
celebrating a holiday known as

WEEKEND.

Middle school queens throw
exaggerated waves
from backseat upholstery tops

in imaginary convertibles marking
the current flow route between
Foot Locker and Game Stop.

Marching throngs display
personal banners on
plastic handled brand bags

drawing peer clusters,
human petaled floats,
vying for ribbons

passing devoutly interested
sideline spectators
now feeling a bit empty

without score cards.

Hippos, thin men, package jugglers
stroll along the branching avenues
labeled in chest advertisements

including everything from
Magnetic Health to Jesus.
No mega-city floatilian

compares to the mall regalia
in a midsize hometown
duck-n-spend.

Though it may be
a little short on free candy
it is still sponsored in part

by Macy's.

Interlocked peddler palaces
reign as shopping centers,
though shopping is the least

of the reasons to be here;
not unlike people going to
a hockey match

are not going to watch hockey,
or partakers in Nascar
don't actually go for racing.

Truth is,
we are all hoping
to see a collision,

Haves with Have Nots,
Lovers with Haters,
Colored Hairs with High & Tights

Refined with Undefined
Talkers with Solitaries
Personal Loathing with Itself.

Unanimously, they all come
for the curiosity of encounter
incalculable, anxious, wanted

or unwanted.

In secret,
dreamers hold royal hopes
praying to Aeropostale gods

pleading favor with credit cards
and a bump in popularity
that if so anointed

the purest of this parade's followers
would be next week's
Grand Marshall.

please read http://hellopoetry.com/poem/629931/in-the-beginning/
before you indulge in this :-) *

DAD'S DREAMS

The Sandman and I have an agreement:
     I will use his grains sparingly,
In return,
     He dispenses my prescription in
Nearly lethal doses.
Deep,
Extravagant,
Peaceful
Sleep
          Where only contented dreams live
                    In abbreviated hours
                    Too succinct
To allow anything unpleasant.

Wrinkled
Sheet-faced
Creases
          Trail skippingly through
                              ****** worlds
                              Utopian neighbors
                              Calorically absent banquets
Sharing property lines with
Idyllic, passionate women
                  Who peer over their
                   See-through fences
                   Teasing unbridled desire
          Of covering me in a favorite topping.

                                            (Dutifully,­ I double check
                                            Nocturnal filters
                                            To be sure I have prevented
Broadcasting of past names
To my present wife
                                  Half-dozing on the pillow
                                  Taken from my side of the bed.)

A mist sets then rises, a new act begins,
        Transporting near the river
        On the banks of my hometown.
         I am Tom Sawyer,
Lounging proudly with
My Huckleberry friends,
         Fishing line on my toe,
                                Bobber and stink bait
                                Mimicking ***** waves
                                On the Muddy Miss.

The string draws taut bending my stubby digit.
          It’s a big one hanging on
          Pulling so hard
          I'm driven from slumber.
There at my feet I can see I have
Reeled in the finest catch of my life.
                                          A blue eyed,
                                          Small mouth offspring
                                          With panting gills
                           Mumbling something about falling....

Then I remember,
        The only thing
        Better than my dreams
        Is waking to a son
                                 Who believes I am bigger
Than all of his.

You cannot make me love you
      but you can make me
wish that I always should have.

If you aren't looking
you will never see them
hidden in whitewashed caste systems
forced to conform
to federal papers
which fit in a folder
that fits in a file
of an emaciated white guy
who doesn't fit anywhere
checking the boxes and "disorders"
voted on by
a majority of uncaught criminals
who are protecting store front lifestyles
while the real merchandise of their lives
lays in the back storage room
with the rats of their conscience.
They judge sanity
setting rigid walls
and hanging permanent badges on
Salvador Dali dream catchers,
borderless thinkers,
and geniuses
of the things not yet discovered.
Just because the gifted can not
or will not
stop thinking,
they are detained for their
Difference.

State Hospital No. 3
titles every page
framed in frayed edges
and unfrayed passion.
Lions of courage stand
with childlike joy
in traveling circuses
obliterating demons of oppression,
overwhelming reoccurring ECT...ECT...ECT.
An etcetera of living
beyond electroconvulsive therapy
where the spelling of ECTLECTRC is perfect
in its grammar and definition,
standing in banners atop
the wide-eyed portraited guardians
of institutionalism.

Glorious art shuddered on a curb,
lost and intended for *******...

Thank God, beauty beholders come
in all ages of eyes.
14 year olds also find treasure
in garbage piles
clutching dearly to the feeling
that greatness lies in colored pencils
dancing on unusual stationary.
Edward Deeds
comes of age
in the same moment
as the scavenging boy does
opening the binders
on their inter-joined journey
36 annuals after dislodging it
from a leftover ham and rye.

A voice is unmuted
merely by being seen.
Revelation is given
by turning on the light.
Art, music and knowledge is infinite
when boxes are destroyed,
ignorance rebuked,
and courage is embraced.

Let us dare to never be
just what we know.
Let us live to be
what we have never yet seen.

I came to Barnes Noble
to feel like a writer,
believing that my proximity to books
would anoint me
kinda in the way
hugging a good-smelling friend
makes you a part of them
if only for a while.
I'll take that...
smelling like a great wordsmith
If just for the time
I rub against them.

                                 So I sit in the museum of
                                 colorful covers
                                 and barcodes
                                 channeling Billy Collins
                                 or Susan Wheeler
                                 (maybe Dr. Suess)
                                 glowing with empowerment,
                                 while my ostentatious
                                 and somewhat snooty tablet
                                 stands arrogantly atop
                                 this cafe table
                                 in parallel unity
                                 with the Caramel Macchiato,
                                 because poets know
                                 Starbucks is Popeye's spinach
                                 for authors.

                                                                                   Then clumsy fingers
                                                                                   pound out
                                                                                   keyboard percussion
                                                                                   swelling into
                                                                                   a privilege of honor
                                                                                   that God would
                                                                                   love us enough
                                                                                   to give us words,

                                                                                   and people,

                                                                                   who will sustain us
                                                                                   in their admiration,
                                                                                   right or wrong.
Where the meager difference between
walking among giants or peasants
will only be known
after we are long gone.
                                              We write
                                                     not so that we are known
                                                            in this moment,
                                                                   but that we will be
                                                                          criticized by the future.

I pray I am hated more than you all
a thousand years from now.

Pounding a bottle of ketchup...
Removing a Jenga log...
Clutching your first standard car...
Attempting the perfect shave...
Pouring motor oil without a funnel...
Befriending a cub...
Cologne...
Taking in strangers...
Measuring hot sauce...
Picking your nose...
Mixing cocktails...
Eating grocery samples at Sam's on Saturday...
Choosing a ski *****...
Explaining goodbye to a blameless lover.

That grin
enviably free of worry
should be an advertisement
for the way things ought to be.

Effusive innocence
casts itself from a
twenty year old snapshot
like juice from a fatted orange
pierced by a thumb
spitting jealous longing
on people who wear pants
giving anything in trade to
erase what they know
about growing up
to sit next to a
gleamy eyed kid
making **** prints in the earth
proudly touting a ***** nose and
Sedona sand on his Underoos.

Must we ever leave there
the paradise of naivete'
devoid of threat
absent of concern
universe of
daddy-can-whip-anyone?

Enemies do not exist
because we have not yet
learned hate.
Joy is first instinct
until we grow into fear.
The world is fig leafs and beauty
before a cynical serpent
has his way with us.

A father begs his son
"STAY THERE! STAY THERE!"
Protection is lost
outside the frame.
There's no recourse
for growing up.

Among 
the buckets
and mops
a man pushes aside  

a sponge hoping to find
anything without a sharp
mildewed stink.
Somewhere he’s hidden
a meaning,
and his soul.
He’s sure.

Before the pails
filled with dank
green
liquid,
before the loss,
before diapers and rent
he dreamt 

of a midwest girl, 

five acres of bluegrass 

kissing the feet of a cabin, 

a horse named Scotch, 

and a secret escape 

near a creek 

where he could fish
...or not.

But today is not about
a childhood dream
never discovered after
hide and seek.
Today, like most days,
he fades into the structure 

with his monochromatic 

gray uniform 

and attitude. 

Children running, 

passing him,
taking him in as inventory.

Desks,
chairs,
chalk boards,
water fountains,
the half man in gray.
If not for bending over 

to pick up 

the page-puckered 

third grade reader, 

his eyes would have never been seen 

or a thank you uttered.

He is only spoken of
in children’s whispers.
The young ones
talk, with fabled tongues, 

of his home in the closet 

with a single 

pull-chain light and 

quickly hung 

supply store calendar 

still lingering 

on January.


Wedged between 

pink soap refills and 

puke litter 

are three tattered photos 

long neglected 

dusty with heartache.

Pigtails and freckles 

frame the eyes 

born matching his. 

Yellowed Kodak moments 

embrace memories departed

but longed for 

in a girl, now woman, 

disconnected and tortured.

A white-haired matriarch 

crayon outlined lips 

around an endless smile 

of fraggled teeth. 

She wears her love and life 

in experience lines 

like rings in a tree. 

He wears her name in a heart 

on the forearm tattoo 

he got an the first anniversary 

of her death.

The last, 
a boy 

strapping 

bat in hand 

trophy at his feet.
Tugging at 

the brace on his knee 

he remembers it more vividly 

than the photograph. 

What he cannot recall 

are the cheers and praise. 

The stench of the closet, like motor oil
and any pre-Monday night,
trumps it all.

He didn't choose today
but today has a way of reminding him
it’s here and stretching on
into forever.
What an icy gambler today is,
seeing our dreams and
calling our bluffs
until we’d simply
settle for “hello”.

As bland as the snow-covered lawn
     I stare
wishing I were as resilient
                          as the scraggly blades of grass
                          refusing to hide their presence
                under the act of God.

     And I stare
                 because I cannot feel who I am today.

The withering bush
                         gives me no hope
                                                       nor
                   the single starving starling
                                             peck
                                             peck
                                             pecking
                                 at the hardened crust
                                      to find a meal.

     And I stare
                         at the absence of humanity
and uncourageous spirits
                                         who hide indoors
     resigned
                         to take this
                    cold, harsh beating
                      without a fight.

     And I stare
                  into a bank of whiteness
becoming blind
                                 with indescription
                                              and anger
     wishing we could build snowmen again.

     And I stare
          until this sheet of ice
                becomes the
                       blanket of false snowfalls
on the living room table
                            nestled artfully beneath
                 the Christmas village.

We construct happy winter cities
                       of Victorian memories that
                                                      we never had
             with pristine houses
             and carolers and sledders
             taken out of boxes
                              all perfect and smiling...

if only...
          if only...
                     if only... I could take him out of his box
and set him here....


     And I stare
                        at the absence of humanity...

praying
I will have the strength
                                      of a blade of grass.

I don't know everything
                                                       unless you ask my wife
                                                       and my daughter
                                         then they will tell you
                                                             ­                  I think I do.

                                  But I never made such a claim.

            Like today,
                               a poem stumbled onto me
                               and dropped a
                                                             "zeitgeist"
                                                    i­nto my finite word bag.

                   Can't say as if
                                            I ever met the man
                               but I discovered him
                                                             ­ and his ancestry
                                                  via
  ­                               the world wide interweb.

           There I found
                                        the zeitgeist of my being
                                                           ­              is both learning
and learn-ed.

                                   Learning
                                                  becaus­e I just did.

Learn-ed
               because I'm pretty good
                                             at Words With Friends.

                                     If all things were equal
                                                          a­nd every soul existed in
              a seven tile universe
                                                 I would be somebody!

                                                      ­Yet
                                              among poets
                        I am plain
                                           with no visceral reactions
                        because that's eight letters.

     However, of this one thing I am sure,
                                     if you trip
                                     and drop a basket
                                     full of blocks
                                     which fall to the letters
                                                    U
          ­                           E
                                                             R
                                           S
                                                       O
                                               I
                                    S
                         ­                            I will turn it into
                                                            ­                   a SERIOUS poem
                                                   (worth 59 points TW and the bingo).

I wish the world
banana seats and ***** bars
chariots of childhood
transports to imaginary kingdoms
erasers of boundaries
freedom makers
brother bonders
vehicles of the delegates of peace
a better way.

Bolted to a heavy metal frame of
metallic green with
ape hanger handlebars
the playing cards clothes-pinned in spokes
making siren noises with our mouths
rope-lashed weapons aboard
discovering creeks
woods
forbidden backyards and
never-before-known games with
barn side lumber and pop cans
double-dog daring inedible things
teasing girls
riding to secret clubhouse meetings and
the playground.

I wish the world
our playground
summers of innocence
bottomless wells of laughter
center of the universe
June to September
ages 8 to 18
bean bags and ringers
tether ball - hand and paddle
basketball and baseball and
box hockey
(where it was encouraged
to give children axe handles and
a softball
to beat through holes
in a 2 x 6 board
defending a goal
with their life and
busted knuckles).
We liked it that way.
We lived as legends.

I wish the world
a bike ride with friends
ending at the playground.
For there has never been a bad day
on a banana seat.

Poetry
stands us on the overlook of the forest
and makes us see the ladybug
in the shade
of an indistinguishable tree.  

Poetry
takes time for the janitor
no one has ever spoken to.  

Poetry
gives voice to the frightened child
and the bird who forgot how to sing.  

Poetry
smells like the garbage in the apartment
of a 5-day drunk
letting us wonder
whether it is his heart or his mind that is broken.  

Poetry
turns a pacifist into a powerhouse.  

Poetry
wraps words into presents
becoming gifts of love
and breaths of life
in our common humanity.  

Poetry
makes us sticky on the floor of a movie house
or bad caramel apple decisions,
and unfortunate one-night rendezvous.  

Poetry
puts portals at impenetrable walls.  

Poetry
brings salvation to the Atheist,
hell to the saint,
equality to both.  

Poetry
makes room for love
regardless how redundant
or naive.  

Poetry
bleeds on our behalf
that we might die a thousand deaths
and live to die again.  

Poetry
makes the forgotten glaring,
the trivial a celebrity,
and illuminates the streets as a marquee
for what had once been insignificant.  

Poetry is a spotlight.
Everything is a star.