reading your poems

this website provides a lovely service
giving the unspoken a megaphone
(even though it's set to one)

many of you are young
thoughts about lost love
about who's who to you

it doesn't get easier, but
at least you can write here
feel safe, loved, famous

like the lust you lost
these pages will fade
a burning candle in a sea
of misplaced memories

so here you are
reading my poem
didn't have to
but did

here the grass look up brunette trunks, branched arms flex their
form is calm, spindly fingers bloom their open palms
there they reach for spreading clouds
encapsulated sounds of gentle leaves, green noise
orange hues through cherry waves of grape and lemon, sweetened
pecks of the sun set in amber—morsels of melody, snipped bits of

things in canon
contrapuntal
sprouting airgerms
fugal, fungal

our window whispers
quiet, low
murmuring at most
breathing slow

there will be time
to know what knowing needs,
time to tell our darkest dreams—
save those thoughts

if the sun does not rise
warm our bodies between the blinds
I want to say I held you in the still
waiting for the day

a not-so-special tree
sat on
that not-so-special floor
inside our trailer.

maybe, driving by
mumbling to themselves,
most would call the scene
forgettable, I suppose They
might think it ******,
but

that not-so-special tree
meant everything to me,
meant waking up late,
meant snowmen and might mean sweets,
foil-wrapped chocolate from the belly of our wooden rudolph.
She hung him high.
He hurried home
with kerosene for the heater.

something was for dinner—
fuzzy memory: folding t.v. tray
in front of the box—

I remember melting kisses
carefully with the kerosene

she is lovely
a bit crazy for details
but at least she cares.
small frame
arms that wrap for miles
squinty eyes
no brows
all smiles.
will work to play
cook in ‘waves
or take us out
to share her pay.
simple
thoughtful
quirky
probably *****
radiantly charming
sometimes smothering
but never annoying, well
maybe a little, but she taught me
to be strong
independent
overbearingly anxious now and again
but sweet and funny and no, mom,
ice cream doesn't make everything better
but the people you share it with do—

have I told you lately...?

the worst part of life  
we spend in a straightjacket
with one cuff undone

n  u  m  b. . .


My      
                                w   a   l   l   s
                                a                  l
          ­                      l     cage      l
                                l                   a
                                s   l    l   a   w

                                                              ­                                                                 ­                                                 solitary

      ­                                                                 ­                     obdurate  C
                                                                ­                                          S       Y
                                                         ­                                              E     C
                                                               ­                                            L

circadian,
inexorable. Crimson orbs see every-

thing. Flaccid thoughts lay helpless

                                                               ­      on my bed.

                                                           ­                                                                 ­     The
lovely
                                                                ­                                                                 lull
                                                                ­                                                                 ­of
blinking

f fl fli flic flick flicke flicker

                                                            f  ­l  i  c  k  e  r  s       f  o  r  e  v  e  r.

Only a fence between the Avon Railyard and my haven:
I lived in her for those good years.
Dark grey blue sides and a white skirt kissing the green weeds,
tugging at her ankles tightly.
New hours, beautifully lit by the light of my television,
were dark, bitter like my fatherʼs coffee,
and sweet as the chocolate milk he mixed for me.
Bowed chords in the treble from rails on wheels of metal,
their songs still steal my breath and remake memories.
I swayed, swooning to sounds of our trains, but
only tunes remain—

I see the reflection of people
made of bronze holding hands
silhouetted on my phone’s screen.
sun casts light on their cast metal frame
through blinds, they peak through windowpanes.

I’m not sure what they like,
who they like, where they like it,
when and why they like it, but who cares?
(In a perfect world who would care?)

They seem happy…
                                                                                                             I look away.

The club is small and dark and hazy
like the veiled comedy of minstrel performers.
Those dingy lights do little for the atmosphere—
dangling hemp from clouds of cigarette smoke.

This hole is filled with the classy of day and the
sassy of night—a real “blue material” kinda crowd.
Harry, the manager, after calling quarter and five,
booked some awful oleo acts just minutes before
“places!”

—The crowd sits on their hands ‘til they’re numb
and lame like the fish they watch flop on the boards.
Two acts down followed by some soot-covered
clown’s lazzo about who’s who and what’s what.

Give me a break! The crowd wants fresh fish to fry—
Girlies in pearlies with spun out legs that tower
the torsos they’re pinned to. Give them that
New York Style Cheese-cakewalk Variety Act!

The listless listeners of this K.A. circuit let out a
snake-like hiss, en masse. (The only show stoppers
are off the billing, stage left at some other club!)
The manager thinks fast like a quick change act—

Harry snatches a prop from the nearest kook—
In a long brown bathrobe, with a broad brown cane.
He hushed the crowd of loud, jeering jerks, in one
swift swoop of his leg-breaking, knockout **** called
The Vaudeville Hook.

Conversation has become
A chain of phrases, one by one.
Motions are rehearsed in song
Like YouTube Comments, in the wrong.

Trolls are lawling in their crypt
Of rocky couches. They’re the hip
Of fame for ten plus five, or
Replies so long you must ‘See More…’

People say:

           ‘Century twenty plus one—
           Where things are thought and said and done
           In Memes—We have epic skill.’
           Say this, we always will.

Few have seen ROFLcopters
Fly between before and afters.
From ones who make no livin,
Not a single **** was given

About Chuck Norris being
A bible-thumper (or being
A terrible actor). Nah.
The Interwebs is home for all.

People might say:

           ‘Century twenty plus one—
           Where things were dreamt and wished and done
           In words—They had all the skill.’
           Say this, we hope they will.

The fad of freedom is gone.
Forums closed. No statuses on
Facebook. Nothing has been kept
In life after the Internet.

How did this happen to US?  
Z-Day and the Day Zero fuss
Released Mayan, canny *******?
Our demise was writ, bit by bit.

People will say:

           ‘Century twenty plus one—
           Where things were lame but lots of fun
           For free—Then they passed the bill.’
           Say this, we know they will.

The avunculicide of Sam
Reveals the brighter side of spam.

After you’ve been home for quite awhile,
With enough time to eat and drink the fruits
of the daily grind, once you have watched your
favorite show and talked your favorite talk,
Their eyes tease the thought mused by many.

You decipher the lucid expression on their face
in no time at all, or in enough time to find their lips
pursed tautly against yours, and they say,
‘Every time we say goodbye’…as they lead you
to the digs of dreamland, you wonder why a little.

You caress the thought chewed on by most as they
****** your hand. (Your arm barely fondles the burly walls
of the hall they lead you through and through to the room
at the end of the corridor.)

You trip over a laundry basket for two. They laugh,
help you up, looking in your eyes, perforating the retinas
like those cheap knives at some tacky store. You make it
to the door, it creaks open just a crack to click the little flicker back.

The space is small but roomy, with enough slack to let on a bed,
with plenty of fixtures to plug plugs into pluggers or whatever you
call them. You stalk the sack without the stigma that pillowed its petals.
You pull back its folds to reveal the nectar between its leaves.
Fresh linen. Smells like the breeze. They say, ‘Turn off the lights.’