All of the dance moms are on their iPhones-
All I have is my notebook.
Pen scratching on paper, I am...

Old school.

An island of last century
In a sea of modern marvels of technology.

sit down, pen and paper scrape together,
come up with something clever.
                                    
                    ­                                     blank mind

stare at the paper-don't doodle!
holding your head in your hand is not writing-
supposed to be writing
all of these skillfully woven thoughts that should be
bursting forth, but aren't.

stop spell checking, do it later. maybe that's the answer:

                                     automatic writing

OK go into trance let the pen and hand dance.
don't think, let the ink flow from the inside to the surface,
you're thinking on purpose...stop it! OK this is obviously not working,
it's just jerking off and it doesn't even feel good, although it should.

Come up with a subject, not abstract thought...wait...thought has no
place here. where is the Muse? I'll blow a fuse if I don't get to use a
clever phrase I turned today. what about childhood walks in the woods,
first love, real love, not in-puppy-love with Jody Foster!

during the day all the stuff that's enough to fill a book gets wasted
and lambasted. I'm mad as hell and here I sit
broken hearted did my time and only started three hours ago.
could have taken a tour by now and, holy cow!, the Tao probably took
less time to write than this night of the living dead man
with two pinky and the brains.

where the hell am I going with this clap trap? this is out of hand, out
of mind-otherworldly. is this all that i am:

                                    meaningless gobbeldy-****

I'm getting spooked. it's time to stop and drop the needle on a different track,
stop the attack sit back relax choose to lose my senses, dulled and lulled into
false pretenses, mend some fences with myself, or else.

Or else, what? Not contemplate, deliberate, speculate, ruminate, investigate,
radiate...KNOCK IT OFF! Just put the pen down, get up, walk out of the room.

Turgid tidal wave of pleasure
                              white noise,
Lust licking at the *****.
Pyroplastic surge of red-meat
raw-***.
             blasting
                  Blasting
                      BLASTING!

Blue calm, still lake,
Sweet breath of life.

The door to my heart
Is ever open.
To step inside requires
The leap of faith that I
Will be there, door open,
Fire burning.

My friends set me up on a date.
"You will like her", they said.
"She has the same interests and
Ideas", they said.
So we went out, she and I.

I discovered that I can't stand myself.

Burgundy, white, black, blue; all in a line.

SUV, 4-door, hatchback, minivan; waiting.

The sun beats down, the air blasts inside,
The calm before the storm-the building pregnant.

Suddenly they come. The students emerge from the womb
Into the outside world. We wait no more.

We pickup our little ones and take them home to be cherished.

There are times when, sitting in my recliner
with my arm draped over the back,
I have a sense of some presence lurking behind the chair
as if a monster is waiting to pounce on and devour
my dangling hand.

Yet it is never to be for I ****** my hand away,
always in the nick of time, to leave the poor monster
Empty handed.

The warehouse of my mind is empty.

Muted blues, like a Miles Davis groove,
begin to fill the dusky expanse.
Deep purples, plums and cherries,
a hint of vermilion,
all flow down onto the floor of my consciousness.

The colors, each separated by a thin black border,
swirl and drain into a wormhole in the floor.

My consciousness follows.

I enter a place filled with bicycles, skateboards,
fireflies, honeysuckle vines, super heroes and pets.

Scenery flashes by in rapid-fire succession like trees
on the side of the side of the road when I was a little
kid, with my head hanging out of the car window
until my mom yelled at me to put my head back in
the car where it belonged.

Quarters
for the washer
  for the soap
   for the games
    for the dryer
     for the dryer sheets
      for the bags
This place runs on quarters.

I'm surprised that the ceiling fans and the lights aren't coin operated
But then again,

I suppose they are.

Your hand nestled in mine:
A warm, silky treasure
By which to measure
Our love.

He is dead, he is dead, he is dead, he is dead,
He once was alive, but now he's not, he's dead.

He lived, he lived, he lived, he lived,
He lived until he lived no more, he's dead.

He's gone, he's gone, he's gone, he is gone,
He was here and then he went away, he's gone.

He is dead, he is dead, he is dead, he is dead,
He once was alive but now he's not...

He's dead.

The best poems are those poems
that evoke much meaning
from few words.

The Best Poems, Revisited

The best poems are those poems
that evoke much meaning
from few words...

Unless one is getting paid by the word,
then you expand on your theme to include
as much as possible-possibly even the kitchen
sink-in order to maximize the profitability of your poem,
filling the space.

But if you are in it for the sheer pleasure of watching the words
form on the paper as you write,
and for the images and emotions-especially the images and
emotions-that are not written or remain unspoken, you stop. You read.
feeling the space.

My dad's look, the look
he gives me when I say or do
something particularly dumb,
usually when helping him work
on the car, and I hand him the wrong wrench.

His steel-blue eyes fix on me and
try to penetrate the fog within me,
searching for the place that will
confirm the obvious:

I must have been switched at birth.

Words honed with love
can pierce the armor
of the heart.

No other weapon wields
such power.

Echoes of laughter come to me
From deep within the chambers of my ship
Where are the voices coming from-
I was alone at the start of my trip.

Are they real or imagined?

Faces appear and disappear
None I recognize as being mine.
They are always watching when I sleep, when I bathe, when I work, when I dine-
All of the time.

Are they real or imagined?

If two years in space have weakened me
What can I expect from the next three?
I can sustain my life, I know
But can I sustain my former reality?

I want to believe it is happening,
and not just a holo-image of my brain.
The visitors are more frequent now-
I’ve made a breakthrough to a higher plane.

Are they real or imagined?
Am I real or imagined?

Ceiling, fans turn.

Wall, clock ticks.

Floor, machines rotate, washing.