We come to a complete stop.
At a red light.
We wear our arms like seat-belts-
crossed for protecting our pilot lights.˚
I can't help but wonder how many airbags might deploy
if a meteor crashed headfirst and heavyset into the planet
and pancaked us eternally into this moment-
and how our fossils would look confused;
funeral flowers on a wedding cake.

None of this matters, we're both thinking it,
God is a foster child playing with his erector set.

You grin with as much conviction as a dented automobile,
breaking the months of silence to say,
"I miss you."

We can never fold these road maps back the way they came.

Somewhere existentially above this moment, there is an asterisk
that confirms
you- are here.

There was a younger version of me that you never got to meet,
he was here once,
stupid as a slinky.
Shaken like an Etch-A-Sketch.
Crooked as the question mark that punctuated his voice.
I looked good in hydroplane,
my eyes- bigger than my belly,
so I drank my weight in promises- I knew would be hard to keep within arms reach.
I also knew an encyclopedia's worth of how it felt to lie to myself.
I did it for twenty-three years
until I finally let go of stupid and held on to reason.

At some age I wrote letters to my favorite musicians,
using the sloppiest side of my penmanship, I'd ask for answers
and my mother, like a paperclip, used to tell me - she'd say,
"Kiddo, just because they don't respond
doesn't mean they didn't get the message."

She kept her chest of hope upstairs, away from the living room.
She only opened it on the hallow end of October;
that's where she kept the blankets.

Shy, I kept my hope chest covered in a T-shirt-
at the very least.
I never opened up.
I emptied my toy box of all its fiction, filled it with voices.
Deployed an army of rubber wrestlers, martial arts amphibians
and those inanimate toy soldiers with plastic parachutes attached
in search of the confidence I knew was supposed to belly-flop inside of me.

It hid, unfound for decades.
Until you entered.

Hawaiian domino effect, circus of chain reactions, avalanche of affirmation, chest-plate yielding gravity mouth speaking brightest anything forever night light, all apex and eyelash and cheekbone.
You -from big island- broke me.
I opened like the dry side of an umbrella, kept my back turned for shielding you.
I showed up for love on time, like a subway train in echelon city
wanting these arms to feel less like turnstiles.

All my sign languages were in waves.
All my ceilings turned to skies.
All my jitters packed into my hunger stomach.
Typing hyper with caffeinated hands
a swarm of nervous words bee-hiving in my butterfly chest.
Something like a hummingbird
when I finally drop your name like an alarm clock whisper
my lungs empty like cathedrals on the day after Christmas.

I brought the sermon to your Sundays,
you brought the choir to my masses.
We built a church around these esophagus bell towers.
Held ourselves up to the stained glass and showed off our light;

I swear I don't believe in a lot of things, God knows,
but there's always a but,
so much as I believe in the eternal depth of everything,
so much as I believe that we'd have plenty of water if it weren't for salt,
so much as I believe in eight marbles rolling around a gas lamp,
I believed we'd find a way.

'Cause in all the ways my sky could never hold you- and I mean this-
I believed in you- same way some people believe in Jesus.

Because you never judged my albatross mouth when I said things like,
"Self deprecation is the new love."
You kissed me-
less like doorstop,
more like lighthouse illuminating windmill.

You were a merry-go-round pivot decorated in Kona coffee beans, Christmas lights, cough syrup, paper mache pineapples, plastic dinosaur bones, a collection of worn-out Asics, board shorts and a dubstep remix broadcast through the static of a blown-out rotary phone.

You were everything I could get my hands on-

A full-tilt action-packed kaleidoscope jungle
with blender tongue and volcano heart.
I looked good in your sad panda coat tails,
teaspoon swallowing my doubts
while you Tarzaned my ability to breathe,
gave me ocean view and weak knees.
Is that sea breeze in your aftermath or are there already tears in my happiness?

You came camouflage out of my blind spot dressed in magnet armor,
diving board and drum set.
We passionbent cymbals into cannonballs.

I found comfort between your breastplate and your shoulder blades,
where you held me like a promise
when all my wishing was for want
and all your wanting was for wishes

Granted,

I know that there were days when you couldn't help but wake up like gorilla speaking Pidgin
and I couldn't help but waking up like an abandoned highway with a chip on my shoulder-
some maps don't show this much detail, Google Earth-

Which is why I always came through for you like a well-lit citrus truck stop
pressed against the dusk in your moonlight life crisis.
We only saw stars.
From our moon base.
In bewilderment, in our hunger, we learned
that if you hold me to my vending machines you'll get what you pay for.

So here it is, the truth, as I have always known it,
delivered to you on the outskirts of an echo,
my voice, supporting my existence like a monolith.

I'm standing in the middle of a you-shaped hole.
It's as wide as a promise crater-
we built it together.
It's not my favorite place to stand
but the exit strategies are made in the shape of a me that I haven't constructed yet.
I had a lot of things planned.
I referred to things as "ours",
when I really meant "please".

Bury me in your time lapse.
When your emotional excavators discover me in your sediment
they'll find me all pterodactyl-
wings spread wide as potential, sky-diving toward forgiveness,
forever.

Truth is, I'm wingless.

We met at a stop sign.
Our paths crossed.

There's a lot of accidents at some intersections.
Maybe it's because that's not where those two roads were supposed to meet.

We can't time machine argue with the way things landed.

We weren't an avoidable accident.
We were just two cars that really wanted to dance.

I don't know what I'm trying to say but I know when I mean it.

There's a tyrannosaurus rex cradled head-to-tail just behind my curator heart-
all fossil spine, monster teeth, jaw head and piano hands.
His presence says a lot about the past.
There's an asterisk on the surface,
above this moment,
that confirms with absolute certainty,

˚something wicked awesome happened here.

On our knees, working the naked Ken
to mount the clueless Barbie, making
them moan, screaming, "O! O! O! O!"
Dumb toothsome puppets, self-satisfied,

bubble gum Corvette, her small ***, huge knockers,
and nothing proven or dared, solving
bodies unlike those we pushed so hard against —
me and my Easy Bake, you and your erector set.

I'm going through old desk drawers.
Changing rooms, moving down to the basement.

I must finally be a twentynothing after all these years.

I'm going through old cards,
Things I never had the heart to throw away.
My mom calls me a pack rat,
Says I'm a hoarder.

Maybe she's right,
But I still can't fault myself.
I pack away memories, hoard treasures of information and sentiment.

The base layer of sediment for my being.

In one drawer I find an old model airplane,
From an erector set when I was young.
I remember building it with my dad--
The propellor still turns.

How could I throw it away?

Even now, I think I'll keep it.
And look on it, some years hence,
And remember, as I do now.

I have dozens and dozens of cards.
Birthdays, graduations, christmases, milestones, achievements.

In them I read emotion poured out,
Words too sappy for speech,
Too thick and viscous.

In cards they flow like fine wine,
Aged perfectly.

I have old poems,
Written seven years ago and more.
Hundreds and hundreds of them.

In them I see leaves of growth.

Old friends are enshrined within the ancient artifacts of these dark burial tombs;
I open them and reminisce fondly.

These things are proof that I was here,
That I existed,
More so than my bones could ever be.

They show a person, a being--
A life.

Inanimate objects are no less alive than we, dear friend.

They are endowed with our spirit,
And their memories will long outlast our corporeal selves.

Pack away your memories,
Hold them close.

They are not trash,
Despite whatever your mom might say.

i got this picture in my head ,

a dark labyrinth blue,

faces in the crowd,

but wait, then it's just you,

i see my silver erector set,

i can build you buildings when it's bright,

i see the leaves falling down, it's autumn out tonight...



i can see the sandy beaches,

and the line i drew in the sand,

though that was many years ago,

you still tell me to take your hand,

i see it all a little clearer tonight, than i did before,

but i was a ****** back then,

and i always wanted you more,


as the painting of the picture gets clearer in my mind,

i try to refocus on little things i left behind,

like the time way back in my mind,

when I thought the world was cool,

seventeen and full of everything but you,

I think I can smell your perfume now, are you walking in the door,

mom I really miss you now, much more than I have before,

little things like just talking to you,

you busting me when I was ******,

how you always told me I was going to be something great,

now you've left me on my own....

I wish you were here to push me **** it,

I'm all dried up inside,

no motivation to do anything except maybe write.....



I feel I have to leave this place where the autumns chill my heart,

leave the memories of you and make a new head start,

build a fictional past with my new beginnings,

and forget all that I've gone through,

but there's not a chance,

not even a maybe,

that I'm going to forget you.


I miss you momma.

rattling prattlers straddling the erector set
injecting discontent in unarmed encampments
antagonizingly protagonisic double fister
resists the insistent reminiscers lists
of misplaced catfish….
switching grisly wrists braces
the faceless rapists playlists
include only pop hits from 1996….
You finish this  --

There once was a season
for each vintage treasure
spread out on the flea market tables -
items once useful and perhaps a mite cherished.
each with a story to tell.

An Erector set unwrapped in a flurry
on the floor by the Christmas tree -
a bridal quilt for a favored niece
and a hutch from the castle of their dreams.

A clarinet with tarnished keys
rests in a velvet case
whose weekly treks to the music studio
ceased how many decades ago?

A row of antique watches that
used to mark the fleeting hours of
anonymous men and women
sits neatly arranged in a glass top case.

Time advances without mercy
for all that we've left behind
and the flea market speaks eulogies
for our fallen artifacts:
too dated to keep - too dear for the dumpster.

All are for sale now -
(everything is negotiable).

I stroll slowly from aisle to aisle
where shades of my childhood
awaken to merge with the present:
The new Schwinn bicycle
I rode that bright Christmas morning
when the church bells rang
throughout the falling snow.

and there's our wind up victrola
that spun out Sinatra tunes
from the laced covered table in the parlor.

Any of this can be yours for a price
(everything is negotiable)
except for the turning of the wheel.

*July, 2015

I tend
Like ambling child
To erector construction
Jamming thought in quip
Undoing linguistically threaded intersection
Hopefully without catch

I cogitate
I need supervision
Or I might gobble up the apparatus
Choking on a plastic word

There was once a man who lived only on a moment-to-moment basis
That man was named I
And he brought the wind of a thousand starry butterflies
To the ears of ***** and things that never heard of such words
His life was broken down to be consumed by troglodytes of stone
And everything was left the way it was
Because in the brief glimpse of unattainable wonder and profound and intense clarity
He and all the others knew that it was but a fleeting glimpse
And that language and experience had permanently marred the white glimmering crystal of pure lucidity
Nothing was as it could be ever again and choices were made like computers programmed to make them
As a great cataclysmic storm of righteous godly entropy funneled itself
Through a sieve of perception
Granting all the trembling palmers the strength to carry the burden
Weighted in the sarcophagus of matter and form
Eudiamonia left forgotten on the slopes’ broken ladders to ecstasy
in union with god in harmony, onward christian soldiers
For all was contained within the realm of everything that was before
And even the forgotten was not forgotten by the whole
As the egg grew larger and smooth to the touch
The ******* son of Pan and Athena threatened forever to crack the brilliant shine of that crystal egg
And then something else happened in the middle that I forgot about until just now
Because I was left unfinished as the sculpture of flawed marble
On the workshop floor of Michelangelo
Words! yes language is the mind
A construction mathematical and taken for granted
The one great masterpiece bequeathed by Nature
Was the squishy erector set built in perfect logical syntax
Only to be rediscovered by its own unknowing creator
The Sublime is but profound confusion

BLOOD,SWEAT & BEERS

New dawn new day cup of joe to begin the day,starting in line helping to create more urban decay

Waiting out winters feeding the flock, spring warmth brings bringing ceaseless hours for that new crop

Daily mail brings new news while men in a truck pick up the muck,while another prepares to make repairs while caught up in the drudgery  

Clerks & cashiers line up with peers at home behind desks or registers ,more & more simply wanting to beat that clock

Many in uniform protecting the rest from the next storm ,defending all of us & themselves stubbornly

Famous factories forged many generations in fire ,painting a lifestyle for many to admire,building a nations foundation in solid rock

Times change ,full circle to a broad range ,equal rights brings new light ,hoping to help move many upwardly

Wheels of rubber or of steel always moving ready to help seal a deal ,someone at the helm across the nation or around the block

Many more labor with lumber like ants on erector sets,from floors to steeple ,finalizing with grass & shrubbery

Miles of coastline mean fisherman don't flounder,line or net they get what they get anything to feed the ever growing flock

Others eager to learn for new knowledge they do yearn ,teachers take on the task to guide the classrooms fortunately

So paid in  sweat equity or in blood for the brood,  many gather at the end of the day
but never forget to tip the barmaid or tender at your local brewery. R.C.

When I was a kid, I couldn't wait
For the arrival of Christmas Eve.
What was hiding in those boxes?
What were we kids going to receive?

A BB gun, a pogo stick,
And roller skates were fun to get.
Games were exciting, as were a nifty
Microscope and erector set.

Through the years, although receiving
Such presents surely gave me a lift,
A gift certificate to Pickwick
Bookshop was my favorite gift.

I don't mind admitting that I
Was probably a nerd--a geek.
Other kids and I were on
Different wavelengths, so to speak.

Dad would drive me to Hollywood,
Gladly, but still always remarking
How it was a nuisance to have to
Drive so far and pay for parking.

On entering the giant shop,
Dad told me to go explore
That fascinating, multi-level
World of words--books galore!

Explore I did. It didn't take me
Long to have my books in hand.
The feeling you get is one that only
A bibliophile would understand.

Pickwick Bookshop's no longer there.
But I am grateful that I had
Those end-of-the-year book adventures
And spending special moments with Dad.

-by Bob B (12-16-19)

I am a temperamental, dissociated mannequin
expulsing convective heat profusely
into the pores of the unforgiving
pleather padded,  worn-out gaming chair
for the past twelve hours of a grueling
dungeon battle and boss battle.
The sweat dripping down my erector spinae
puddling at the bottom of my overused
flannel that I washed a week ago.
The thickness of the air is pungent
and hovers over my keyboard and mouse.
The dark cave of my existence is plenty.
Yes I understand that my reality is fluid,
it shifts from universe to universe
depending on my temperament
and I hardly have time for my own world.
The satisfaction of fiction is fleeting
but that is why I keep joining the lobby.
Time after time, endless hours of adventuring
in the dark of my parents basement.
Because this reality is much easier not  being in it.

Though descendent of Jews,
I feel boggled at the brutal,
nasty and wanton war between
Israelis and Palestinians.

Many innocent victims
bred to know and hate their enemy
impossible mission
to reconcile one Semitic
group of peoples from another.

The ****** English
begat and fomented
debacle between Israelis and Palestinians.
little more than a century ago,
particularly usurping territory
courtesy aggressive premise
might makes right.

The human species
hell bent on making war
reprisals rank as a *****,
and can never even the score
I harken back to childhood,
when our family lived
at Lantern Lane, and the Dailey's
(who threw rocks at Georgie
our Dalmation/Boxer)
rightfully earned before their time
the title fear thy neighbor

an altercation such
as aforementioned above,
would easily earn a spot
on Investigation Discovery
though deadly crimes violently *******
reenacted minus the explicit killing
fields not healthy for children
and other living things,
nevertheless even the most pious
and peace loving
exhibit fervent ****** ardour
if kith and kin held at gunpoint.

The annals of civilization
since time immemorial
replete with chronicles
of battlefield bravura
touting (with laurels of profuse praise)
for ultimate sacrifice
unnaturally, unstintingly, and unwaveringly
bravely giving oneself
to father/mother land.

Beneath the surface of the skin
we all bleed;
mortal kombat inked
in Mesolithic Europe
likewise dates to circa 10,000 years ago,
and episodes of warfare appear
to remain "localized
and temporarily restricted"
during the Late Mesolithic
to Early Neolithic period in Europe.

Idyllic as the fantastical utopian yen,
I feel pessimistic patriarchal wheelman
who steer autocratic
leviathan of state (witness Tiananmen
Square student-led demonstrations
known in Beijing, China
as the June Fourth Incident
lasting from 15 April to 4 June 1989)
cuz twentieth century ruthless demagogues

wanted to squelch
pro-democracy movement,
and not only stole demonstrators thunder
but forcefully co-opted with lightning force
their toys (such as:
sophisticated erector set and playpen
for dolls loving buoys Barbie and ken
the former coming to life
as a miniature equestrienne
experiencing magical realism.