"mezzanine" poems
lady craighead played the blues
on a stand-up samick
in the ***** room
along side the parsons project
and squabbling dogs
and night moves
stairs creek
up the mezzanine trek
wool sheets slide
on finished floors
little angels
play late into the seventh
(a closing match nearing
the midnight hour)
croaking toads and cicada
sing in the blue moon
musty smells and mothballs
settle deep in the vault
the kettle boils
and cat coils
as the pump house rolls
its heavy drawl
the red phone rings
and bird clock sings
(behind the ruddy stall)
a sleeman variation of the ruy lopez
employed heartily
by the incomparable master jack
marble toast burning
wringer wash churning
chris craft running
near the old carp canoe
rooster calls
and west wind squalls
rustle through the porch screen door
chicken *** pies
and rogue flies linger
a rocker chair placed
near the sepia face
(softened by the intricate frame)
donkey in tow
(with a fastened ***
maggie in her dreams
of green tambourines
the nocturnes
reflections
and whispering gospel bells
tractors pull on
the grinder stone
horses lay still
in the mid-day sun
a trump card is fingered
at the furnace click
(crosswords and puzzles are next!)
while the sparrow
*and that **** rabid fox*
are drowning
deep in castles well
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
Her shoulder rose like the moon
above the black velvet of bolero jacket
She took his arm, his eyes--
An apogee
She took the room
in reverence
So slowly
shed the mountains
shed the light
hand to touch their wonder
Gazing after
her noiseless ascent
which never happened
while they watched....
Pearls—
roll against warmth
luxuriating offspring
cool encircling
contents iridesce
their energies’ warning:
Nothing quite that simple
Nothing quite that still
Nothing like the opulence
on the Proud Eve of catastrophe
Pearls—
caught in the lining
of what never happens the first time....
She heard them before she saw them
rip their orbits!
fission her universe!
in the mezzanine of the symphony hall
Pin ball in the Fun House
Bingo bounce
off—
the hardwoods of space....
Universal Theory of Scatter?
Even now I can still hear the clatter
of their round smooth souls
in the doorways of distant relatives
How could I know?
You would condemn me
to find them all?
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 8:31 PM UTC
Unapologetically Human
I am **** on the mezzanine
facing the darkened wet road
illuminated with acrid yellow tube light
better reds and blues surround towering palm trees
wooden fingers of ancient giant hands buried below
growing leafy green nails stretching skyward
little things, orange ribbons, endless cricks and dollops
bobbles and winches
Spirits
Play among the windmills
climb to the top of trees and sing into the warm wind songs of *** and heartache
as the universe ruffles along
Dive head first into the opponents forehead
grind the sand into his flesh with ram like resolve until the skin is red,
determine to die
This life is worth proving,
the stars are worth gazing,
and this body is worth bathing in the Maui air with naked delight
The ocean calls to my heart
water is a true lover whispering, kissing
inescapably feminine
I submerge my soul in joyful waves
always the tides follow the moon
like my silly heart, eclipsing
both light both night both day
simultaneously cycling
fully the light shines and our eyes perceive shadow faces in the dark blanketed clouds
the mountain gargoyles stand as titans, forgotten creatures
shoulders and heads, waiting for the moon ball
the ocean moon, tranquil bays
the air is sweeter with you near, a distant thought
cast about the horizon, the sun melting easy golden into my dreamy eye,
bless my drunken lips
dripping doltish songs into the friendly night
Wrestling with bulls of men
we kept our shirts on this time, yet blood was drawn in the sand
we madly danced in the moonlight to clapping hands,
kicking feet and knees
the ceremonial struggle toasting the stars
bottles were shared, some puffed on cigars
Come surf with me in the morning
or anytime the sun shines
even under moonlight would I meet you and we could paddle
come fill your heart with life and lust and romantic passions idyllic as freshly fallen snow undisturbed by worldly concerns
be not abashed for this embrace is a natural wonder of the soul,
join me,
forget what words of yesterday the prophets of doom chant,
we make our own tomorrow
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 1:48 AM UTC
I was watching the
Nutcracker,
stage drinking blue
The violins
pizzicato,
pizzicato
the wood sprung floor
breathing with the knock
of ballet shoes
I was watching the
Nutcracker,
sitting in the
mezzanine,
Mezzanine
the red kiss of
cherry wood and
green,
I live in
the mezzanine
I was watching the
Nutcracker,
peering into the
pit,
a small gap in the
stage floor where
I could see your
wrist,
holding your bow,
swaying your
bow,
pushing back and forth making my
carpal tunnel
ache, oh your
bow
I was watching the
Nutcracker
and you were playing
the score
Tchaikovsky
Tchaikovsky
beneath the
stage floor
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC
We sit next to each other
In the mezzanine
Of the crowded theater
Our matching purple outfits
Far too dressy for the occasion
But who cares
We look **** good
You put your hand out
Palm up
And look at me
As I smile
My coy, giddy smile
And place my hand on top
Interlacing my fingers with yours
The lights dim
And the show starts
But you never let go of my hand
Even when it gets weird and clammy
You never pull away
Even when I snort into your shoulder
And wipe away my laughing tears
You still hold onto me
You gently stroke my arm
Your warm thumb
Against my smooth bicep
And I can't help but smile
I look over
And catch you staring
Which makes me blush
And get coy again
The mezzanine
The balcony
The floor
It all disappears
When I feel your touch
Your light touch
Just glide over my skin
I float to another dimension
When you lean over
And kiss my cheek
Only coming back
To the mezzanine
When I open my eyes
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 10:19 AM UTC
I felt it first –
the day we wore waterproof boots in Amsterdam in August,
an unexpected storm did little to disturb us
I began to notice it then
the secret in this town that everyone, except me, knew about
Something that was hushed and passed around
under the blanket of moon
hidden away in a fiercely dark room of the Red Light
beneath maroon velvet curtains and leather-topped stools
or nestled beneath a bridge on the black canal past midnight.
I saw water dotted with blurred droplets, dark blue
the reflection of milky streetlights.
I pull the curtains in the mezzanine and the show begins
on the street below. I look out.
A curve of the lips
a gentle folding of the arms
a hand brushing against another
A secret never told
A city more alive than awake.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 10:14 AM UTC
Ideas are darkened figures,
built upon pigments and ideas.
They can whip through gallery doors,
the canteen,
across mezzanine floors.
Ideas are hotel love affairs,
with their take away trays;
they’ll check up on you
every once in awhile,
with a phone call diverted from
the Hotel Lobby’s, binary file.
Ideas are those ghosts of girls,
pale skinned beauties that’ll pass you
in the street,
only to unfurl at the feet
of some other man
as a fireside treat.
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 9:38 AM UTC
A place newly freed from the grips of its mother
Struggles with the rules that keep the mezzanine from
Crashing down.
1) The official and ever-wanted right to speak one's mind
In a way only they can do. Religion, politics,
Every matter ever opinionated.
2) If a man entered your home and threatened
Every loved one that lived there, would you want to be helpless?
Defenseless? Or would you **** or maim to protect
Your family? A gun, a knife, and the right to do so?
3) Many people would be honored to house a soldier.
Simple as that, but what if they didnt?
Money is tight, there is no room? And they are sick of giving up
Their own beds and food for a soldier fighting for
Something they do not agree with?
Preventative measures are needed.
4) Nothing to hide, but constantly searched.
Is privacy really that unimportant?
No; it is important.
5) A crime, a trial; it should be obvious.
The same crime twice? Impossible.
Self incrimination? Non existent.
6) The right to know what you've been accused of,
To have a quick trial with an attorney and witnesses at your defense.
Imagine having no clue, and suddenly having a gun to your head?
7) A crime done by you or another,
And a jury to help the decision, but not step in the
Judge's place. Simple discussions of which laws applied and not
No longer took place.
Sed lex, dura lex.
8) The banishment of cruel and unusual punishment,
Outrageous fees payed for bail, pain inflicted in strange ways.
The morality of punishment made into law.
9) A common arrangement that an individuals rights,
Not written in the constitution, are secure and valid.
Yet, for some odd reason, it had to be added to prevent
Violation of these rights.
10) Finally, the abilities of each individual state
To decide and enforce for its own people.
The individuality each separate place craves and
Wants as a child wants his own decisions to be made.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC
Hit too hot hit too hot
Now my throat burns
Watching Workaholics
I'd say Blake is my favorite
His hair is cute I like his face
Wild red hair creating umbrella space
Flick the engraved Zippo the gift from wifey
Blunt in the bowl smoking
Spent ten on a three
My other lover might sit with us soon
Three in a room sharing hands
Possibly kisses, massive attack
Playing mezzanine we'll either touch
Each others' skin or carry conversation
As it turns out I've found peace with
Either outcome or any other potentiality
While it's pleasing to be receiving I'll be
Lying if I tell you I don't appreciate the fine
Details in simply spoken word between us
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 2:38 AM UTC
Fittingly meticulous, finicky
Precisely mitigating routine
Tracing excessively
Over cornered mezzanine
Stray penciled lines
Candidly contrived
Archaic dossier
Balanced centers
Unavoidably erase
Guiltily lost the way
Confused compass oscillates
Irregularly unanticipated
Perpetually transitory
Tender heart insecurity
Ego sensitivities in vain glory
Sacrificed arrogance dignity
On the day of defeat
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 4:29 AM UTC
You were in the mezzanine
By the dugout of your favorite team
And when you tore your dress
They got it on the mega screen
Well, even the next day
After the attention went away
Your picture found its way
Into a girly magazine
Well, you did your walk of shame
And it became your name
But at least you got your 15 minutes
Of televison fame
On that summer day
Where your crotch was on display
And bad luck for the home team
Cause no one could watch the game
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 9:41 AM UTC
Mr. Ivories
entertains with elan,
daily during cocktails on the mezzanine level.
Jolene always orders a Black Russian,
mine is a Dewar's and water.
We drop a fiver in his basket on the Steinway,
along with a request for "Ebb Tide",
Jolene's personal favorite.
He conjures an image of Fred Astaire at keyboard,
his tails flipped elegantly over the piano bench,
like long black raven's plumes.
Jolene points out two announcers from CNN,
seated opposite. Makes us feel
important by mere association.
Our waitress asks, would we like another round
before the hour's end, as we speculate
about Mr. Ivories' musical propensity.
Time escapes in moonlit harmonic vapors,
leaves us already longing our next soiree.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 12:07 AM UTC
No laughs and no apologies
The door was left ajar
“You may assist yourself at the mezzanine.”
girls cascade as men pose
strategically
in shark skin suits
like swimming tessellations
corners fit against corners
bait fish schools
Moving in murmurations
No one ever looks up
at the ocean top glass ceiling
Their eyes are aimed downwards
waiting to see a massive shadow rising up
from the sea floor
No one knows what goes on down there
down where the sand is so cold,
where the flesh of the bait fish drift and
the ***** pick at remnants on whale bones.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 2:47 PM UTC
Muddy shoes beside her bed
Thoughts of you inside her head
Sheets that smell of gasoline
Been a long night for the beauty queen
Light flickers from a distant fire
Ask for the truth, she'll be the liar
The sight of you it turned her mean
Kiss and tell on the mezzanine
She's not one to reckon with
That was your last forever lasting kiss
*Chair propped up against the **** of the bedroom door*
Guess that oughta even up the score
Muddy shoes beside her bed
Thoughts of you inside her head
Sheets that smell of gasoline
Been a long night for the beauty queen...
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 7:43 AM UTC
Almost a year since the presence was known, gave me time to roam,
she was busy gardening an idea that couldn't be grown.
Times change. The mind got rearranged. If I stepped in untimely then I'll burn too quick in the fame.
My past is in the past and she's not one to be passed. But I'm not sitting in crosshairs because I've already got my own aim.
I can't start something that has no substance, or at least a hint of,
But a constant trajectory to the revolving door is what I could easily get sick of.
I have my own value, sad & true. If there's no space to place it then I guess I'm just passing through.
For now, I'm giving it time to see what the ride might brew.
I'm all in. Take every inch, every thought, every sin.
I don't trust a soul because there tends to be bite behind every grin.
If you want all of me there's a simple recipe:
Be true to yourself and then I'll bring the mess of me. Restlessly.
I can sense the powerful energy.
Life is what you make it. I've grown with every ache and confronted anything I've been faced with.
When you concoct your potion hope it's not poison it's laced with.
If you mean every word, bird, we'll paint the sky with our symphonies.
Make rainbows jealous with our palette of memories,
Sitting tight, sipping fine wine as you bring out the best of me,
Turn the atmosphere on it's head while we chill in our new heavenly mezzanine.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 11:52 AM UTC
stand like that, babe,
don't undress, tonight
stand, looking at the moon,
stand, turning your **** to me.
oh as I imagine the
moist gingerholes that lie
behind those cheeks.
oh the borderline:
mezzanine - that's polite
for everything fine
on the bottom floor, isn't it?
what's the word for it -
paroxysm? stand that way:
no sight like hindesight,
as they say, flashlight,
watertight, those plugpoles
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
I’m just so tired
of carrying around these heavy bones,
of synthetic smiles and empty words,
of meaningless ***
of dreams that cling to the sides of my head;
this chewed up, spat out,
sticky, deformed hope—
the kind you unknowingly step on,
carry with you for awhile
and notice suddenly
with a face twisted in disgust.
The same reeking kind you spend hours
digging out of the soles of your shoes
with a broken stick.
And just I’m tired.
I’m tired
of ******* the poison out of this wound,
of tasting its hot, tinny infection,
of the uncertainty of recovery,
of your one-man audience.
I’m tired of being tired,
and I’m tired of admitting
that I was a naive enough
to offer up the best parts of myself
to something pining for so much less.
I
will never be
less.
I’m tired, but I’m here.
I’m here, and I’m searching.
When I find myself again,
when I regenerate all of those best parts,
I won’t be tired.
I’ll be this amazing
*************
spectacle,
and I’ll make sure you and less
have the finest mezzanine seats
for the one thousand mic drops
I always knew I had in me.
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 3:37 PM UTC
Walking in the procession, I see roses
fall from a mezzanine ---
had their purchasée been slighted?
*Rough tumble with the wife perhaps?
Girlfriend who's seen her "prince" deknighted?
A child's impulsive toss?*
Women in the procession
reach out, ***** the breeze.
Some rose is trampled.
Between rush of feet,
I see them thornless, likely perennial ---
a hue that reminds one of injury.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 7:28 PM UTC
I'm stuck sitting in
the mezzanine,
legs-crossed in
the dark
being pulled
so many ways,
and I'm praying
*beam me up,
beam me up
for the love of symphonies and
melodies,
abstract orchestral harmonies,
beam me up.*
and I'm crumpling plans
in my hands
that I've went over and over
diagrams
of how to
work-things-out
which way to lean in-
to the wind and when
to let it pull
me up
These wings aren't
made for
flying
or softening
my fall,
and my arms weren't made
to find somebody new.
My hands weren't made
to take the pain
of the push, the grab, the pull
of knowing
I'm not
going up,
beaming anywhere with you.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 2:25 PM UTC
As light grows dim I'm wakened to those thoughts
that are so easily drowned out by the cacophony of my life.
Ushered up to the privacy of my mezzanine box,
I gaze out into the darkness of the orchestral pit,
and listen to the crickets tune their lovers chords
in hopes to pluck the heart strings of their mates.
They too soon fade as my conductor takes his place
upon the stage and brings a quiet hush upon my mind.
Eyes closed I wait for this symphony to fill the halls of my soul,
and play a lovely melody that helps me pass
the quiet meter of this time.
Tonight a Renaissance will play and take me back unto a time
where I could freely lay in melodious thought
among the suns warm rays.
Basking in the music of a youth which remembered now
brings a tearful smile to my face, a hazy lie I spin.
One to make me fond of the offerings of my yesteryear.
That youth, the one which sliped so quickly by,
but whose colored foundation still supports the fading dreams
to this dull and wakeful life. It keeps me moving forward..
Moving to a greatness I knew I could not achieve,
but never quite believed the lie enough to stop my youthful stride.
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 10:06 PM UTC
the phrase instantaneously registers,
dutifully stored for a new baby composition,
for all my future lovers and you dear reader,
“move at the speed of trust”
too young to justa rush into,
too old to justa rush from,
y’all inquire “what’s the right speed,
when the hunger pains of now-need,
instantaneously beg for get-no(w)-satisfaction?”
move at the speed of trust,
whoa, the resonating free ringtone
clangs like a fireball,
sounds sensible
but sensible and love
are words illegal to use in a poem, and,
about trust, as surely past burnt lovers
will happily remind you at every chance,
trust means bust fifty percent in romance
every instinct says go, fall, let it happen,
except for the bass squeaky one,
from the rear mezzanine cheap seats,
low and slow toned, hey remember me?
trust, my name is trust, here to remind you
that justa trusting yourself will never prove wrong,
that’s the lesson of now-need, fifty percent anyway
in matters romantic
Oct 31, 2019
Oct 31, 2019 at 7:17 PM UTC
trading coins on the mezzanine,
with it's torrid meticulous beads and florets of glass and fired stones,
a mosaic of our true currency in the spirit-realm of our blintz on sugar pillories,
our divine spark sharpens
the dark wheel....
a sphere with the skin of a prehistoric shark.
where the open heart is a misery of roses
making love with more abandon
than hell.
making true love.
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
So from the terrace
To the mezzanine
And all that remains so serene
I am baffled by the view
Its not what there is to see
Rather what it means to be
What the eye betrays and the mind deceives
For the feelings of the heart are what the soul perceives
Surely I cannot be so vain?
To the reader this is inane!
As a writer with pipe and lighter
These trifle views are a shame!
The windows of the soul are fogged with bad advice.
Because in a time of negativity.
Never saying never, never happens twice
When all you see is serendipity
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 2:58 AM UTC