"somerville" poems
In a Somerville coffeeshop, waiting for his single origin light roasted Pour over,
Frankenstein reads a philosophy magezine, seductively planted by the lounging area.
"One lives two lives."
The magezine reads,
"That which one spends in their physical body,
and that which begins the moment one leaves that body,
lasting until all witness to ones first life has spoken its final word".
The baristas eyes widen when he sees Frankenstein,
The barista says nothing.
He knows better than to raise the dead.
Frankenstein is often confused
for his monster.
Condensation rises between crocheted mittens, Frankenstein Lingers on the Cherry notes in his Coffee, while it combs icicles into his snow white mustache.
He likes this new version of an afterlife. It empowers him to take advantage of the time he has now, to make his second life last as long as possible.
He's in the middle of this thought
When his face slams against ***** snowbank.
Dog **** mixing into the icicles of his moustache.
A familiar mob of torches and pitchforks only see the monster.
They take turns kicking.
Kicking
Frankenstein wakes to a lynching.
When he lives
He is not a monster.
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 8:06 AM UTC
Does our family speak to us on cold winter's night?
Even if there's no creek to crackle,
no stiff spines, no furry trees,
nothing but a Van Gogh room
in Somerville
and digital clocks ticking.
Does our family still speak?
Chattering away,
Background processes,
Garbled noise, garbage without
wisdom because we've lost the sophistication
to crack ancient encryption.
We hear the history,
and mimic vocalization like a song bird,
dolphin or elephant
each with converging neural circuits.
Members living the same stream?
It's easier to hack the data line,
when we've trained on same sets:
a missing wife,
black and white photos,
and a grandfather clock.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
Another grey, rainy day
in Somerville
maybe that's why Patsy
Cline loops back
in baby's arm
bringing back Tom
ole Brentwood roommate shortly
after OJ murdered Nicole
and Bob who wrote the song
died in 2014 but it didn't
ripple through any brook
of our shared nook
Strange
Strange how we can only tell
stories with other peoples
stream
Strange how yours still in all
my dreams
How strange
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 9:08 AM UTC
The very reverend James Somerville once sniffed
And spoke of his anguish
That the idea of marriage was being eroded
Without the understanding
Of what the institution meant.
He said his book was beyond dispute
About this issue
And he could speak
With confidence
That he was right
When he said that
Love was not the most important thing.
God had a plan
And
That plan involved
Men and women
Not
Men and men
Or
Women and women
Two become one
On an alter of their choice
And declare that love
Before family, friends and folks
Forever.
Marraige.
James.
Understanding and compassion
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 7:10 PM UTC