my shoes
look like
Ronald McDonald’s
and sometimes,
wearing them,
I wonder what
it would be like
to be bolted
to a playground’s
cement slab
in front of that
fast food franchise
and then be stolen
by some high
school seniors.
Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category
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I sat in the corner
with my head in a “ziploc” bag
just to see if the dead baby joke
was funny.
A big stone stood, still,
tall, the shadows fell along
quietly crawling,
rolling sunshine through the sky;
up, I looked, and winking,
understood.
I want a magic litter jabber
to jab myself
in the abdomen
and then walk around picking up
the ideas that fall out
like “fruit loops” from a box with a hole in it.
I want a rainbow magnifying glass
to look at
my cereal collection
and then write a lot of nonsense
about their pockmarked textures
and then tear it up and throw it into the wind.
monsters, large, march
from cities tall, sprawling;
setting sun falls
upon walls broken, shattered.
their huge tails
slide into the sea.
when the wind comes skipping along
its third story sidewalk outside my window,
I can hear the cries of the playground
and the song of the balls on the asphault,
the reminiscent taste of gravel and
the feeling of gripping the chain-link backstops;
the anticipation of recess.
the silence of a late night drive.
empty streets of wizened asphault.
my tadpole car rattles from lamp to lamp…
I’m waiting to hear the rain
On the roof, fallen from the stars
Listening for the moonlight sound
Of the ink of the mollusc night
Seeping down through the clouds
To wake me in my sleep.
Only as I’m falling to sleep
Can I imagine the plummeting rain
Supportive of the windswept clouds
Obscuring the world of hoary stars
And in the corners of the night
I cannot hear a sound.
I steal away without a sound
To the land I wander in my sleep,
Dead under the silent night,
Tucked in for tomorrow by the gentle rain,
Guarded by those winking stars
Beneath the halo of the clouds.
Floating buoyed through the clouds
Amidst the growl of thunder’s sound,
I gaze upon the veil of distant stars
Through eyes opened wide in magic sleep.
The tears of wonder fall as rain
To the gods of that wintry night.
In the vaulted halls of timeless night
I wander blindfolded by the clouds
Through my mind the pictures rain
Exploding violent in muted sound,
Rocking my ancient soul to sleep
With dreams of newborn stars.
I pray to those alien stars;
I close my eyes each coming night.
The unpredictable tide of sleep
Rolls thick as stormy ocean clouds.
I was illuminated by the awesome sound,
And woke to the wistful rain.
The stars are hidden behind the clouds.
The night has fallen with accustomed sound.
I sleep, waiting for the rain.
[sestina]
O evil we adore thee,
supplicate before thee.
lend us your power, your mighty tools
to split and splinter these mortal fools.
we cringe and cower,
we beg and yelp.
we grovel in obeisance
for your help.
Ha ha ha I squint evil at the sun
Squirmy, chuckling little Iago me
Glass! It’s glass, stupid drops
You can’t get in I sit under you pompously
You see little creature thumbs his nose
You can’t touch this
Hammer, hammer on the skylight
Paugh! Your thunder growl is nothing
To me in my warm, dry cavern
Your flashbulbs only serve to photograph
My mocking sneer.
Hah, I scoff at your puny attempts
To batter down my battlements
And woe be to the drops that do
Drip inside; those we do torture
With the thermostat.
I fold my arms across my chest
And listen to the angry screams
Of the repelled invaders.
doan wan be rat pack by no demons.
doan wan no rat pack agin t’nite.
no seven bristly skin wet demons
to mek me sweat upin mah frite.
doan wan no creepy-crawly beasties
to clumb up an’ squat on mah ches’
fo da drool ta come lik dey wuz hungry
an’ fo dem ta steal mah midnite breff.
ah kin heah dem snufflin’ unner da bedside
dey’s laffin’ an’ stampin’ fo dey fun.
ah hopes da Lord heah mah prayer tonite
befo da hunnerd legg’d rat pack come.
ain’t nothin’ like sleepin’ butt nekid.
ain’t nothin’ like a full body stretchin’ yawn.
ain’t nothin’ like rollin’ in warm laundry.
ain’t nothin’ like a lazy day.
ain’t nothin’ finishin’ a good book.
ain’t nothin’ like likin’ yourself.
ain’t nothin’ like a good kisser.
ain’t nothin’ like funny Sunday comics.
yeah, I like to wander through the blue haze
right before bedtime looking a-
round at all these fuzzy shapes that are way
out of focus and measuring how sleep-
y I am and how tired I am and
how exhausted I am and how ever
else I feel in the repair department.
it’s sort of liquidly buoyed stum-
bling about through blue and orange and purple
fuzz Jello spots feeling woozy and diz-
zy but not quite ready to go wholly
to the dream lands and really wake up and
exert again but you know being just
sort of stoned and content that you’re going to
fall asleep sometime soon and you’re not rush-
ing it so I always like to smile as
I’m trying to think of something to write
about before the locomotive of
the sleep beast pushes my head underwa-
ter again and I relearn how to breathe.
papercuts always feel
like they have salt I.V.s
dripping into them.
once or twice every hour,
after they’ve conveniently
reminded you that they exist,
you have to pull on the skin
around them just to see
how deep they really go
and to count
the specks of foreign material
swimming about in the
questionably healthy clear liquid
building up and
draining out of your fingertip.
newsprint invariably
seeps into your slice;
the surgical incision
that doesn’t quite draw blood
and you can always remember
the zipper sensation
of your skin opening up
when it happened.
hangnails suck
damn damn damn;
what can you do?
hangnails suck.
what? put on
a “band-aid”?
no way, dude-man.
hangnails suck.
a “band-aid”
would wrinkle
the skin all white;
hangnails suck.
how about
some ointment:
“Neosporin”?
hangnails suck.
maybe this
time the grease
won’t trap some hair.
hangnails suck.
rip it off
with your teeth
or some tweezers;
hangnails suck.
let the gross
infected
wound gape open.
hangnails suck.
chew and squeeze
your finger
all day chanting:
hangnails suck.
sand leaves funny footprints
when the tide washes where I walked.
clouds are always changing
above me when I’m not looking.
rocks stop their whispering
even when I sneak up quietly.
candles watch me sadly, alone
when I’m waiting for something to happen.
eyeball ring, wring my finger
with your quiet reminders
of the one who gave you to me
if I lose my sight, help me see.
[der ner ner]
Won’t you take me to…
[der ner ner]
Funkytown?
[der ner ner]
Won’t you take me to…
[der ner ner]
Funkytown?
my newspaper blanket is wet.
I wake to the across-the-street sound
of the rain bird sprinklers capering;
one was whitewashing an aluminum gardening shed.
the stutter of the water
chides me for not wearing my shoes.
He hit her
Across the mouth
With the back of his hand.
I could taste her blood;
Run, salty tears
Her lip bitten, hurt
He stood over her, threatening
Displeased,
Tensed to kick her.
He did.
Sweet Jesus;
I can’t watch,
Disinterested and clinical.
I can’t look away somewhere
Pretending not to see it happen.
The party when on;
He picked her up
And she followed him away.
I bet she has before.
Questions to be Asked of the Closet
Posted: February 11, 1991 in PoetryTags: Closet, Dark, Kiss, Love
it’s dark and she giggles
then tentatively whispers my name;
I stand silent
breathing hard
but oh so quiet,
covered in the blankets of darkness.
again she stretches
to call out my name,
question marks solidifying,
echoing away.
I know exactly where she is,
six inches away;
she’s reaching for me,
asking, yielding.
I could seize her throat
and crush her breath
with a lazy hand;
I could kiss her
here in the dark
and tell her that I love her.
ask the closet.
O little bag of magic rocks:
keep me safe
from scaly hands
and claws under my bed.
keep them away,
those unseen things,
that lurk in the holes in my head.
Untitled Poem #103
Posted: February 10, 1991 in PoetryTags: Ocean, Sleep, Tree, Whipped Cream, Wind, Window
I can hear the sound of the ocean
as I float in my sea of whipped cream sheets.
the wind in the trees outside my window
calls me softly
to sleep.
Light Blues
Posted: February 5, 1991 in PoetryTags: Blood, Blue, Eye, Father, Green, Light, Mother, Orange, Red, Yellow
I don’t care for white light any more.
call me vapid scumbag; call me gromore.
I have red and green and blue and yellow
lights; to read by, an orange fellow,
friendly to the eyes and each is good
to set a certain kind of mood.
red for temper, salt and blood
yellow to dapple, caress, and flood
blue is patience, like being underwater
green is crayon, like a mother or father.
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