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.
0
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.
who can tell what will happen tomorrow?
what will I drink? what will you do?
how much money would I like to spend on you.
when will I see you and where.
Untitled Poem #102
Posted: February 3, 1991 in PoetryTags: Bones, Frog, Orange, Purple, Sleep, Stars, Wind
patterns of orange and purple
dancing savagely over my eyescape;
distant creatures swaying beyond the veils of sleep.
a windswept cliff of grey,
tough grasses growing squat in the wind,
the sound of the sea rings in my ears as I decide.
the mountains were smoky tonight;
mist drew thick curtains to wetly blind.
trees stirred, restless in the dark like masts and
my breathing becomes slower.
beneath my froglike skin, bones sharpen.
I hear flutes and pipes echoing off stars
through the frames of space.
I Wish…
Posted: January 22, 1991 in PoetryTags: Believe, Blue, Bones, Dinosaur, Dog, Dolphon, Dreams, Flowers, Green, Gum, Jello, Money, Orange, Star, Whipped Cream
I wish you a dinosaur and a penny
I wish you enchiladas and dolphins
I wish you love and chap stick
I wish you coconuts and grassy hills
I wish you an earring and pencil lead
I wish you whipped cream and blood
I wish you happiness and pen ink
I wish you a treehouse and Apple Jacks™
I wish you blue and green and orange
I wish you beer and Lemonheads™
I wish you dreams and brown leaves
I wish you words and squirt guns
I wish you chewing gum and piranhas
I wish you luck and three bird feathers
I wish you beef jerky and yo mama
I wish you would and brass
I wish you wings and belief
I wish you days and several candles
I wish you toenails and bobsleds
I wish you gold chains and thermostats
I wish you negligees and carpeting
I wish you a bag of marbles and bones
I wish you the stars and a flower
I wish you incense and Rolaids™
I wish you a Twix™ and a pipe wrench
I wish you courage and money
I wish you a huge slobbering puppy dog with a big tongue
I wish you Jello™ and time
I wish you wood grain and shivers
I wish you letters and Coca-Cola™
I wish you.
O fiberglass D-light:
chase away the ugly night
with your comfy orange pool
staining my lonely sheets.
I think of you in the dark
O wonderfully crosshatched D-light;
I’m certainly crawly-cold from shiv’ry fright.
the black palms are far too cool
springing down the streets;
the mongrels howling in the park.
What to do
When your eyes grow crafty:
The brows twitch and beetle
Gnawing some waddling idea
Like a stick of chewing gum.
I know you
And your devious little ways
Distractions and innocence
Trademarks of your storming
Implementing your plan of action.
Mind Shaft
Posted: January 18, 1991 in PoetryTags: Dark, Dream, Girl, God, Innocent, Lies, Paper, Sick
he didn’t need to be shown how to do
things; he was good at figuring
them out – taking them apart and
putting them back together. he read a
lot when he was innocent and
believed too much for his own good.
too many times he became impatient
and cursed himself for imagined
wrongs, blaming his insensitivity for
his lack of social standing. he tried so
hard he made himself sick with lies
and falsehoods, having to artificially calm
the turbulence of his stomach with
deadened-nerves ignorance. he knew,
or rather hoped (he didn’t allow himself
the luxury of self-confidence) that someday
he would be given the chance to show
another human being what he thought
love was. it was too big, too heady, too
encompassing to try to contain within the
bars of paper and ink, but he knew
exactly what it was and how he would
go about making it work and dreamed
handsome times and admirable occasions.
love would turn some special girl’s eyes
to his if only he had the patience to
hang on to the blades of grass growing
in the cracks of the snail-track laden
sidewalk. he secretly prayed to a god
he honestly doubted and looked for
some reason besides cowardice to not
get life over with and found that he had
matches of distraction at the bottom of
his dismal mind shaft. every time he went
into the dark and felt the slimy pitch
of the terror of being alone, he could find
another match to sputter and flicker
in the cold depths to keep his faith until
someone would come along to crank up
the bucket form the bottom of the well.
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