Stll life-Bean and Egg

Darkest Night of the Year

darkness is not fear
the absence of light is near
closer than you think

Riles Rum

No rile, no roil
five strings not strung
neck’s warped and the chores
undone, undone
all that which lay
before us, become
the chemistry, the physics
the knowledge, the sum,
of the victory won
before the report of the gun
the farthest, the furthest
the fastest, the fun
the fans we’d have
the wounds we’d heal
the glory we’d halve
the truce we’d seal
the songs, the songs,
the sonnets all gone
let slide to nuptials
and sunk to nativity
lost in the triune
and the fear of a prophesy
and the fear of proclivity
for strife, for wife
for riff or for rife
and for the beat
of a distant drum...
and the rum.

Crucify

Christmas Scarecrow

Vow...
just say the rope

is ours.
Tell me now
that the bend

these bends

this bend

is only ours
that those innocent

tics

tocs

hours
at the water’s edge
belong to you
and to me
and to the white

geese
and whatever they see
saw...
you liked the straw
the rustic

rebel

roustabout
of it all
while I trudged

through mounting irony

self-conscious
like now
a scarecrow
naked
in the snow.

Piano Forte

Stilted same few chords
hymnal hypocrisy
Fur Elise in five keys
but the hammer hits futile
and the strings all flaccid
lacking tenacity or tensile strength
or thought
in the sameness of this
a perpetual coda
treble clef
trouble cleft
and the audience seems all
to have gone in
but alas, play on
in cavalier cut-time now
monkey-grinder monotonous
for free.

Reaching

A Will

They won't ...
When will they?
Will they when?
They will then.
Then they will.

Enshrining Autumn

Like seeking firmest fruit
amongst the pithy
the bruised and unripe
I gather them-
her October words
burnished fallen blushes
strewn amongst the thyme-
and fit them safe
nodding
between waxy glassine windows.

Fishing You

The leaves clog the flow
and the creek is moving slow
red
green
orange
yellow

The words make the gesture trip
and the hand is held in hesitant
stop
go
caution
slow

Eddie where is your air
Edify
the water grows stagnant
under the jewels of Autumn.
And all the time I was fishing you.

Flutterby

Repeated recognition
faint
latent
under the din of living
fluttering.

Gentle wonder rhythm
delicate
brushing
gracing the inner
beating.

Syncopation harmony
waxing
waning
counterpoint
chrysalis.

...out of the bag

Blog a secret
and its not a secret.

Tell your wishes
and they won't come true.

Keep a promise
and you might find heaven.

Tell a lie
and the lines all skew.

Its out of the bag
it can't crawl back in...

there's mud on your belly
from the places you've been.

I'm Back

When do I get off?
Merry-go-round
doe see joe
positive feedback loop.

Thoughts like this
on reincarnation
are similar
to upc codes.
Unintelligible.
But of great importance
to someone besides me.

This time
I had it right
I thought.

This time
the path was clear
I thought.

This time
there would be peace
I thought.

This place
looks just like the clearing
in the woods
where I was lost.

This place
is that place.

I'm back.

When do I get off?
Merry-go -round
doe-see-flow
positive feedback loop.

Jack-O-Lantern

The prince is hollowed-
like a gourd.
Memories rattling
about like seeds.
The eyes seem vacant
yet dimly glows
a candle, a flicker
of need.

Who

I'm not melting
and I ain't movin' up
who I am is indian
red skin
flint-knap feeling sinew
and the rhythm within
which makes me blink
which makes me black
light skin
quarter-nappy hair
and "fight the power" within
to at last be free
so listen to me
this is who I be.

sister 3

Spirit of '76

These stripes
seem less sharp
than when I was a cork
floating
on that slow, red current...
These stars
blink less brilliant
less wise
grunting unintelligibly
bearing their loads
while I taste the air
for the next vacant herd
of swine...
Why?
because I
am American
Legion
and it is Christian Day
at Six Flags.

First appeared in "The HazMat Review," Vol. 3, Issue 1, Spring/Summer 1998

Hate to Leave

Unction

Remembered impulse-
instinctual
child-like obedience
to tilt the head
and swallow
when thunder calls.

First published in "The Oak," April 1997

Know Like I Do

Yes
Can you...?
Can I...?
Now I'm fine
and I hear love
and feel you in my
wrists...
Do you know?
I do.

Homecoming Haiku

Times up unfurled fear
a snug kind of homecoming
snuck into season

Busy Little Bees...

Moira did it.

Wrapping Paper

Breathing deeply
her shoulders heaving
my mind drifts back to fritillaries-
road-side romping
chasing painted ladies
and the victorious possession of beauty.

These days, embittered
by the fleeting nature of collections-
how they tarnish and dull with time-
the urge arises
to arrest her for poetry
and for conspiring to steal my crime.

Final Exam

The letter "f" she said
"f' is the answer
"f" like frank, like free,
like foxtrot
like feel or follow or fuck
she said
like flying a kite
without strings
without fiends
without friends
or feelings, she said
without fear
she said
"f'"

Screwdriver

C'mon, c'mon, c'mon
peel your citrus love
and pass it out in sections
one succulent mouthful
to the next...

Yeah I know this ain't no Julep
but I ain't been juiced in weeks
and the shakes got me
turning for your nectar napalm
noose.

First appeared in "The HazMat Review," Vol. 2, Issue 2, Fall/Winter 1997

sister 2

ten

Oh yeah
crank it up
another notch is nothing now
another scotch will show me how.

Its loud
so loud, in here
where these come from-
the clang and the clatter
of traffic snarled
and small arms exchanging blows
yeah, crank it up
to ten.

Macular Degeneration

"Sol" hide and seek this is
roller coasting with light
the pupils, pliant
yet knotting and clenching
in hopes of salient sight.

Mess-- In Memory

My patriotism was wrung
from behind calloused eyes
for damn near twenty-one days straight.
I felt nihilistic and numbed
at times manic even,
but normal, and neither free nor brave.

The time seemed right for escape or diversion
and Beethoven was headlining the Eastman
So we reserved, donned costumes,
made a bid for Culture
made the rounds and finally arrived.

The conductor's arrival, later than ours
seemed staged, for he was in no hurry.
Nonchalantly a wave
and a flick of the wrist
and Old Glory's great anthem revived.

We stood, we sang, patriots all,
hands on hearts bursting with something like pride.
Then silence and the breath
of a collective sigh
uneasy but willing to take even a lie.

Beethoven's Fifth,
the Rumble in Romanticism
seemed soundtrack apropos in my state.
But by the time the cello's lurched into the sublime
I felt naked with only my hate.

So its cheapened
I'm cheapened
but not as much as life
in the wake of the Mess in Manahattan.
Yet I'm struck by the colors
red, white and blue
as I'm stuck
mouthing the prayers of the masses.

Immaculate Conception

She's got too many cooks in the kitchen
but not enough peas in the pod
I've seen her dance with herself
and tango with the Devil
But I've not seen her waltz with God.

Gypsy's Tracks

Union II

Whether we quiver chaos purple
and liberate blushless dreams
or dive down easy
and shudder swell serene-
repose has but stoicly potent union.

Emanation 1

Fall

This again
inevitable as the next war
the next wash
the next rain-
this.

I've been waiting
with tuned up tension
like the exquisite anticipation
of the next
drip
startling, though expected-

and now you've come
and gone
ane left me in shame
of having feared
what I have known.

Untitled #2

Her cowboy without a horse
is wiser than waking
except her rebel without a cause
is in his seventh duplication.

He bristles blue like an indigo snake
flexing his artichoke mane
while shaking his tumbler
from the post-ecclectic days
he mumbles
Faith Burns...hell of a name.

Mother's Palfrey

This night bleeds burgundy
soaks the needle
dripping silent
slipping violent
under threadless seams
that envelope the past
too fast
to freely
too far sewn in
to the fabric of fearing
the frenzy of hearing
her pistil heart pounding
frantic
drowning
thick throbbing
seething frowning
waves chaotic
hypnotic turmoil
as she's beating through endless
measures of symphony
fleeting dissonance
and the mind of maternity
rhythm racing to catch the trio
hidden in the distance
dissidents
defiant
running for shelter
in the bunk bed for two
for fools
or for jumping innocents.

Night Shade

The pansies have let their petals go
and now it will be brutal
maybe nothing will grow

dog days of summer
and me without a hoe

Vinca vine vanity, though
might be the life of me
if the night shade
swims the glade
and springs the morning glory.

Crux & Connoisseur

Yes I am
I'm ghosted
and short of breath
dream wake walking out the door
french balcony
second floor
no stair still pour
into my real estate
resignation
to the hitch in our history
and the hematite whore
to the bitch in our rookery
who swallowed and then swore
that she'd never be
a connoisseur
of me.

Post Modern Nyquil

Today I am the dregs
feeling the antihistamine buzz
and "c'mon ...you're the next contestant..."
wrestling with the familiar flush
of the commode...

as if I care about
being in love
living on my income
or the Zen of hazardous materials

Where did I leave those damn cigarettes anyway?

If only it were so easy Susan G. Wooldridge
to be a toilet-seat Tolstoy
or an outhouse Poe
incontinent inspiration
splashing onto the page.

A shot of grasshopper green
"so I can rest" medicine
and a sideways glance in the mirror-
I'd hate to deal with a puffed up prostate...
that would really disrupt the flow.

First appeared in "The HazMat Review," Vol. 2, Issue 2, Fall/Winter 1997