One dog sniffs – a poet’s calling

One dog sniffs the other’s behind,
“You artistic?” he asks.

no hiding, let’s follow our noses:
{Adultery in the reception line}
ignored””the best man wants to hug the bride.
{Hell in the visitation line}
ignored””the mother collapses on the casket.

my roommate sometimes smells my children
“What’s the raison de etre of your joie de vivre,” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I reply,
“but it sure sounded like a female in a men’s restroom:
good and frightening.”

Lola eat a nother

Watch me not stopping 99%
I can stop.
staring into the sun. 87%
burns the retina.
it’s not a problem.another one.
Lola eat a man.
like an animated gif. 55%
on/off–programmed in infinite loop.
of course, in-betweens. 35%
children, adults and.
only so many pinks, tans, and fingertips.
all alone, all the same. 20%
another night to load.
another picture, another page. 10%
staring into the flickering darkness.
00%

Cold showers

Couldn’t wait for the station when I saw the smoke, a nice cushion to sit on–I had only been on a train once–
but loved it.
Yellow’s not my color, but they say it was mother’s, and she wore her badge boldly before she died–wish I had one.
The older children are sad, must have been on trains many times before. Rickety cattle cars pass–
what do they with all that beef?
At last, a shower after days on the smelly train. The floor is cold. Oh no, cold showers–
I hate cold showers.

Your dream girl

shits and pisses and bleeds and winces–
especially during the miracle of life.
She is not some smooth plastic object or mechanized road machine.
She is a living organism breathing and trying to find her way through life,
weak and strong, brimmed with success and tragedy–
the solemn and the sullen, the giggle and the hiccup.
She is fluid and fickle, steadfast and solid–
awaiting your coming, yet venturing forth without you.

She is your dream girl but never was a dream.

Then sings your soul

I am amazed at the beauty that touches your tounge[sic].
Then sings my soul my Savior God to thee;
You’re a good friend. I like being around you
how great thou art, how great thou art!
I’ll write a letter to recommend you if you ever need one.
Then sings my soul my Savior God to thee;
i am thankful for you and your creative thoughtfulness.
how great thou art, how great thou art!
Several times I have thought about how good you are to me

Then sings your soul, my Savior god to me;
how great thou art. . . how great thou art!

Family heirlooms

The kitchen chairs slowly turn to face the TV,
and the parents quit asking (even during commercials)
but want to know more then ever–
hoping to be a friend,
afraid to rebuke, terrified to be rebuked,
as if respect and obedience aren’t
parent and child:
family heirlooms in the hands of the childless.

She’s all down here, all up there

Can’t decide
between the friend
and the idea of
crossing the bridge of action–
misunderstood always
like the use of English,
complicated, because there’s no way else to live–
I mean to analyze:
parsing desires and relationships
like grammar.

She’s all down here, all up there
in a heaven where they don’t wear white, but red
and don’t have it all together
and we love tension
because it refines
and that’s fine with me
as we pray for fortitude from the gurgle inside
and the pride that bubbles over
into the glass blown gods of creativity
reflecting second thoughts and shadows of fear in our minds’ eye
of what freedom from our common sense might have rung in our ears–
For all I have now are eyes and ears(–letters and sounds).

Cause they say I’m the lucky one

Just got done giving food to Kelly and Cathy,
Had to do something to beat this apathy
beside the head with service for my fellows
so I started siding some bungalows
in ‘Bama where I ran into a great date,
but she’s got a son (without a mate)
married to Saturday morning cartoons
on a stall wall I’m washing till noon,
Then, I’m off to talk with a old friend,
and I don’t even know where to begin,
with problems that I can’t relate
to, so I’ll just have to state,
all for the minimum wage,
Couldn’t play, couldn’t be on stage
to sing for the multitude,
so I’ll just sit and have cold Mountain Dew
with my depressed friend
that wants to die by starving binge.

I would head home if I could,
but I gotta move on into the sun,
Cause they say I’m the lucky one;
I’m really the lucky one

Am I really the lucky one?

Should I fake my joy?

should I fake my joy for
I don’t want to hurt
others when they come around for
it’s my birthday, and I’m supposed to
laugh and dance and
love, but it’s so hard to
fake with this hanging over my
head; they won’t like it if I
sulk,

are they my friends?
for they try to cheer me up
and tell me how great I am.

The Passionate Love to His Shepherdess

Andy’s doin’ time,
and we’re all fine,
said he’s built a cell
to dwell in, but you can tell
he doesn’t hide it very well.

It’s about a girl, sounds
like he’s a bit down,
thought she’d be around
no where to be found in
this small college town.

Wants to know where to run
thought he’d found someone,
but what’s done is done
looks around–there’s none
looks likes the shepherdess has sung.