The night after
The dial-tone returned, and I lied silently down
re-associating us into singular pronouns,
surely, I’ll wake from what my subconscious’s unwound,
for yet no tear or murmuring of sound,
but this phone’s clock blinks only three here,
maturity or just callousness as I fear?
Can’t help but call grace, mother–
forgiven, madness today, forgiving madness another,
forcing resentment resolved
by persons entirely uninvolved,
waiting for our critics critiquing,
sick of “but so sweet and cute”– as if comforting?!
and rehearsing witnessing words of an evangelist,
cramming faith into a one minute gist.
The night after–kettle corn is popping,
adhering to uncle’s doc’s rule of no butter sopping.
Launching kernels into the air, I catch 22:
if I hate or love, I consume you.
If you must consume me to live alone, again
Then, eat and let the rest of our lives begin.
Flushed with the forbidden
Flushed with the forbidden, grasping for words,
fiction unfolds on a black and white background,
never imagining the imagined–
serifs revealing surf reveling and taboo touching.
Torn from truth, I cry post-humusly,
growing knowledge, shrinking discretion–
time and wisdom redeem,
afraid to listen to souls and the Spirit,
for this fantasy would cease addicting,
creativity impressing, and sunlight refreshing,
words dance seductively in mind’s dark,
too scared to play a part;
for cowards of great deeds
are often craven in the weeds–
thankfully.
When black and blue combine
Trust me when black and blue combine?
alone, one-way streets spindle out,
and settings determine outcomes;
a hand’s not a mouth, a mouth’s not a body,
but a mind is a mind streaking with possibility.
The sadness
The urge
the tube top
the water
the beer
the muscles
alone
the dreams
the pool
the pain
the regret
alone
Afternoon Musing
Cicadas laugh
while God moves furniture upstairs–
the rain cometh
and the grass remains un-mowed.
Light of noon woke this boxer-clad vagrant,
no breakfast–lunch at three after
watching Flynt advocate free speech;
sickened by market images,
will I be another stylist?
hiding cooks and dishwashers in kitchens,
waitresses in front, fronting for the bottom line
of living: “I just work here”–
jaded by day to day cataclysms.
Yeah, and I just survive here on this rock.
What I deserve
Do I deserve a gift, a party
for I wasn’t pushing on that day
two decades past.
Who am I to be given to?
Caring too much to dust my feet
as I slowly return to the holy city,
away from unknowns, temptations.
Just bought a hair claw to charm me when stressed?
Everyone’s unreliable, even me, (cynically, I add)
meaningless under the sun, life?
Utilitarian–not quite me,
My grace? No, it was given me free.
On the back of live bait
On the back of live bait receipts I scribble,
cooks and clerks swap sex stories
and tunes of bitterness–
scouring bathrooms, silverware, and ideals.
Cha-ching! the cash gods ring
up profits, down spirits for those caught en masse:
spending Bens, complaining Washingtons,
hey, they are on diversion ‘s splurge–
I–summer vacation–at work
learning what not to do in life.
Hearing your thoughts
To only breathe you in like a novel concluding sigh–
morning air– a clear breath after congested years.
Hearing your thoughts at day’s end,
for months,
hearing your thoughts at week’s end,
four months, it’s agonizing.
I smell my hand after a citrus soap wash:
second-guessing I was holding you
and you just said goodbye, it’s agonizing.
Mediocrity redeemed
As necessity siphons good habits
and in pain God screams,
patience waits behind lumber trucks
serenading songs about wooden deaths,
forgotten like coffeehouse table formulas for world peace;
penned in crayons, marked, yet
ripped, torn, and thrown in the dumpster out back.
Redeeming the mediocrity of life,
you, hardly seen, but experienced consistently.
Child’s walls
Secrecy, shame plaster this child’s walls,
night arrives hushing humid air–
summer nights uncovered, I lie,
special, awaiting a silhouette,
Are my playground friends special?
They hold me to the ground,
I can’t cry. I was told “Don’t.” in a strained, raspy voice.
Water rises behind dams built 10 years past,
quiet, except grunting ghosts of breath, but
I can’t say I love you
until you thieve me.
For I have no, “No,”
between innocent nights of dreams.