Saturday, October 14, 2017

Winter In Detroit, 1987.

Winter In Detroit, 1987

The scene is this:  snow swirling in great whiteness, people scurrying
About in their cars.  Heavy with packages, and small children-teenagers
Flying by with snowy shoes.  A dog walks by, maybe a German Shepherd,
And he tries to wiggle in the snow a lot, like it is a blanket and he needs
The warmth underneath the snow to survive.  The stores in the city
Have bright windows as people shop or pass by.  Shadows fall on the
Ground, as the weather gets even grimmer.  There is no wildlife, now,
Except for the homeless people wandering about the night, lost in a cloud
Of coldness, trying to find the warmth of buildings, trying to find food to
Sustain them.  This is the real winter of Detroit, the homeless and the non-homeless,
People worrying about their bills, or their love lives, or their parents,
Some dead, some not, like Harold Buchinchamp, whose parents died long ago
In a winter like this, trapped in their black Ford as it sank towards the bottom
Of an icy river.  He remembers this.  He remembers everything.

Wednesday, October 04, 2017

Poem.

Miracles happen every day.
Now I hear my favorite song on the radio.

But the car needs a tune up.

On Being In Bloom.

I am in bloom, though I do not feel like it.
I feel like I am on a roller coaster to nowhere.
I feel like I am going downhill, past the sunset,
Past everything that matters to me.  Time is like
A clock going downhill.  

The genius is in the reverie
Of the night, like a staple that glares outward into
Nothing.  Oh bitterness, I breathe you in.  Errors mistake
Me.  

I glare down into nothing, the abyss of time.  Awaken
Me into the dawn that breaks like a clock, in a clock store,
As all the clocks on the wall are going off, glaring, glaring
Like a face.  

I am the face that tells the time of nothing.

The ghosts haunt me every damn day; I wake up; pee in the
Bathroom; and the dog comes skirting in, shaking and afraid
Of something I cannot see.  

This is the roller coaster of life,

The mesmerizing tranquility of it all, the destiny that is mine

For the taking.  I am the genius going uphill to water.

Monday, October 02, 2017

October Sunshine.

The sun blinds us.  It is the first of October,
And we are thinking about all things fall-autumn
Leaves, the changing of them, and things that are different;
Pumpkin spice;  pumpkin pie; pumpkin cookies and all things
Nice.  Cooler weather, jacket weather, or whether or not things
Will get better.  Then there is Halloween at the end of October,

The very last day of October, and the costumes and candy
And bags of pretzels and golden apples; the sun blinds us on
The first of October, and everything is right because it is a different
Season, if it were the same season every day, nothing would change,

And everything would remain stagnant; fall would never arrive or maybe
It would be fall eternally, like the sunshine is at this very instant, forever
And eternal, like the love of you and me, and the sun is shining just like it is
In the Sahara desert, and the desert is quick with its blessings.  I say hello
And goodbye to it, just like I did to my last love, the love of my life who left
Me and rose like a flower in bloom.

The sun shines and it blinds us still.

Thursday, September 28, 2017

THE LIGHT ENCOMPASSES.

The Light Encompasses.

The light encompasses the whole world,
And everyone in it.  The dawn does not bend;

In it, dwells the passion like that of passionfruit
Or dragonfruit, that we eat or maybe it even eats us.

I have found something bigger than what humanity
Seeks, the durability of love, the light and the hope;

In the void, in the silence of it all, love is there,
Waving and moving in the light itself.  The Greek knew

All about love and lovemaking, and the art of it,
And how it grows bigger and bigger each time it

Encompasses the world, how there is a field of it in
A faraway valley somewhere, how the fear is there,

Shaking and shimmering, raw and putrid flesh.
I think about it often, how it wanders about the plains,

Wondering and mimicking movement, taking shape in
People, places, and things-and how, over and under,

The doubt changes, becoming a shadowy thing that

Glimmers out all fear.

These Times That Tell.

All the times I lay waiting for a miracle to happen
,
I was beginning to think I had come to the bitter end.
These past days have gone bye bye, like a clock that will

Not tell time, or a pope that will not heed to his people.
Sometimes, tomorrow comes a little too early for us to be
Thankful, and death is a little warranted, if not unstable;
And the earth is a little bit unstable and everything else is

Unstable against the running of the clock, which chugs and
Goes intermittently; and ghosts run out the minutes on your
Watch, and technology gets better but the solution gets worse;

And sometimes, you say things you shouldn’t say, and words
Get in the way, like the leaves on trees get in the way of the sunshine,

And sometimes spots of sunshine slide through ever so slowly

As the sun is waking up and the world is getting rid of the dark, the darker,
The darkest.  And sometimes you are thankful and your time is spent

Doing nothing but whining.

Sunday, September 24, 2017

How to Spot the Darkness.

How to Spot the Darkness.

The streets are curved with darkness.
Night is seeking resolution.
A man dances in the middle of the street,

Feeling his way through the dark with his
Hands.  He is not tempted to break promises.
He is thirsty.  He walks to a bar and orders
A beer, and the beer smells of urine and stale

Cigarettes; someone is throwing a glance his way,
A beautiful woman who is already married.
Someone is taking his wallet from his pocket,
Not the same woman who was glancing at him,

But someone else, this a man, with a black hat
And a black walk, the blackness is all around
Him, and he is blacker than the night outside.

Since there are stars, and the stars are burning.

Saturday, September 23, 2017

The Quietness of the Night.

In the quietness of the night,
In retrospective of it all,
We handle each situation as it comes,
And face the bitterness of things that have passed.
Things are situated before us, like raindrops on a page-
Or maybe a teardrop, full of rage.
Some things we cannot change, but the things that we can,

We take and hold and grasp them in a gentle grasp,
Molding them into the things that they can become.
Every bitter lie becomes a seed of truth, the truth that flies
In the universe like a night of stars.  The loneliness is trapped

In a shadow of the night, and everything is beamed back to you.
Sometimes, you trip over your own feet, and the wetness is

Falling all around you like drops of rain;
And everything is etched in pain,

Just as it is etched in morning dew.

Thursday, September 21, 2017

I was in Love With Pablo Neruda.

I was in Love With Pablo Neruda

I was in love with Pablo Neruda
For many long years.
We sat side by side in a café, talking
Of promises-of great, puffy clouds that sail
Through a blue sky, of a night full of stars
That stare down at us like eyes.
I have had different loves, but none was
Quite the same as this: holding hands tenderly
As we strolled down farmer’s market,
Talking of blank pages and poetry,
Talking of misadventures of being English professors
At campuses that were not for poets like us.
He was a published poet, and I, I was not.
But still, he read my poetry with ease,
As the great ones always do, and he spoke of me
Lovingly to his sister, the one who kept his promises.
She became his caregiver, in the end,
And on the bitter nights when I was alone,
After he was gone, gone as in dead,
I would sit in my rocker at my house,
Staring into space, staring at nothing, dreaming
Of the days we spent together, over stale cigarettes and red

Wine.

Monday, September 18, 2017

The Apple.

The Apple

The apple falls far from the tree.
It clunks to the ground with a resounding
Thunderous applause.  The sky is thick with dew.
I don’t know why I built my house made of stone,
I don’t know why the grass is thick with dew.
He is the man I love, without question, without
Thinking of anything else.  My car is parked in the driveway
Down the street, someone named Sam is homeless
In my neighbor’s yard.  He is a handsome man, with curly,
Black hair and large eyes.  I wonder why he doesn’t
Have a job.  I wonder about a lot of things.  Sometimes,
People do not have enough money to make ends meat.
Sometimes, people make too much and end up throwing
Their lives away.  I calculate the reasons for this, but some
Things are not as simple as you think they are.  I wish it was so.
No one even likes apples anymore.  They like chocolate, soy,
And pizza.  I used to eat pizza every day on my way to work.
Then I got a large stomach.  Then my head grew even larger,
And I was puking on the grass.  I used to live in the middle
Of a street, that was large and tall, and the words I spoke
Were not quite so good.

The apple can sometimes speak.

Thursday, September 14, 2017

These Were the Thoughts of Summer.

These Were the Thoughts of Summer.

The thoughts of summer are old and forgotten,
Like a broken sundial.
First it was there, then it was not.
It only lasted three seconds.
The sounds of summer moved me:  the caw of birds,
The ice cream trucks on the heated
Streets.
The flowers open their mouths
Towards the sun, as if summer will never end,
Begging for the warmth that was forbidden to them
During autumn and winter months.
Children play in the summer streets, sometimes
All day and all night, and the parents, they go to bed
Early still, because they have to get up and get ready
For work the next day, unless they are teachers.
A teacher has it made during the summer.
He can sit back and relax in his comfy couch,
Reading the newspaper or watching television,
Yelling at his wife for a fresh bottle of scotch.
Sometimes, children would go to the beach with their
Families, and play in the hot, warm hot sand all day,
Or swim, or chat with their friends on the boardwalk
Or go fishing with fishing rods.
Sometimes, they would go to the park and play on the swings and
Their parents would barbecue
Something for dinner, like hot dogs and hamburgers.
These are the thoughts of summer. 
This was how it all went,
And then it grew cold, and school started,
And the leaves started to turn brilliant colors,
And soon snow began to fall

On the cold, hard ground, and everything changed.

Wednesday, September 13, 2017

THE RAIN MACHINE A SCIENCE FICTION STORY.

THE RAIN MACHINE by Apryl Fox
            It was in the year 2156 that mankind invented the rain machine.
            It started out as nothing more than a joke.  Inventor James Smith was watching television in the living room of his apartment.  He was thinking to himself how horrible the news was and what wicked people lived on the planet.  Suddenly, it grew dark.  Clouds spilled out over the world.  Rain thrashed at the windows and pounded on the glass.  His front door rattled.  He hadn’t had time to batten down the hatches, because he was trying to earn money to buy a moped, and was thinking of something new to invent, like cereal boxes-well, cereal boxes had been invented a long time ago, but he didn’t think anyone would know the difference, because, well, it was a long time ago and no one could remember back that far. 
James loved mopeds.  He pictured himself cruising down the street in one of them, but he also needed the money for his coal supply and food. 
James didn’t have a car because he felt he didn’t need one.  Cars were for wussies, and they polluted the environment, besides.
            “What horrible, wicked creatures humans are!” he fumed to himself.  “I wish I could do something about them!”  He thought, “I don’t think we even need half these shows on television!  Tv should be for meteorology only!”
            He was about to turn off the television.  A brilliant idea popped into his brain.
            He thought, “I want to invent a television that only records the weather!  That’ll teach people to watch violent things on tv!”
            He scurried down to his basement as the rain and lightning flashed.  And, the clouds-they were thick, and black, and angry.  Steam rose up from the blacktop of the street in front of his house.  The sky was dark as night even though it was pretty much daytime, still.
            James took out his tools and spread them on a table.  Then he took out one of his old televisions-a flatscreen he bought from a thrift store some odd years ago-and started banging on it with a hammer.  Nothing happened.  He frowned, scratched his head, and tried again.  Nothing happened, still.  Maybe the rain was making him think harder than he had to.  He wasn’t sure.  His stomach growled.  He ran upstairs and started taking food out of the refrigerator.  He had bread, salami, and sandwich spread.  He made himself a sandwich.  The rain slowed down some; the clouds dissipated and the sun shone brightly through the windows.
            He forgot about his invention and went upstairs to bed.
            That night, he had a dream.
            He dreamt he was flying through the sky on a dragon.  His name was Sarvich.  He had brown scales and a long tongue and he called James “Sir.”  That made him feel nice and happy inside.  He woke up the next morning, and the dream ended, but he remembered his invention and returned to work again. 
            That afternoon, he went for a walk through the forest.  The trees were much darker than the ones that lived on the planet over a thousand years ago, back when things were a simpler time.  He watched old television shows on his flatscreen tv many a-times.  He stopped and smelled the flowers-tulips and roses and wildflowers, that tickled his nose and made him sneeze.  He came to a small waterfall and splashed his feet in the small whirlpool that foamed and fizzed and spouted different colors.  He looked up.  A dragon, exactly like the one from his dream, stood there. 
            “Why, hello!” the dragon exclaimed in surprise.  “Whatever are you doing here?”
            “I’m taking a walk, but, you see, I stopped to rest.”  James laughed, because the water was tickling his feet.  It was a nice feeling.  He didn’t want it to end. 
            “Why, you’re in my dream!” the dragon said.  “I wish you’d get out.”
            “I don’t know how,” he replied.  He thought for a minute, then said, “What would you like to happen in your dream?”
            “I want you to build me something, James,” the dragon said.
            “What do you want me to build?” James asked in a curious voice.
            “A machine.”
            “What kind of machine?”
            “A machine that tells us when it is going to rain,” the dragon explained.  “A rain machine.”  The dragon smiled.  He had rows of sharp, white teeth in a grinning face.
            “We already have that,” James explained patiently.  “It is called the National Weather Service.  It is a giant balloon that encompasses the planet and tells us when it is going to rain.”  He smiled, pleased that he knew about such things.
            “No, no, no!” the dragon exclaimed.  “I want you to make a machine that actually tells us the second it is going to rain!  The very second, and not a moment too soon!”
            “All right,” James promised.  “I will.”
            He walked slowly home, thinking about what the dragon had said.  It didn’t occur to him that dragons shouldn’t exist, that they shouldn’t talk, or know anything about such things as rain machines that didn’t even exist.
            James made a nice pot of stew for dinner.  It smelled nice.  He thought about his invention while he ate his dinner.  It had been nice all day and he hoped it would stay that way because he needed to think about how he was going to build his machine.
            He went down into the basement the very next day and gathered his supplies.  He took out the flatscreen tv he had been working on, and took out a fresh sheet of paper and began to build a design for his rain machine.  Nineteen days and nights passed, and he worked and worked.  He hired a maid to clean his house so he wouldn’t be disturbed.  She brought down his dinner every evening, and every morning, she woke him out of a sound sleep.  He didn’t have an alarm clock because he had taken the parts out of it the week before to help build his machine.  At long last it was finished.  He put down his screwdriver and admired his handiwork.  The machine was splendid.  It was a tall, metal thing with interwoven pieces.  There was a radio attached at the end.
            “At last!” he exclaimed.  “My work is complete!”  He smiled, and, with a flourish, turned on the machine.  It hummed and churned, talking to itself as it wove to life.  It shuddered once, and died.
            “Drat!  Something’s wrong with it!”  He kicked the machine with his foot.  Ow.  That hurt.  Jumping up and down, and thinking while he was jumping, he realized he was going to have to tinker with it some more.
            The next day, he went to the store and bought more nails and bolts and a battery.  He gathered everything in his arms and took it home, then pulled the rain machine from behind the furnace and began to hammer it.  He inserted the battery.  With a hum and a whimper, it spluttered to life.
            “It’s working!” he screamed.  “It’s working!”  He jumped up and down, banging his foot one more time.  The basement grew dark, and he looked up in surprise.  It was going to storm.  He went upstairs and out the front door, to wait for the rain to come.  The clouds became thick and menacing, but nothing happened.  He waited some more.
            Still no rain, but a nice, cool breeze brushed across his face.  He winced.  Nothing was going right at all.  He wanted so badly to invent the rain machine, and to be able to buy a moped, but it looked like that was not going to happen for a very long time.  Or maybe not at all.
            Then, suddenly, a quick lightening flashed in the sky, and thunder smacked against the clouds, shaking the ground in which he stood.  The entire world opened, and the rain flooded the land, the rain that was plentiful and good.
            James swelled inside.
            He had done it.  He had invented a rain machine.
            Now, he could sell it to a computer company, and buy a moped.
            He skipped back inside, slamming the door behind him.
THE END.

Monday, September 11, 2017

DEATH.

DEATH.

Death shrouds us like an island.  Sand is carved from stone.
Sleep is a brindled bull dog that does not escape promises
As dark clouds form overhead.  I talk to you from the tomb
Of the unknown, the deepest, darkest pit of despair, imagining
Edgar Allan Poe speak of the missing, the dying, the dead.
Some people need to be taken by the hand and shown the way;
Others pave the way to perfection; still, others, listen, and speak,
And listen again, and their words move on the wind.  I had taken
The time to speak of differences, I had taken the time to move
The wind, the wind that moves me as I walk outside, broken and
Shattered, on egg shells.  My wounds are raw and blistered.
I do not do anything but speak of the things that must be said,
Who is forsakened by the wind itself.  Et tu, Brute?  I say, over and over
Again, and he smiles his smile, sad and lonely, and the words
Bare no meaning.  Thoughts are lonely things
That move on the winds of time, and the birds cry to the cloud-filled
Sky, the puffy clouds moving slowly across the great bowl of daylight,

Taking time to remove its prey.

RAIN.

RAIN.

Rain gleams on the edge of reason.  I find sanity in the simplest
Gestures, the smallest things.  Partake in the necessary dreaming
Of dreams.  Go and fold softly, like bitterness in my mouth.
Don’t talk to the flowers unless they talk back.  Hatred spans
From flesh and moves with flesh and broken bones, unlike broken bibles,
Strewn about a motel floor.  She is there with him, hearing him as he speaks,
Hearing his gentle words like stones on tables.  Glass strikes against glass.

A woman screams down the street, she is being smothered by a blanket.
It is wintertime.  The woman in white is wrecking havoc again, creating
Unheard of things.  She doesn’t fall far from the tree, or the building,
Which was made from trees.  He spoke to her like he was speaking to the night,
And he was not dreaming.  Soiled worms are found in dusty sheets.  Whatever
Noise there was in the flesh, his eyes whisper in the lonely night, his eyes

That are mine and are not.

NAKED FLOWERS.

NAKED FLOWERS.

The broken and neglected world is like
A dream within a dream.
Nothing is real, except death.
The end of reason is like reason unknown,
And unknown things are grown from desperation.
Take pride in your realization.  Grows like a flower
In a seed.
Write books on paper.  Seek wisdom from Bibles.
The growth is in the knowing that tomorrow will never come.
Wisdom is in the grain of the seed, and flowers will bloom,
And trees will fall, and the bees will stop buzzing
Around naked flowers.
The broken and neglected, steels of commerce, are proud
And shadowed by grief and doubt.  The pain of love is in
Love.  Sunlight falls through cracks in windows,
And the pain speaks through, calls with voices on
The faraway wind.
Everything is etched in time, shadowed by dew on

A forgotten world.

Sunday, September 10, 2017

THE OLD BARN.

THE OLD BARN

The sun is listening to the
Morning.
Like a warbled voices’ song.
Mother Nature is neglected, he walks on
Sad stilts like a clown.  A lone loon sounds
Its warbled cry across the vast lake,
Frightened of its vastness.  A flower opens
Its pedals in the garden.  There are weeds.
A man is singing in his shower as he gets ready
For work, which is basically shoveling manure in an old barn.
He thinks the barn is haunted.
A wild lily is straining towards the sun,
Near the open doorway of the barn.
A horse arches its head in the doorway of its stall,
Talking to itself because there is no one else to talk to.
Sometimes, the wind mourns sadly.
The man who must shovel the manure crawls out of his
House, and walks to the barn, whistling, carrying
A shovel over his shoulder, happy that the morning

Has broken, happy to be alive.

Saturday, September 09, 2017

He Who Loves Me, Loves the World.

He Who Loves Me, Loves the World

His eyes beat like stars.  The night shines brilliantly
Through my window.  A beetle scuttles across the kitchen
Floor.  I am rising, falling with the night, thinking of
Deeper things.  He speaks to me in whispered promises,
Stroking my thighs lovingly.  He who loves me, loves
The world, loves all the promises of the night, and the stars
Are like bitter eyes that lower to the city streets.
A car backfires.  Sometimes, a cat walks across the sidewalk,
Searching for its dinner, maybe a mouse, or sometimes a bowl of
Tuna fish is left on front porches by old widows who lost their
Husbands to war.
But all the while, he is there, a ghost in the night, his words
Curving more than beauty, a mixture of skin and broken bibles,
Thoughts like stones on wooden tables.
He who loves me, loves the world, and the world with its crazy
Dreams, the craziness wrapped inside you like a vegetable burrito,
The craziness wrapped in tin foil.  A radio can be heard somewhere
On the street, in all the sheets and folded bodies in all the houses
Along the street, as the people in those houses make love, do laundry,
Do nothing.
And all the while, the world is there, creeping slowly outside your window,

And there is no tiredness there.

Strangers In Shadows.

Strangers In Shadows

My heart is like the night.  It moves and shines on the
Floor of the world.
There are strangers near and far, some we will meet,
Some we will not.
Some strangers are written in books.
Some strangers seek the darkness.
But not me, I am a gentle lover, glorious while awake,
And dream of lovemaking when I sleep.
Who talks about me when I am alone?  Is it the ghost
Trapped in the closet with the k-9?  He who wanders about
The world, exposing himself to the problems at hand,
Forcing himself to be asleep, and he dreams.
Some of these strangers we will never meet, except on paper,

And maybe that is the best thing.

Tuesday, August 29, 2017

Glass Houses.

GLASS HOUSES

The poor people live in glass houses.
That is all they can afford.
Once in awhile, they buy cakes for their children’s
Birthdays, but otherwise, they cannot afford a thing.
Hunger is a strange thing.  It gnaws away at your gut,
And affects your bones.
See with your inner eye.  Do not let crimson colors fool you.
I have found I am burdened by the darkness that surrounds me,
And nothing is more foolish than the darkness that is within.
Tell me why do you not listen to your innerself,
Why do you speak darkly?  I have no room to say anything
About you.
Memories spark anger that questions all of my yesterdays.
Tomorrow I may not be here anymore.  I am not foolish.
The love is in the darkness. 
The loneliness is in the flesh.
What is it like to be poor?  I wonder about that every day now.
I wonder about a lot of things, like the way you seem to trip over
The front door on your way into the house, the way you smile
At me sometimes, your eyes flashing brilliantly.

The crowd is in the movement.  Love is not always enough.

Monday, August 07, 2017

The Man In the Straight Jacket Whispered.

The Man In the Straight Jacket Whispered

The man in the straight jacket, whispered to me,
And said, “My eyes sleep in your dreams.
You dream of whipperwills and handbaskets,
Crafts and scones-dredged in silence, you seek of none.”
In my spare time, I walk to the grocery store,
Carrying a briefcase to put a case of eggs in,
And, talking to the cashier, I bring them back home
And fry them up in a frying pan.
Dusk creeps slowly around the edges of my living
Room, and ghosts speak to me, softly treading
Their footfalls on the linoleum.  The light goes dim.
A storm is coming.  Everything grows dim,
And it gets hot, and the hotness causes itching,
Growing quickly around my vision.
I wish I could escape.  I have nowhere to go.
I don’t have any money to go to a cheap-ass motel,
I don’t have any money to purchase alcohol.
I want to escape.
I cannot.
Where would I go?
I wander in my mind, looking for solace.  At last, I pull out
A book of poems and skim through it, words swim before my eyes.
Where does the loyalty lay?  In your heart, in your head?
I want something to eat.  My stomach growls.  I feel starved,
Naked, dead.  My eyes are dead.
I don’t understand anything but the aching in my stomach,
The pain in my heart.  I wonder where you are on this hot,

So hot, night, and the birds call to me, lonely.

Acquaintance With Time.

Acquaintance With Time

I saw her face, Time, so quiet and still.
I passed before her on the grass,
I did not know it was her until,
my watch moved slow as melting glass,
glass that I wished that I could fill.
She spoke to me; no words I heard,
for her beauty was bright to see,
 I could not speak but a word,
my mind fluttering like a frigid bird,
and then she walked away from me,

and I could speak again at will.

Monday, July 31, 2017

SAD PEOPLE.

SAD PEOPLE

Sad people make me angry
            I don’t understand their terrible sadness.
Trapped in a drug-induced stupor;
Shadowed by their own selfish longings.
            I don’t understand the wicked ways
Of the world or their terrible longings.
                        I suppose a reflection would be necessary,
But not warranted.
            Take into heart the reasonings of all self-doubt.
I want to take a stand on the problems of the world,
            Like homelessness, or the feelings of being trapped in a loveless world.
I have become a sacrifice to the gods,
            The gods of men wearing thongs, the gods of greed-
Greed stands in the way of common sense.
I hope goodness is not trapped.
            I try not to stand in the way of anyone else’s burden,
But more often than not my confidence is destroyed, and I have to see the way
The world is the way it is.  Like, why war?  Why anything?

                        That is the entrapment.  That is the world in which we live.

Wednesday, July 26, 2017

The World.

All this time I was wondering,
what promises will fade
on the forgotten shores of time.
In the early dawn, light twinkles close to shore.
My heartache is steady.  I am moving towards the west.
Where do I begin to explain the simplicity of this promise?
I am bequiled, like a forgotten land.  However few,
these words are broken.  Why is there a knot in the back of my
head?  Some people don't seem to understand the time it takes
to reflect on my burdens.  I have to survive in the wild,
alone, desolate, broken, in the mood of being nothing more
than a being surviving without anyone, anything.  Words are
nothing more than a broken promise, etched in time.  The pigeon
flies on sole wings, in the midst of despair, I am here, reaching
far out into oblivion, reaching far out in the midst of things.
Don't tell me you are jealous.  I am beyond reason.  Your reason
should be your god, not your menace.  I feel like a ghost is following
me, from room to room, down the road, etched in dew.
The dew falls on the grass, and the rain pitter-patters on the roof,
and I am long-forgotten, wondering about the world.

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

A Forgotten Land, A Forgotten Place.

This is a forgotten land, a forgotten place.
That has befallen us to temptation.
Everything we see is bitter-the car in the driveway,
the hungry maid.  She sees what she sees.
Sometimes, we do not know where our loyalty lies,
in everything or nothing, and sometimes things are never
okay.  The loneliness is in a shred of doubt.
The master is in the deceit.  Everything is farther than it was.
Sometimes, we see things that are at death's door.
I wish I could be a butterfly.  I wish I could be a tugboat.
Everything I wish, and nothing seems fewer.  The lies are
in our deceit.  Everything is beguiled.  Take us not to temptation,
or fate us with what is fewer than the forgotten eye.
There are prophets.  There is death.  There is the life in after death,
and the next afternoon.  The car gets stuck in the driveway.
I see my life going before my eyes.  I feel a twinge of guilt.
Everything is less than certain.  Everything is death,
or the certainty of death.  These emotions lack certainty.
They are a part of the path of destruction.  How you help,
and why it helps, I cannot say.  What is there to say, anyway?
I feel like a dumb horse looking into a dumb horse's mouth.
Nothing is the same as it was yesterday.  Everything is new.
The grief is new.  I am a new man who sees the future,
and in it, the grass is brown.

Sunday, July 02, 2017

Nothing Further.

All alone, this path is mine, I became interested
in the monarch butterfly.  Fluttering in its wake,
it cries, and mourns the fallen star.  Everything we see-

what's left is right, what's right is left.  The light is
dimmer than the ear.  I fear, we fear, the heart is near-
and the shark swims, and swims together.

The star shines brightly.  Everything is bright.
The man in the room, the heart that is full of doom.
Tomorrow is blessed by the man.

I am tired.  I want to sleep, but the fireflies keep
me going.  Awake, and up, and awake, am I,
and I am despairing.  My last kin has died.

You think you know the temptation is dim,
and our eyes are vast as we can swim,
but nothing has gotten farther from the truth.

We are gone, and I am gone.  Gone.  Just gone.

Saturday, July 01, 2017

Alone.

I am a poet who lives alone.
My mother comes to visit me, sometimes.
I go out during the week, to do the grocery shopping,
and come home, alone, again.  I am perpetually alone.
Alone, I feel, with the bitterness, and the tides that spew
forth tornadoes of hate-hatred that is the flesh, hatred

that is the mother.  Sometimes, a mother hen will lay eggs;
sometimes, a flock of ducks will fly across a highway.
The train comes by, chugging slowly.  Everything is slow
this day.  I am alone.  You say you are with me, but where
are you?

Your spirit does not dwell in my house.  I have been as
forgotten as these yesterdays.  The cellar door swings open,
revealing dust and bats.  I know you do not think I notice,
but I know you are gone.  You are not dead.  Just, gone.

It is my birthday, and I am alone-alone with my thoughts,
alone in everything, alone by myself on this day.
Perhaps someone will understand.

Saturday, June 17, 2017

Bleeds.

Bleeds
When in doubt, my heart will bleed,
in times without, I will succeed.
All my sorrow, perhaps has proclaimed,
the stars will listen, as I cry in vain.
The night is listening, to my soiled tears-
and as I cry, I release my (perpetual) fears.
To dream, I will, and dream of rain,
my fears are burdened by my constant pain.
The piano plays constantly in the living room,
I cannot live without, for fear of doom.
To dream, I do, and dream of I,
my soiled tears are withered cries.
The crow caws constantly, outside my window,
and I see the rain in sheets in the street below.
How vain, it is, to think that I,

am hurt all not, and cannot cry.

Tuesday, June 13, 2017

A Time Of Snakes.

Time flies over everything.  The sun is the moon and the stars.
I force myself to awaken to the song of everything.  I have been
moved by things that come before me.  There is a snake,
crying in the grass.  Her babies have been smothered by

the land.  She is crying for revenge, and the Indian hears her cry.
She slithers across the land, trying to find hope in the wilderness.
The tall grass, the bumpy mounds, the fat old groundhog
chittering away before wintertime comes.

The sun rises over the sky like a big goldfish bowl.
Temptation begins where hope ends.  The Indians travel by foot,
even though they have cars-Rolls Royce, Volkswagen, Honda.
Those are the cars of future's past.  In the end, time changes,

everything changes.  Nothing remains the same.

Monday, May 22, 2017

Moving Back to the Sawdust.

Moving Back To the Sawdust

The sawdust was left on the dusty floor.
She couldn’t see the side of his face-
It was scarred, just as it used to be.
The room was dusty.  Her mother wanted
To clean it-she was desperate, then.  She still was.
Everything cost too much money-they never seemed
To have any.

They lived on a ranch in the middle of nowhere.
Their father was dead.  A horse had fallen on him.
She was a waitress at a diner in town.  Her boy
Was a college student trying desperately to get out
Of small town life, his major was biology.

He didn’t like to dissect the animals-he was a vegan
By nature, since he was six.  His favorite was cottage
Cheese.

Once, he met a girl and fell in love-and they decided
To move out of small town life.  They left the mother,
They left the ranch, they left the sawdust that seemed
To be eternal.  

Everything seemed to be eternal but their love,

And one day they had a baby and had to move back.

A Love That's Ours.

 The night is gone, and I am cold,
This tender love is blank and old.
I am burdened by these lovely flowers,
And waste away these tender hours.

Words are burdened by the man,
As tender lovely voices stand,
Everything is full of rain,
But my love, is just too vain.

Take my heart, but do not part,
These lovely words are full of heart-
My eyes are bright and full of sight,
Let’s go out and dance tonight.

Dance among the swirling stars,
Dance among the world that’s ours.
Dream of times that sleep with thee,
As we hold each other tenderly.