Look so pretty you
no sound floats
out of my mouth
as I sit silent now
staring through you
boring in
wondering
what it is that
does this
to me now
and every time
I see you still
just out walking
talking
laughing with him
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/.
Willy’s old.
Still a con man
but bewildered now.
Spent his life
screwing people,
rich and poor alike.
Never discriminated.
Made millions
he tucked away
in stocks and bonds
and foreign banks.
A few gold bars
under the mattress
for emergencies.
He’s dying now,
a shrill curse
his final gasp.
No plea for mercy.
One might think
death would be
a con man’s finest hour,
a last chance to cut
the biggest deal.
But Willy loves Sinatra.
He’s proud as hell
he’s done it
his way.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/.
There is bearded me
and skeptic me
and nonchalant me
usually, these all
come out in winter
like a bear
warmer climates
bring reflective me
and shaven me
and in-between me
autumn brings solemn
academic me
reading me
bookish chin-rubbing me.
You told us about the crimson
slicker, a tear in your eye
how I wanted to jump back in time, scream to them,
get her the red coat
she wants so much, don’t
you know this is the one
person who means so much
to me.
Sickly sweet
the swirl of today’s news
sitting on my empty
stomach. Syrupy
on my lips and on
the roof of my mouth.
An ideal that when tasted
does not blend so well,
overstaying its welcome.
Sucked through a straw,
then spat back out,
better left roadside alone.
Sorry to say, regretfully,
I am not the man I thought
I was, and neither (can I say) do you probably
think I am.
The bio is all wrong; sent
from the wrong file,
written with what seemed
(now does not seem)
a witty intent, scribbled
days or years ago when
all seemed to make sense.
Now the words do not line
up, I am not sure what I
meant, and (worst of all) I
never intended harm (but
then maybe the words are
as innocuous as I believed
them one day to be).
Sincerely,
or Respectfully.
On chilly nights such as these
spent alone beneath the Buddha’s tree
near the lake where, long ago,
we first embraced in dance,
I begin to hate enlightenment,
and simply want your lips near mine again.
More at http://17numa.wordpress.com/.
Forgive the scorching sun
The same dries your robe
And helps your corn
Forgive the rain that drenches
The same brings the lads of the soil
Speedily to your barn
Forgive the night that walks in on you
Bringing no lumen
The same lays you still and curdles you
With symphonies of sweet murmur
Till the travailing day
Comes beckoning like a task master
Forgive and forgive everyone
For the air that aides the whirling
And twirling of the bullying wind
Also serenades you.
Oh September
I found your brutal heart
With its endless winds of an early winter.
Oh how I hate you
From that September of the fateful year of 2009
To all the Septembers until you and I meet once again Merry
In an otherwise empty and indifferent room
Where there are no score keepers
With their crooked fingers and ever present image
Which as the tombs for everyone not crooked themselves.
If you can own a judge in housing court
For the right price
Or the right position
Then why can’t you own the score keepers as well?
Are our worn souls
Those of us faithful losers
Really worth so much that they can’t be forgotten?
Oh Merry maybe I just should be angry with you
Leaving no letter behind
Or an explanation of why all your tomorrows have been recalled.
Didn’t you know we could have danced
Like children in all our ruins.
Was it just another job?
Then how could it have been so brutal?
