Rain taps heavy
on my fictional land
on my empty heart
How does it feel
to be one of the last
good ones? she asked me
But I’m a chore and a bore
with selfish metal arms
whining oil can oil can
all the way through
the forest.
Okay
It’s been a few days
The kids are hungry
This boat won’t turn
around
Everyone asks
Who you voting for
Nobody really cares
We are passing
vague plots in the stream
Getting Botox
Hoping what we do
passes muster.
Facing a cave wall, some eggheads
Considered the etchings and characters
Left behind by ancient architects
They must have had something in common
Head, heart, lust, recipes?
But their faces are long buried
Beneath tides of earth and moss
Someday, they will be in a museum
Someday perhaps, they shall be truly rediscovered…
I want to trust
but how do you?
How do you sail
past the island of doubt,
how do you jump again
when your ankles are
still sore from previous
attempts? I apologize
that this poem is made
up of questions, but so
am I sometimes.
Enter into a storm
calm, not disarrayed
a storm is a brewer of helter-
skelter. When you enter, doff
a hat, say hello and then
bow in reverence and prayer.
a storm knows what living is, brevity of life and long hallucinations
of the dreamy.
don’t pick a quarrel with it
confront, confabulate in the
quietest way.
Once a stand-in for love
When the real thing
Couldn’t make it in time
To soothe the bad ache
Numb the pain away
The good ache is the kind
You don’t medicate
A longing deep
Into the bones
From a kissed conversation
Connecting souls
Where music creates poems
Poems create themselves
Outstretched muscle
Limber thoughts
That ache me good
When you’re not near
Past the center
of night, well past,
a song bird woke me.
It was as if the bird
lost all sense of time,
started her song,
noticed no one else
was singing, so
drifted back to sleep
with me.
Call me Mister
Rotten Eggshell,
The Most Kind Fish
Face,
Call me the names
that you do not want
to call yourself, insult
me on life’s
highway, it’s more on
the inflicting
than the inflicted.
There is a deeper
beauty beyond these
skin treatments
this mirror image looking
back
There’s truth below
the epidermis.
This virus brought us far,
But we can’t get back by car,
It spreads itself far,
All without any mark,
Inadequate protection let it enters us,
Without us knowing it is there,
As it begins attacking cells,
As the attack, rings just as a bell,
We might run fast,
But can’t avoid the virus,
As it infects the iris,
As there’s no way out,
We might eat grapes,
Without knowing the escape,
As it flies through the body,
As a shape free to undertake,
Round but not weak,
As it looks for a victim,
Not immune to such infection,
That victim is seeking protection,
A protection as that virus is nonstop.
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