every other sunset


an old piano collecting
dust

like the brain on
a sunday evening

call an old friend
in germany

hope that she still
loves you

hell, even still thinks
of you will suffice

avoid the news

figure out which
organ to sell to
afford the rent
and gas for the
car

minor surgery is
only for the ones
that happen to
others

anxiety dictates
that the end of
the world is
every other
sunset

someone put
their baby in
the trash

even the educated
don't trust leaving
them at the fire
station

"Sitting on the Toilet"

The ground groaning with all
our political talk.

Earthquakes straining with all
our wars against walls.

Volcanoes bulging with all
our stockpiling of nuclear weapons.

Lucifer laughing with all
our breeding a race of non-believing.

Sitting on the toilet with all
our corks out of reach.

Sending Prayers


The prayers were sent
across air and water,
from mind to mind,
and soul to soul.

What were they?
These thoughts?
These words
said in silence?

A bit of hope.
A bit of need.
Perhaps blasphemy.
Perhaps important.

They are gone now,
to wherever they go.
Breaths.
Twitches of lips
and tongue,
Aspirations of mind
and soul.

The heart has its say.
You know that it will.
Off, off, on their journey
they go,

To that place
or no place
where they must
arrive.

Garden

 
The live bird-of-paradise tree blooms
beside the young juniper on the south side
of our yard by the cinderblock wall,

whereas the dead bird-of-paradise branches
are brown, droopy, and leafless
on the dead tree beside the picket fence—

as if someone, maybe God, were illustrating
a lesson for me when I happened to
come out to the back this morning

while it’s still cool enough to sit and
look around, find something stimulating
for the mind locked inside a body

that’s continuously aging
as the mind tries to remain alert
to the beauties life exhibits, the sun

rising as it does each morning
and I, along for the ride, realizing
I won’t be able to continue rising

forever—“for ever”—a concept
my body has quietly assumed since birth
even though knowing there’s no way

it can be true, true only for as long
as I’m around to believe it,
just as earth and the universe it

rotates and glows inside of
will continue only
for as long as I can see it.

 

RCU, Mid 2023- Homesick 
I’m chugging a beer 
At the rodeo 
In Sikeston ‘22 
And you'll buy me another one 
So I’ll dance all night with you 

Bell bottoms, cross tattoo 
I’d die to be back there with you 
Smiling as we sing along 
With dust flying till 
My hair’s all wrong 

I loved you 
Or I thought I did 
I thought you were the end 
My Concrete Cowboy 
My good friend 

Those bloody knuckles 
And crooked teeth 
They always held me up
And were a comfort to me 

Growing up is harder
Than I thought it’d be 
And I have to wonder
What happened to me?

You’re just a memory,
A flash of light that fades
I never will forget you
And I’ll never be the same 

Maybe I’ll see you in Sikeston 
In August ‘24
Then I know I’ll miss you 
In a full force 

She’ll be on your arm
In a little cotton dress
But you'll come alive
When you see me again 

I'll picture you in high-vis
Picture me with scars 
And I know behind it all
You’ll wish I held your heart

Replacements

No one wants
to know names
of the new guys

It’s not practical
as half of them
will be dead
inside of a week

Besides they
replaced old
friends who were
blown away

Who wants to be
reminded of that?

Tattooed Woman


Gotta love a tattooed woman.
A fierce sense of style,
A boldness in presentation.
Crimson red knives on arms,
Vibrant colored tiger on calf.
The rest is private viewing.
It's her way or no way
And I like her every way

Let It Be

We sang along with
'Let It Be' every time
we heard the Top 40
Count Down Play Back
Power Hours as if
our lives depended
on remembering all
the words and how we
sounded singing them
and maybe, somehow,
our survival was linked
to world powers no one
would ever completely
understand like the words
of wisdom that made no
more sense than who
would live and who
would lie alone,
screaming, in a muddy
foxhole, in this unreal
world that just would
not let us be.

My 48th Birthday     
 
the wife and I go to a concert
Fitz and the Tantrums opening for O.A.R
at a little outdoor venue in downtown Pittsburgh
a man and woman     mid-thirties I’d guess
stand in front of us     both wearing ear plugs
fucking lame     but probably smart
Fitz is belting out their poppy rock tunes
my head is bobbing     toes tapping
lips in motion with the words but little sound escapes
the girl in front of us
arms crossed     a little grin     slight movement
her companion
arms flailing     legs kicking     no regard
or rhythm     possessed movement
my wife side-eyes me     and I smirk
no signs of inebriation
no signs of awareness of other’s eyes
this motherfucker is crazy
28-year-old me would’ve been laughing
judging his ridiculousness
48-year-old me          is chuckling
but loves it
I stand here     afraid to move too much
as if cool fucking matters
I pretend not to give a shit     of other’s thoughts
     The easiest lie to tell
          Is the one we tell ourselves
midway through the set     the woman leaves
and never returns     he never stops dancing
never a look of     ‘wonder where she went?’
     just keeps on keeping on
my wife is concerned     that it was a date
and the woman abandoned him     she’s concerned
that maybe there’s something wrong with him
          (maybe)
I don’t feel bad for him
I don’t want to judge him     besmirch him
I wanna fucking be him

 

Five middle-aged dudes in line at Punk’s Ice Cream Parlor
 
at 4:30 in the afternoon
on a Tuesday
spread out evenly
Not together
No wives
No children
each fitting a type
Biker   Construction Worker
Camo-clad Outdoorsman
Coach Dad     Gym Rat
Village People-Esque
if they weren’t apparently strangers
 
and me
dumbfounded
driving by at 45mph
after work
sucking on
a banana split Dum Dum lollipop
trying to decide
if I like it

Cracker Jack Box Poem

 
I don’t wind my pocket watch these days.
It ticks off my age—seventy-eight, nearly more.
I’m an antique gadget, time suspended—like a loose tooth.
It cogs and springs out of sync—
refusing to catch, refusing to move forward.
I shy away from thoughts of endings.
Age is a Cracker Jack box, emptied of prizes,
replaced by a blinking digital clock—
No secret toy inside—only a sunken rattle.
And when it stops, there’s no clapping—pure silence.

I wait through longing seasons.
I am hoping for your return.