That Sense of Wonder


That sense of wonder
You had as a child,
Did it go away?

Sad isn't it,
To experience such a loss.

If you miss it,
You should not worry. 
Not much. 
There is hope.

Hope in the return of wonder.
Hope in a sense of hope. 

It can come back.
Not necessarily
The same as it was.
In a different genie’s bottle,
Aged right for you. 

Eyes will open wide again.
You will see it, feel it, know it.
Not as it once seemed,

As it is. As you are.
As miracles unfold
For only you to see.

While the shadows read Milton__
Cold winter thoughts crackle
& Warm next to the yule fire
Orange flickering fingers
Glow all around our vision
While the shadows read Milton
Aloud in poor taste & too much
Wine that makes us believe
We’re not slowly freezing to death
Two bums in a slow freeze while
Listening to the shadow recite
Classics next to a dumpster fire
Somewhere in Pistol City
---

Pumpkin Pies

To honor Dad’s memory
at family celebrations,
bake a pumpkin pie spiced
with nutmeg and cinnamon,
serve it warm topped by a crown
of homemade whipped cream,
pass each plate into hands
trembling with anticipation.
Take an extra pie to a park
near a rescue mission,
divide it among homeless men
who lick their fingers clean,
are grateful for a gift delivered
without a preacher’s threat
of eternal damnation.

Answers Questioned

night is midwife to dreams
through inverse osmosis

a rapid conversion to 
weapons of mass dysfunction

they say a crucifix of self-pity 
tops looking up from underground

but lived backwards is devil
and the details don’t lie in

wait while the stench of 
stale rhetoric rots the blood 
pudding corpses while we 

shiver to think for ourselves

The Sand Sheet

Sun gauzes the honeycomb ceiling,
transparent netting shelters
the bed of your sleeping revealed,
you lay braids,
the light ferns,
the spectrum beams,
the sand sheet rivers by indigo lilies,
the atrium opens to date palms,
we stand behind the candle glass,
we move through windows of water.

A Gift

There is a bookcase in the bedroom
Next to where I sleep
It was a gift from her
When we lived in the same house
It was made to look like wood
Maybe there was a layer of wood involved
I set cups and dishes there
One day, and this never happened before,
A cup, it must have been very hot,
Left a white ring on the surface
That has never gone away

Killer Joe Blow

So, I'm just out like a roving fool
Barefootin' it down the boulevard.
Then holy terror at the cross walk,
A high tech extreme vehicle electric
Zips past me screeching to a halt
Shredding the rubber-esc tires as
Now one with the pavement.
Hot damn!  It's Killer Joe Blow.
Lord, 'hadn't seen that wild son
Of a fishmonger in beaucoup ages.
I thought the creature was surely 
Locked up in prison or an asylum,
Maybe both.  Dig, man.  Nutzville
Joe, on the spot, presented me 
With the offered opportunity to
Roll on down in his classy buggy
While choking down a tundra-cold
Brewski or two.  Bounce back, bro.
My actual self had to head to the
House.  The fridge was babysittin'
My Swanson TV dinner.  Had been
For a group.  Not that important,
Just avoiding hangin' with this
Bonafide fruitcake named Joe.

Quality Time

 
My wife sits across from me
and reads her Bible.
On this side of my device,
I peruse porn.
She lifts her eyes from scripture
and blows me a kiss.

“Christmas Eve Beers”
 
Open the first one and toast
a dead uncle,
then the second one
becomes a dead cousin,
while the third beer
is a warning
to slow down,
delivered in a voice
that isn’t my own.
 
And I start to wonder
if there’s such a thing
as a living memory,
only for the fourth drink’s
empty bottle
to remind me of a tombstone
above a fresh grave.
 
It’s the fifth beer
that makes the music louder
and quiets all the ponderings on death
giving birth to rebirth,
if we’re lucky,
or giving existence to nonexistence,
especially on those nights
when all the ghosts are gone
on a two-week vacation in December.

Excuses

The razor
against my wrist
or the gun
in my mouth
do not spell
the end
of my story
They are merely
today's excuses