Short changed at the end of the line___


Following the rain
people downpour 
Scanning everything
But our souls
Stripped of intricate
Humanity
short changed 
at the end of the line
When it's damn near 
Oblivion
Instead of eternity

—--

Late Morning

 
The clock is striking eleven
Beautiful hours are fleeting
Yet I have been sleeping
Missing all the fun and onus

Brilliantly naked
I should be trembling
Over the thought about
What has been missing

What did I really miss
In this world going to the dogs
You tell me if I’m wrong
Tonight, everything is upside down

constant tragedy


life becomes this
constant tragedy

words no longer
comfort

there is no sense
of revenge or the
thirst for conflict

all the tears have
been cried

becomes just another
blip in a world of chaos

a moment trapped
in our broken
imaginations

dead flowers
and rain coming
down on a funeral

this hollow shell
of a broken man

trying his hardest
to convey what love
can do at a time like
this

he can only mumble

weep

hope that some other
soul wants to rescue
his

just one after another
--------------------------------------------------------------

Shake

Everything’s on shaky ground,
even the things seemingly so stable,
they threaten to crumble
at the slightest provocation,

an interior earthquake of ourselves,
pummeling from the inside out,
promising to tear everything,
if not for the constant vigilance

that in the end, matters very little,
and the streets tell other stories
when the sun is out,
but nightfall gives the truth,

and it’s all some doomed house of cards,
everything frayed,
everything so far into disuse,
nothing is left but the apathy

preying on guts like the carrion bird it is,
meanwhile the sun comes over the trees,
and we’re able to fake it
one more day.



Point of Entry
 
Staring in and
everything’s rusted,
if not non-existent,
and you search for
a way to see in,
a method to assuage the
nagging suspicion that
nothing’s there,
never was,
never will be,

and you look through
windows frosted with
time and neglect,
but nothing is
willing to show itself,

so you walk on to
another possible
port of entry,
but all you find is
flimsy walls,
and desperation so complete
cries for help seem
absolutely pointless,

harkening on to something more,
some sort of machine that will
manufacture a new perception,
and then the world becomes
something wholly different,
but it’s not there,

so you move down the
gravel and dirt of this world
hoping to some day find
a point of entry.
 

Ode to the Catfish

 
The catfish is an ugly fella,
              even as a girl,
His droopy jowels and eyes of yella
              make my stomach hurl.
His slimy scales and scratchy fins
              are prickly to the touch.
His dreary hue resembles dust
              and hides him in the muck.
His flesh is tough, his flavor harsh,
              it’s never been my wish.
Yet many fans rejoice to find
              him fried upon the dish.

“A Mockingbird”

I have never seen a mockingbird,
but I’ve been mocked,
especially by those bad luck clouds
with the same names as people I know,
who misread my thought bubbles
full of all the plans I tried
to leave unsaid, and there was a robin
who flew into my back window 
one afternoon, only to die,
failing to smash and ruin my day,
yet its tiny corpse 
still mocked my beer gut,
as antacids dug up stones
in my gallbladder and rain stayed away
like tears taught it’s strong
not to cry.

Canada

 
I have been sleeping with bald eagles
you vultures are jealous:
you know we correctly coalesce
and the grass grows no higher, for
I have perished every thought of you
I grow wings and fly—I fly away
from you: I take back my tangents
from you: I steal every shared moment
all those righteous hours
you have been so careless
as to neglect and forget

 A STORY FROM CHILDHOOD


A fire has been started, embarrassingly
on the railway banking, by someone
I’ve grown up with. I wish it was an
accident or a wilful passing stranger, but  

it’s my childhood friend and neighbour

who loves the smell of burning, the swirling
smoke and embers, the glorious arrival

of the fire-fighters, with their heavy boots
and jackets, the canary yellow helmets, the
choreographed unraveling of the hoses,
the noise they make and breathless running.

The certainty of purpose. To be part of this

is something. That’s how he explained it.  

I never told on him, neither to the police
or to my parents, who came out to watch
the flames, engulfing almost everything

and then suddenly extinguished. My friend
is dead and I believe the cause was natural.

He will probably be cremated
but nowadays, so is everyone

unless you’re Jimmy Carter
Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan

THE MARCHIONESS

 
already making your big sisters jealous,
brown skin with an impish grin
with an April bud’s burgeoning hormones

but are you any good at anything?

on the beach
distracting every eye

or, at the dock,
stepping into the boat,
you don’t mind sharing yourself
with the leers of all these others

the smile never trips up
but sometimes the feet do

you’re not always looking where you’re going

your rhythm is more Parish Match
than what the sand requires

and yet
even when you tumble,
it’s still a triumph

for guys run from everywhere
to help you to your feet

and you stand all that much taller
when you rise again

but there’s still that question no one answers

are you any good at anything?

 


 
STELLA

 
her poetry
has a
limited wardrobe

either
it goes about
buck naked

or it’s
huddled in a corner
all in black

 

 

YOUR FIRST DINNER WITH HIS FAMILY

 
Turkey dinner.
You're seated around a table with family.
His family.
The father slices the bird,
slow and deep,
like he’s cutting into your flesh.
The mother’s eyes see through
to your own mother’s upbringing,
your father’s second shift job
at the factory.
The teenage sister
giggles at your dress sense.
The little brother
hates anything female anyhow.
It’s like a beach
with jellyfish in the water.

 

Mercy

L.A. burn fields
only the rich able to rebuild,

but they're moving away...
their anger generating smoke statues.

The poor aching
for another place to call home.

The middle class praying
for vengeance.

The land opening its mouth
for unimpeded rain.



Sundown

Armies
all over the world.

Different languages
in the same flesh.

Murderous kings.



Beating It to Death

Crowds clapping
for the end,

a long long time
generation after generation.

The drums wearing out
hands and hearts.