on top


life

will constantly

pull at the seams

trying to

break you

and it does

some.

every time

you feel

a tear

you have to

sew it

back together

by replenishing

your soul.

make

the opposition

quiver.

write a poem.

read a book.

dance

and make love.

snort a line

of the sun.

burst thru

the fire

like a

bowling ball.

jump on

the opposition

like a trampoline

and swing

from the stars

like monkey bars

to inform life

that you

are on top.

give life

a swift kick

in the balls

and laugh 

at it

keeled over.

Period cramps. 

 
she wakes up at 1am 
flipping like a dolphin 
exiting the white  
of a bay. doubled  
over, creasing; a book 
bought second-hand, 
and screaming so loudly 
she rattles dead flies  
from the windowsill. 

I snooze over sideways 
in my wine-tired slumber 
and quietly mumble 
"you awake? 
are you ok?" 

endless poems about regret

 
waiting for the snow

all the threats from my dead relatives

from what i remember, the doctor
told me i would be dead by now

i'm sure he got into just for the money

i often dream of kissing you and
then never seeing you again

endless poems about regret
and what could have been

instead, i'm facing the likely
possibility of never kissing
you at all

those poems hit a little fucking harder

find the rare moment to share a laugh
tucked away between the murders
and endless tragedies on the news

how does one find a romance
in the middle of hell

not afraid to be alone,
just hate being lonely

the scotch punches a little harder
on these nights

like the woman of your dreams
texting you to fuck off instead
of thinking that you deserved
to hear it from her lovely voice
----------------------------------------------------
thirty years younger

 
she had the feel
of an old jazz club

cigarette smoke
hanging in the air

everyone wearing
sunglasses

i'd playfully slide
my hand up her leg
and she would blush
open just enough
to tease me

a saxophone would
cut through the tension
like a machine gun

we'll go home that night
and make love like we
were thirty years younger

bite my lip just hard enough
to let me know i'm alive
and she loves me

these are the nights i want
to think of on a front porch
in the rain

slipping a little whiskey
in the coffee

watching a cat chase
a butterfly
------------------------------------------------
for nickels and pennies

 
sometimes in my mind
i'm still that teenager
hanging out downtown

listening to frank play
the saxophone for nickels
and pennies

i'd go buy him a sandwich
so he would actually get
something to eat that didn't
come from a brown bag

if my memory is correct
frank drank himself to death
years after we first met

he's the one that would
tell me stories about coltrane,
charlie parker

how he once did cocaine
with miles davis

he would read the poems
i would write, tell me i was
getting better

give me a few sips
when i would get
published

i still hear that saxophone
when it gets quiet at night

a much simpler time

all the demons still
to come

Bad Advice


I was talking to
a friend today.
I was complaining
about not having
been laid for years.
as I tend to.

He told me to go
to a whorehouse
in Stoke, this is the
second person to
give me this advice.

The thought of it being
a financial transaction
is a massive turn off
for me.

But, then he told me
that when he went there
the Polish, or Ukrainian
girl couldn't understand
him.

They had to communicate
via Google Translate.

I said

Didn't that ruin the
atmosphere  ?

He looked at me
as if I was insane.

Copper, you don't go to
a brothel for the atmosphere.

Perhaps I am insane.

Bad Poetry is Bad Poetry 

"I just can't figure it out. No one seems to be reading my poems. I post them in my writing groups and even on the rest of those Social Media sites. I'm not getting any comments or likes." She sniveled. 

"Wish I had an answer for you."

"I've been thinking it might help if I change the font for my poem. Maybe use a flowery cursive  style and format. I got it. I'll overlay my poem on a picture with an image that captures the poem's theme. What do you think?"

"My opinion isn't important. I'm not at all familiar with how to present a piece of literature. Marketing is a mystery to me " I answered. It was my poor excuse for not wanting to give her the actual reason.

"Why won't you answer my question? I would really appreciate your professional critique. I'm trying to reach  a larger audience and I believe the reason for the poor readership is the way my poems are presented. If I make them more attractive by adding a few features to capture the reader's attention, I will become famous. Don't you believe it's true? Tell me what you think."

"My professional opinion? I'm not sure I can be considered as a professional. But if you insist and want me to give you my take on your conundrum, I'll offer my honest assessment. But listen , please don't get all defensive and up tight and shit like that. Don't take it as a personal attack. Now with that being said, are you sure you want me to tell you what I think is the cause of your limited success as a poet?"

"Of course I won't be offended. I know you'll be honest.  Wait a second, are you going to put me down?"

"I'm going to offer my honest opinion. That's what you want, isn't it?"
"Yes. Okay, go ahead."
"First of all, you're way off course. You're not seeing where the actual problem lies. The early classic Poets didn't have Social Media and marketing tools available to dress up their work. 
Dylan Thomas, Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, Sylvia Plath the Beat Poets and many more. Their poems were favored because they generated emotions or inspired ideas. The poem stood as a great piece of literature solely on the words and the rhythm of the verse.  
You spend more time planning the poem's presentation than the time you spent creating the poem. 
Let me ask you this. What is your reason for writing a poem? Why do you want to be a poet?"
"I'm not really sure. I guess because it is something that comes easily to me. It doesn't take a lot of effort for me to write a poem. Plus I think my poetry is good enough to make me famous and wealthy.”
“That is one of the most insincere reasons for anyone to choose as their purpose for becoming a poet. Really your intention is to win some type of popularity contest just to feed  your ego?  I'm amused by your main goal for writing poetry is to become famous and rich.  I will let you In on a secret. As a poet you will be required to have a full length mirror.`` 

“Why would I need a full length mirror? "

"So you can watch yourself starve to death.”

“You're real funny. Ha ha." 

"Seriously, it's obvious you don't have the slightest inclination of the enchantment that lives and breathes inside the soul of a poem. If ever you discover the intoxicating essence of its purpose It'll be an enlightenment confirming that your fate chose  you to be a poet. As if madness wasn't enough.”

"What, you don't think I'm a real poet?"

"I think anyone that creates a poem is a poet. But not everyone that creates a poem is a talented poet. Some writers just produce 'Bad Poetry' pablum, doggerel, drivel, prattle or pure garbage."

"So you're saying my poetry is garbage?"

"No, I didn't say that. I consider the theme of your poems as narcissistic. Always centered around you which in turn evokes an unfavorable response.They're filled with uninteresting thoughts, unoriginal insights, egocentric desires and dreams. You believe your experiences, your feelings, your ideas and your opinions are as important to everyone else as they are to you. What makes you think anyone is interested in your trivial dramas, your inconsequential dilemmas? They're all insignificant? Remember this quote; ‘ Just because it happened to you 
doesn't make it interesting.’ 
“Do you understand the meaning?”

“Yes I'm not an idiot.”
“And I'm not suggesting you are.
But, another glaring flaw appearing in your poetry is your 
use of grammar school childish rhymes.  Rhyming love with dove or home with roam and a long list of others. Then there are the worn out idioms or cliches that just add to your poem’s unoriginality. Maybe if you spent more time creating the poem instead of the hours you waste away planning its presentation, you'd find an epic piece that's been hidden away inside of you.
And as far as your ideas to gain attention, when I see a poem overlayed on a picture with fancy hard to read fonts in some jumbled format, I don't even take the time to read the title. Speaking of titles, stop using Untitled for a title. Because Untitled is actually a title. It says to me, If the poet lacks the talent to create a title, the poem must be equally uncreative. Make me understand why it’s necessary to gift wrap a poem and tie it up with ribbons and bows.”

"You don't have to be so mean. I just asked for help, not your degradation. Ya know what, go to hell. Your opinion doesn't make you right."

"That's correct, I'm not claiming to be right. I said I would give you my honest opinion. That's exactly what I'm doing.”

"Fine now no sex for you until maybe forever. You know I've received a lot of positive responses and encouraging comments from a few of my writing groups in the past.”

“And what good did that do?  Tell me. I see it as a dishonest act, perpetuating a major untruth. I'll call it like it is, a lie. When someone posts their poems in some Poetry Group and it receives undeserved compliments. People comment with  positive statements to someone who obviously has no talent for writing.  Telling them it's great ink or interesting creative verse, raving about how wonderful the poem is. They should be offering suggestions on how to write a decent poem or give examples of how their poem could be better. Give them an honest assessment of their work. What people are doing by giving undeserved kudos and accolades is setting them up for a horrible realization when every poem they submit to a magazine is rejected.  False encouragement and untruthful evaluation of their writing is a cruel act.  It will surely backfire in the future. Admins of those groups  explained  to me it is an act of being nice. Personally, I'd rather have an honest critique of my writing, positive or negative instead of bullshit. I don't need anyone to be nice. I don't need my ego stroked. I prefer to be told the truth. “

"What makes you Mr.Know it all? I don't see your books on the Bestseller list or your poems winning any awards. Who do you think you are? No matter what you say I've been told my poetry is unique."

"See, now here you go reacting exactly like a self-righteous person getting angry and defensive because you didn't receive flattering comments.  What makes you think everyone should shower you with praise? Let me give you a fact of life. There are some real rude, insensitive, cold-hearted, brutal and callous people in this world that won't be as polite when offering their opinion. So toughen up. “

"You hurt my feelings. I thought you would give me advice not to belittle me. You don't know what being nice is."

"I'm sorry if you're upset but it's just the way I see things. Ya know what I've got a great idea. Didn't you take some Art classes 
in painting a couple years back at  the Community College? I remember your Watercolor Paintings were dazzling. Maybe you should take a shot at being an Artist. What do you think? “

Drop Out

After waking up in a dilapidated fishing shack,
concealed by cattails, teal paint peeling,
he watches white and black buffleheads
waterski in the sodalite sunrise.

Rust-colored ruddy ducks court
in tide pools, dating season at the Jersey shore,
before deciding who to hitch north with
for the upcoming mating season.

He’s thinking of hitching north too
possibly catch some spring trail work
in the White Mountains or do some planting
for an organic farm-to-table in Vermont.

Then maybe he’ll follow a jam band’s summer tour
out west, sling grilled cheese in parking lots.
Meet up with some trimmigrants,
spend the fall clipping marijuana plants.

He doesn’t see any reason to set up camp
on the quicksand of brick-and-mortar poverty
without the excuse of kids
or a sick mother when he could be poor anywhere⁠—

80% of the hippies living in Haiku, Maui
haven’t used currency in years.
He finds the longer he skirts the system
the less he needs it, not waiting to grow wings.

Vespers

 
In your bracing bed
Day’s heat recess
I in my boxer shorts
You a full night dress

A picture of Jesus calm
Hung from a moldy wall
A conversation long
For scholars of St Paul

I did fancy your attire 
Laying on the floor
And atop its lace neckline
A half-eaten apple core 

Aubade


Santiago Hemingway asked
Why old men get up so early
In the morning. Was it to make
The day longer? Perhaps. Or,
To make the night shorter. To be
Awake and navigate the night
By the stars rather than the clock
Adrift in the bladder that keeps
Us afloat in the warm stream
Where dreams flow and every
Man is an island there in the
Delicious dark hours before dawn
When solitude brews slipstream
To pour into the cup of daylight.
__________

Whatchamacallit


Gizmo, thingamabob, thingamajig,
Thingy, not to mention doohickey.
Okay! All these refer to things. But,

I remain clueless. These words are
Meaningless. No nutritional value.
No protein, no carbs. No edification.

They are noise that annoys. Worse,
Using them is demeaning. To hear
Them is maddening. Please stop.
__________

The Burning Bush


The burning bush
Gives light.
The burning bush
Gives heat.
The burning bush
Shows the way
Warms limb and soul.
The burning bush
Can fuel a holocaust .
The burning bush
Can spread wild
A fervor of flame
Without control
Destroy what is built
Consume limb and soul.
Moses walked away
Tablets in hand
Did not look back
The burning bush
Reduced to ash.

When                                                             

If I am not alone
where am I. It rains
the last days of spring. It rains
the beginning of summer.
I kiss the pizza delivery guy on the mouth.     

Candle

 
You know, that way of talking to yourself that can be dangerous. The way a blade is sharp or a pistol’s loaded. Since the last eviction, I don’t own any furniture. I don’t have an address. The newspaper said, Some members of the victims’ families fainted when they heard the jury’s findings. You’re innocent until you’re proven guilty. Close your eyes. Listen. Everyone is their own music. The sun’s fading light, cold as a knife, the end of day, a smothered flame cowering in the candle’s slender throat.