“Device of the Idol”

Endless choices that are no choice at all
Confound what is an inner spark conditioned to be passive,
To regard with a humbled posture one’s own vital force
And to give it up for the same tired plays, when
There is a voice we all share that cuts through the spectacle of validation
And finds a home in the human spirit.
Look for the same framing in these winding personalities
That we also must invent and abide by
Leading into a vacuum where data is our new feudal lord,
The goons of which beat the sane down in the streets,
And shackle all observers with anxiety.
For a sanity that could speak to the prisons we build in the name of growth and security
This ongoing noise as oppressively present as a pervasive silence.
The vortex of swirling influence runs contrary to my orientation to be free,
The same structure that brings one up on dazzling lies
Only to one day trademark their nausea.
Why would I scroll over to what’s more
When alternative programs lay like
A sweetly romantic couple
On the horizon. 

SHE LIKES A CERTAIN TYPE OF MAN

 
She likes a certain type of man.
A man who works with his hands.
A man who rides a Harley.
A man with a big broad back and hair covering most of his body.

She dresses very conservatively
And she used to like the shock when someone met her biker husband
Wearing his leathers and his pork chop sideburns.
She has no tattoos and only her ears are pierced.

She loves everything to be neat and tidy. She NEEDS order.
Her eyes tsk tsk a lot.
She lives in perpetual disappointment of others.
She had a crush on the man behind the deli counter.
She liked his big black mustache.

She divorced her biker husband
And now she’s dating a man named Angelo
Who’s a big Greek fella with long dark hair.
The smell of perspiration follows him
Wherever he goes.

She works with children but, outside of work, she is afraid of them.
She has no children. She has two small dogs. She doesn’t trust cats.
She used to read books but now she’s too tired all the time.
She lives alone and wants to be happy like that.

I used to love her a long, long time ago
When we were kids and she didn’t know as much about herself. 

My Clothes

I don't want to be a neat pile of slacks shoved in a dresser drawer.
Each pair is like the one before.
I don't want to be a uniform.
I want to be a closet bursting with color.
Clothing of vibrancy from honey to an Irish sea.
Not a prisoner to a brand or design. 
I want to be a collection.
A painter with their paints.
Each color no restraints.
I
Wanna be all the things I love and what makes 
Me, 
Me.
A Sunday T-shirt and sweats, or a sleek date night dress.
I don't like the silhouettes of clothes packed in a box I must confess.
I am more than a uniform.
I wear many different suits, on different days
And that's OKAY.



It’s Not Me

Confusion is a lame excuse of a word for what I feel.
I'm mourning who I used to be because it's no longer me.
I'm celebrating who I used to be because it's no longer me.
How is it possible to feel two vastly different emotions? 
Like a beautiful bird then realizing it’s locked in a cage.
The worst of all
In five years I'm going to feel the same about now.

What's Left to Live For?

I don't know,
but this
golden sunlight
streaming through
the autumn leaves
above me
seems like
something I'd miss.

Our Friend

Sometimes ignored, it is a
Well know fact that in addition
To disease prevention,
Mister Rubber is also designed
To actually prevent a chance
Encounter from evolving into
An unintended situation of
Long-term responsibility and
Crumb snatchers. 

Help Desk    


He sucks in air as though
licking hard candy,
then leaves a message saying
something about an appointment
so maybe I’ll ring him back,
see if he’ll take that Friday slot.

But his record reads Deceased, same date
he left the message. Two hours
after he spoke the air in his mouth
was lying on his tongue
like a tourist on a beach, wondering
who’s going to breathe it next.

Perhaps it’s found it’s way here,
to my corner of this office.
I’m breathing his last breath,
chasing it down with a slug of cold tea;

trying not to shudder with glee
as I delete his words with the touch
of a finger. Perhaps they were the last
he ever spoke, panting down the phone

as the years sunk their teeth into his lungs
and ripped out his last breath. I wonder
who’ll breath it after me?

Purely Personal Dilemma   


‘Anxiety’ seems too small a word
for every revolver going ballistic,
every word nailing evidence
prosecutors will use to tear you
to shreds. Soon all that’s left
is the verdict. Your own, of course;
the court has more interesting cases
than how deeply you pored
over empty casings, ignoring
the bullets lodged in your back.
There's time for the appeal,
but who will hear your plea?
The court has closed for the duration,
hung up a sign reading

we haven’t gone fishin’;
we’ve just gone. We find everyone guilty,
including ourselves,
so there’s no need to pass any sentence
shorter than a day or longer
than a lifetime.
And now it’s done you can walk
free as a bird with its wings
shot to pieces. In a million years
or so a black hole will drop by
to clean up this mess, so I wouldn’t worry
if I were you. There’s no court higher
than your own, so why not
cut yourself some slack?

You did nothing wrong, boy.
Now go and get some rest.

Had a yellow Volkswagen

with black tires and a thin white line
running around the circumference.
Engine didn't purr, kind of clunked,
didn't go very fast, but then
I never seemed to be in a hurry.

Suzy was my girlfriend, not because
she loved or even liked me, it was
the idea of riding in my bug she fancied,
she said it was cool, hip, though
she didn't like when the engine
farted black plumes from its exhaust.

Once we tried to make love
in the front seat of the car,
steaming the windows on a chilly
night in late November, it was awkward
and uncomfortable, like everything
else about our relationship.

Eventually I sold the bug,
Suzy moved on to a guy with a VW bus,
she liked the roominess, it didn't fart,
and love was easier to consummate.

As for me, I bought a Harley
and dreamed of bedding
biker chicks in cheap motels

the American fascists


were always talking about
Jesus
so I used to think I hated
Jesus

but when all the “trans” bullshit
started
I realized that
America
is the enemy of God

so I read about the message of
Jesus

his REAL message

now I friggin LUV Jesus

and I know that God and Jesus
and the archangel Michael
will smash America
into a million pieces
someday

just as soon as they tell Putin
to push the button

and then the world
will have everlasting peace
until the end of time
under Jesus!
Amen!

The world doesn't end
because it's a sphere.

It ain't big either.
The span between reading Flaubert
and writing like Flaubert
dwarfs it.

True, literature is to the world what
literature is to toilet paper--
a poor substitute.
But it can do in a pinch.
And like the world,
it never ends.



A bare-shouldered woman
isn't what this poem is about.
It's about something else.
So is she.
What that is exactly
I'd love to know.



Aus Chur, Schweiz:
My first memory is picking mammoth bone from my teeth. The second, sacking Rome, followed by 13,972 moons hauling water, tilling cow shit, feeding my life to avalanches, wolves, fever, wind, infants.
Tonight, my wife sings in her hot shower while my daughter rolls on her playmat beside me, holding a unicorn. She crawls onto my lap and laughs. In her eyes glint flint tools, skyscrapers, satellites, collapsing stars. 

Songs That I Sing for the Departed 


I see the dead complacent, 
still aloof and souls set to fly.

Counter point, fizzle and betrothed,
no one remains from those days gone.

And now once again, leaves morph
from green into the yellows and reds
and oranges of autumn.

My ghost roaming, intertwined with
nature, always; while everything prepares 
for hibernation; yet again.

While you remain in black and white,
photos brittle and fading, epitaph, 
etched into stone, my ghost too, has 
grown weary and yearns for eternity.