My Poetry

Thinking of Girl Blue

Sat, 24 Jan 2009 11:27:29 -0800

If you see her – tell her I send my best
It can’t be easy trying to figure out that part of her
That lives in that part that doesn’t make sense – not even to her
I have spent my life looking and now that she is here I don’t know what to do…

If she calls – tell her I am waiting
It isn’t easy for me to sit here and not move
Across the room – the galaxy - into a place she can define
I have spent the night drinking and now that she is here I don’t know what to do…

If I’m sleeping – tell her she is golden
It doesn’t make much sense to keep my tired eyes open
Until she arrives because she might not with Jude out of town
I have spent the night praying and now that she is here I can only be thankful

Michigan Breath and the True Taste of Divinity

Sat, 24 Jan 2009 11:25:24 -0800

I
Less a penumbra
More a halo
Sticky sweet moisture
And the smell of Michigan
In the summer
She lingers inches from my face
Her tongue a gentle snake
Basking in the afterglow
Of pre-dawn sexual insanity
Unfamiliar scents hang
In the crisp autumn air
I lost you in the electronics aisle
Losing myself for one shaky moment.

II
The closer I walk
Within His reach
The further I move
Toward my own divinity
Waiting for me
A lover in another room
She is waiting for me
While her taste stays on my tongue
Where I can roll it around in my mouth
The smell of Michigan
On a long summer day
I lost you to my insecurities
Losing myself without salvation

In Belmont Gardens

Sat, 24 Jan 2009 11:24:50 -0800

She said she was there to forget the one she lost last winter
She looked like she lost more since then but she couldn’t remember
I would have bought her a drink or two – but her lazy eye was making me dizzy
So I went back to the table and told a joke that wasn’t as funny as I had remembered

I come here because it is where I hang my hope on a rusty, broken hook
There is nothing for me anywhere else and at least they know my name here
I could have used another drink or two – but I couldn’t find a thick-wallet sucker
So I asked the girl serving drinks if she had some golden love – or maybe a friend for me

She smiled at me under the pale penumbra of the hazy streetlight
I didn’t care if she remembered me or thought I was her pimp or pusher
She and I danced one night and everything was electric and golden for a minute
So I went back to my old car and put on some music from when life was better for me

Easter Photos

Sat, 24 Jan 2009 11:22:01 -0800

He was never sure if he was forgotten like that thirteenth colored Easter egg
The egg that was hidden on a Sunday morning in a time of black and white pictures
Those curled snap shots are hazy now and he isn't sure if anyone remembers him at all

Outside a four o'clock bar he watches a dying penumbra rage against the mist
This is no place for a guy who once glowed like a child of God in Polaroid heaven
Brown eyes are the same but have seen so much – too much – still he can't look away

He offers up a plea on the wings of the one who loved us most for as long as he was here
He has to get back to the black and white pictures and the shiny plastic Easter basket
He has to get there in time to find that last egg and to see if anyone remembers him at all

Downstairs at Carter’s

Sat, 24 Jan 2009 11:21:18 -0800

We’re downstairs at Carter’s and peace is on my arm
The devil wants me to play with him but he won’t call out the changes
It is a night for lovers but the music simply consumes me

And we’re downstairs at Carter’s and beauty is on my arm
Nothing as ugly as that man could survive anywhere else but here
Carter’s has become a primeval greenhouse nurturing these weeds

She feels like bourbon in the glass
She is golden on this night for lovers

And we’re downstairs at Carter’s and serenity is on my arm
The sweet sound of blissful music settles my empty stomach
I gorge myself until my full mouth is dripping her rhythm – no blues

And we’re downstairs at Carter’s and strength is on my arm
Wrapped tightly around her beauty completely aware of its own existence
The alignment of the entire universe is balanced in her delicate grasp

She is like fire in my belly
She is golden on this night for lovers

And we’re downstairs at Carter’s and love is on my arm
And she is golden on this night for lovers

A Sunday in May

Sat, 24 Jan 2009 11:15:11 -0800

Today was like a whisper in a dark room while the bitter rain crashed outside
Like a whisper stolen from the lips of a lonely lover with nothing left to believe in
Slow motion movement in clothes that don't quite fit - then asleep in a white chair
Cool wind turned cold - then colder - and the coffee tasted foul in the lonely old cup

Her coat was bright red and she was like something we have never seen before
She spoke and each word became a thrill I wanted to put in my pocket for later
It was a day that never seemed to end and the dark room was so inviting now
The rain never came and the whisper never left my ear – no matter what I did

Tonight is like an old joke that you can't quite tell or get the punch line right
Like an old joke that you heard a long time ago but had no reason to believe in
Sluggish movement in thick socks and dollar store slippers – then alone at the desk
Thick fingers staggering – stumbling over the keyboard - symphony of a lonely click

For Dawson

Sat, 24 Jan 2009 11:14:40 -0800

I bought a gilded gold picture frame with skeletal cats the day it snowed so bad
One dozen dollar store chocolate covered cherries and I feel so good and I feel so bad
My new blue sweater catches each falling snowflake - his jokes fall too - it isn't the same
Hollow and hungry aren't always the same thing - but sometimes they feel the same

Sometimes we look for answers where there are none – tenacious – we need to know
My father gave me curiosity – my mother gave me tenacity – this much I know
The dollar store by the old theater is a great place to leave the things that trouble you
Sometimes in the toy aisle – sometimes with the corn chips – they won't even charge you

The snow has done its magical best tonight to paralyze the city who loves it best
My lovely cat licks white lumps from between the treads of my shoe – she loves the best
Another night when the people who care are put to the test and they all pass
Art – and memories of another life - will endure all – everything else will pass

It was a day for airplanes

Sat, 24 Jan 2009 11:13:23 -0800

For Van

It was a day for airplanes when the sky was so blue it seemed dishonest
Two old friends counting the seconds from a life they carved with love
Around them – and the airplanes – the diversion known as life raged on
The two little lights illuminated the setting sun sky and offered secure landing

It was a day for airplanes when the black dogs kicked up lazy tufts of grass
Two old friends recalled the paths they chose that lead them to this runway
In the distance lightning and thunder danced their tempestuous tango
The two little lights illuminated the darkest corners of the perilous flight pattern

It was a day for airplanes when the symphony of the laughter filled the air
Two old friends touching two young hearts like they promised they would
In the house – love was surrendered by love and spread out on the table for everyone
The two little lights illuminated the horizon as the airplanes touched safely down

The Ragman’s voice

Sat, 24 Jan 2009 11:07:17 -0800

Crows the size of dogs
Walk brazenly down my alley
The lifeless limbs of small children
Dangle from their razored beaks
Just below their dangerous colorless eyeballs

The dense morning air informs
A violently suffocating day
The barbarous sun reflecting off
The faded pavement offers no comfort

The guttural grumble of distant thunder
Hangs over the shingled rooftops
A tattered shroud

The ragman's voice cuts through
The open spaces void of sound
His sing-song cadence draws the women out

The plastic-heeled-vinyl-strapped sandals
Crack and pop against the wooden steps
The hair on their fragile heads
Is matted down with sweat and baby food
Mouths painted - eyes red

The ragman takes their remnants
Memories of their dingy lives
He heaps them up onto his battered old cart

The women scurry like panicked roaches
Back into their linoleum and tile kitchens
Leaving the Ragman's voice
To sing his simple song