Friday, April 28, 2017

Making Friends


                “Holy smokes,” said Teddy.

                He looked up at the darkening clouds rolling through the once blue sky.

                “It was so sunny, like, a second ago, now it’s like, midnight out here,” he said.

                Teddy nudged the guy next to him on the bus. The guy looked up from his phone and out the bus window.

                “Yeah. Weather. Amazing,” said the guy who then looked back down at his phone.

                “I mean, it is sort of amazing when you think about it; the atmosphere, the layers of stratosphere, the winds, the edges of space, ocean currents, the Earth’s rotation. I mean, yeah, it’s pretty amazing to say the least,” said Teddy.

                Teddy was bouncing in his bus seat. He had a broad smile across his wide face. He loved when the weather shifted in a real, visual way. There was something exciting about it for him. A good summer storm rolling in always reminded him of when he was a kid and he and his dad would put out the old folding chairs on the front porch and watch the thunderstorms and count the seconds between lightening flashes and the rumble of thunder. It gave him butterflies in his stomach, like playing hide and seek.

                The guy next to Teddy nodded his head. He was watching some sports news thing on his mobile phone, oblivious to the world around him. He tried to slide over a little bit away from Teddy to which Teddy was oblivious.

                “I tell you what, if I were younger, and had the means to get a real education. Not the HV/AC repair school I went to but a real education, like an Ivy League type of school, I totally would have become a weather man. Teddy the weather man.  Yes sir. That’d be me,” said Teddy.

                The guy next to Teddy tried to turn his body away, but the bus was getting crowded and there just wasn’t much space to turn. Teddy was absently tapping his hands on his knees as he swiveled his head back and forth to get a better look through the windows at the darkening morning sky.

                “Wow, just look at that rolling in, so dark. It is so wild. Just, wild,” said a gleeful Teddy.

                The guy sighed with noticeable exasperation and looked up out the window. He wanted to say something to Teddy, Teddy the weather man, about being quiet and maybe not talking so much to strangers. He wanted to say that maybe he shouldn’t bother people who are just trying to get to work and had to take the damn bus to get there because their wife left them a month ago because she was sleeping with his best friend and she left him with nothing. She took the car, the house, the money and his best friend, so if Teddy could kindly shut the hell up he’d really appreciate it. He really wanted to say that.

                The bus came to a hard stop and the passengers were flung forward. A few lost their balance but managed to hang on. There were groans and a few swears from the commuters.  There was a rumble in the ground that started shaking the bus.

                “Hm, that doesn’t seem right,” said Teddy.

                The guy next to Teddy looked toward the front of the bus, in the direction Teddy was looking.  Teddy was no longer smiling. He no longer had that warm, fun, excited butterfly feeling in his stomach.  Pedestrians on the sidewalk had stopped their mindless march between the buildings. People were trying to steady themselves by grabbing on the side of the tall buildings and light poles.  The wind had picked up and fast food wrappers and dust were swirling in the air.  The guy next to Teddy looked at him.

                “What’s going on,” he asked.
                “I don’t know. I think there’s a tornado, right in front of us. Or… I don’t know. Like I said I didn’t get that fancy ivy league education,” said Teddy.
                “A tornado? In the city,” said the guy.
                “Like I said, I don’t know, but it sure is strange,” said Teddy.

                A woman screamed at the front of the bus. The windshield cracked. People on the sidewalk started to run, pushing and yelling, trampling each other. A dog was barking wildly up at the pitch black morning sky. Teddy wondered who brings a dog downtown on a Tuesday morning.

                “What should we do,” asked the guy next to Teddy.
               
                Teddy shrugged and continued to watch out the window as a bolt of fire shot down from the sky and scorched the side of a building. A shower of burning concrete and glass and paper rained down on the bus. Teddy and the guy next to him ducked down and put their heads in between their knees. The bus was shoved violently to the left and the people on board screamed and fell over each other. A young man was screaming to be let off the bus while another started kicking at the rear window.

                “Oh my God. Oh my God. I’m so sorry Gwen. I’m so sorry I let you down. Please, I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die,” pleaded the guy next to Teddy into his knees.

                Teddy put his arm over the shoulders of the guy next to him and pulled him close.

                “It’ll be okay. I’m Teddy by the way. What’s your name?”

                The guy next to Teddy turned his head to the right and met Teddy’s face very close to his.

                “I’m Ed. My name is Ed,” said Ed.



Tuesday, April 25, 2017

I Covet


I covet.
That is my sin.
I feel the pangs and
electricity of jealousy
whenever I see a happy couple.

I covet their casual grace and
ease. I’m jealous of their quick
loving pecks on the cheek, hand
holding and intimacy of a thousand
little private moments.

I covet their quiet enjoyment
of each other. I’m envious of the
twinkle in their eyes as they look at
each other in some heartfelt moment
and revel in their mutual trust.

I covet their freedom from my
curse. I dream of those moments,
rapt in passion, humor, lust, desire,
the heat of some kind of love I don’t
even know that I’d recognize anymore.

I covet their innocence of passion.
I take it out on them.  I imagine their
ruination, the drunken, screaming 2:00 am fight in
front of the drive-way over some burned
waffles and a mysterious text from “Sally”.

I covet their ability to overcome whatever
scenario I imagine about them.
 I am replete with sinister grudges at the
 happiness I believe I am entitled and disappointed
because I know I am entitled to nothing.

I covet the times when I didn’t know about
loss, hurt, the pains of patience, broken hearts,
the confused anger with those that found their
complimentary person.  It is truly my sin.
I covet.  

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

Swimming in Sand


“Get up! Get up! Get up!”
They shout. As if their pleas
will somehow roust us from
our comfortably narrow
perspectives.

“To Arms! To Arms! To Arms!”
They rally. As if their demands
will be met with anything other
than our complete resistance to
being told what to do.  

“Rise! Rise! Rise!”
They cajole. As if their nudging
will make us do anything other
than be bothered, and circle tightly
around our warm and cozy apathy.

“Make way! Make way! Make way!”
They push. As if their shoving will
make us move from the spot of
Earth we’ve tethered ourselves,
our place of obstinacy.

“C’mon guys! C’mon gals! C’mon!”
They beg.  As if our hearts will be
swayed by their personal prayers
for action, for our indignation and
outrage.

“We’ll get to it! We’ll get to it! We’ll get to it!”
We scream back. As if they’ll listen to us
after all our protestations, denials, and
general ennui and snooze button
slapping.   

“Okay, maybe later! Maybe later!”
They shrug. As if our swimming
in sand will somehow make us
better fish.

Thursday, April 13, 2017

The Great Lover



                The Great Lover gently brushed back Sharon’s ruby hair off her forehead. She snored gently in The Great Lover’s arm crook behind her head.  The Great Lover was too warm under the blankets on Sharon’s bed. He tried to adjust himself so at least one leg was out from under the heavy comforter but the way Sharon and he were wrapped up around each other he just couldn’t get comfortable.  Sharon’s bare leg was wrapped like a boa constrictor around his. The physical ability to do this was perplexing to the Great Lover. He knew many things about a woman’s body; how to please her, make her moan, give her shivers, make her hair stand on end, but he didn’t understand how her leg bones seemed to be bending around his like a serpent.

                Sharon cooed as The Great Lover attempted to settle himself in her lumpy bed. It was probably a very old mattress, handed down over and over through her family. He imagined some lost relative carrying the lumpy mattress to Ellis Island amid the throngs of immigrants, all shouting and spitting and speaking in curious tongues.   He imagined this lost relative holding the mattress up against the railing of the ship carrying them to the new world. He imagined the relative pointing to the Statue of Liberty as they sailed by saying, “See that-a mattress, that’s-a where-a we’re-a gonna live-a.”

                The Great Lover scratched his upper thigh and wondered where he’d flung his underwear in Sharon’s darkened bedroom.  Things moved quickly, as they usually do for The Great Lover, from the bar to Sharon’s bed room. It didn’t take too much to move Sharon away from her small group of after work ladies and get her alone at the bar and caress her already weakened sobriety with another martini.  The Great Lover was a master at seduction, creating the aura of mystery yet confidence, with his charm. He also knew the secret of women. He knew that in order to get what he wanted, he had to love them.

                The Great Lover did. He would fall in love with every woman he wanted. He would look into their eyes and see the potential of their lives together, growing old, grandchildren, retirement communities, great grand children. He could feel the butterflies in his stomach as he gazed deeply into each woman’s soul, and yet, after it was all over; after the beds, counters, bathrooms, sofas were messed, he fell out of love. He broke up with them in his mind without the women being any wiser of the lifetime they had lived in his imagination.  

                The Great Lover’s arm had fallen asleep and felt the pins and needle tingling his finger tips. He delicately and with practiced grace slid his arm from under Sharon’s sleeping head.  She snored a little louder but relaxed once she was resting on the thin pillow. The Great Lover then carefully unwound Sharon’s leg from around his. She hardly noticed. She was spent from the two hour love fest he had provided for her. It was clear that she hadn’t been involved in quite some time so The Great Lover felt he had done something wonderful for her.  

                He gingerly got off the bed and searched the floor of Sharon’s bedroom for his underwear and the rest of his clothes. He was deft at maneuvering in the dark after so many nighttime liaisons. He found his underwear hanging on the edge of Sharon’s dresser. He smiled at his Zorro like ability to toss his underwear with such amazing dexterity. He dressed with a smile on his face and crept silently into the living room. Soft music was still wafting from the stereo. Sharon’s unfinished glass of red wine was back-lit by the one candle she had lit when they arrived. The shadows were soft in the flickering candle light. The Great Lover found his shoes at the end of the couch and quickly slipped them on. Loafers were always his shoe of choice since they were easy to kick off and easy to slip on. He grabbed his light Burberry trench coat off the lounge chair and moved to the apartment door.  He quietly opened the dead bolt and opened the door. The Great Lover stepped into the bright hallway and closed Sharon’s apartment door behind him. He exhaled with relief the he was now in the clear. “Good-Bye, Sharon,” he thought, “I cannot love you.”

                The Great Lover walked to the elevator and took it to the ground floor. He exited the apartment and realized the early morning birds were chirping and the sun would soon be up. He turned west and started walking toward the train.

                Sharon woke to find Gary was gone.

                “Oh thank god,” she said to her bedroom.

                Sharon threw her covers off and grabbed a large tee-shirt from off the top of her dresser. She walked with it to her bathroom where she went pee and then cleaned herself up.  She washed off her make-up and brushed her teeth. She couldn’t get the garlic taste of Gary out of her mouth. 

                “Ugh, he tasted like he bathed in garlic olive oil,” she said to the mirror.

                She put the tee-shirt on and went to her living room, turned off the stereo and grabbed her wine glass and brought it to the kitchen. She was not satisfied. She practically threw herself at Gary and had to almost beg him to come back to her place. She couldn’t figure out what his deal was. He was so aloof and weird. He was nice enough but his act was so cheap and reeked of insecurity. Sharon dumped the remaining wine from her glass into the sink. She heard the morning birds chirping outside her window.

                “Damn it,” she thought, “Another wasted night.”  

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

The Nervous Truth


The realm of Anxiety is
filled with nameless terrors,
horrors, and general confusion
over the proper way to respond
to various levels of stimuli.

Sometimes silence is the answer,
sometimes anger is the response,
sometimes it’s the appearance of
uncompassionate shrugging,
sometimes tears well up.

It’s curious how so many
unknown heartaches drive us to
these states; scolded too harshly,
judged too dismissively, ignored,
pushed too hard, not pushed…

It’s a damn mystery in the realm
as much as it is out.  I don’t always
know why this will bother me or why
that won’t.  I just know it does at times
and it makes it hard to be.

It is not about pity or a desire to be
coddled or sheltered. It’s not about
laziness, cowardice, fear or bravery,
it’s not always known why a spiral will
start, there’s only knowing that it has.

The world doesn’t help, with the constant
agitations of politics, communities in peril,
crime, aggression, love, hate, inhumanity;
it can be a terrible burden for no reason other
than being there; even though it’s not in our control.

It’s a headache in the guts,
that stifles, stills and stops any movement.
We persist because we must. We weather it.
We push through. We make it, and it is harder
than you know, so bear with me; it’s a tough realm. 

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

Ironing the Wrinkles


The ironies of time are not
lost on me. In fact, I seem
to be confronted with them
more often than seems…
normal.

Universal time is not without
its deranged pleasures with
respect to karma, dharma,
and good old fashioned
hilarity.

It is not justice however,
there is no justice in the ironies
of fate. It is, as they say so wisely
at times, merely, “It is what it is,”
which only provides cold comfort.

At first I was angry when I heard,
then I was annoyed, then I saw the
stone hearted practical joke meted out
through the veil of the universes’ sense
of order through chaos and felt amused.

Chaos that at one time was avoidable.
A practical joke that would have failed.
A better place than just, it is what it is, simply because
it is was there.  The cosmic alignment could have
changed course and landed ironically on someone
else’s heartbreak.

Yet I don’t wish for it to change,
I don’t want the universe to correct anything,
I don’t want any vengeance or feel the pangs of
vendetta tugging at me. It’s only a curious admiration
for the murky irony dealt someone that thought better.

A strange sadness fills me when I think about their
unfortunate spate of luck. There is no vindication.
There’s no enjoyment, merely a muddled sense of
missing something. Without knowing what that
missing piece is, but knowing you’re not better than me.

The universe and its ironies will catch up
to me too one day. I’m sure I’ll be slapped,
kicked and tickled by the hands of fate as it makes
my chaos orderly through whatever means it
deems necessary. Who’ll be laughing then? 

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

That Song


When that one song comes
on the radio or jukebox,
iPad, iPod, Walkman, what have
you, and you snap to attention.

That one song, the one that
gives you a warm shiver through
your whole body, the one that
makes you smile.

The one song, at the first beat,
you recognize instantly as something
akin to how you feel inside. How your
soul must feel, while basking in joy.

The song that makes you shush the room
so you can hear that one little part that
makes your heart pump a little harder,
a little more full.

It’s that song that makes your eyes
tear up with some unconscious joy,
and you wipe the tear away and think,
“Jeeze, why does this awesome song make me cry?”

That song gives you chills, your hair stands
on end, it feels electric and alive, like you could
dance with it instead of to it. It’s holding out
it’s hand for you to take.

The song that’s a bolt of clarity, that you
sing along with, close your eyes and nod
your head with the beat, and makes you
wish for that sort of peace all the time.

It’s that song that I want when I look into a
lovers eyes, it’s that feeling I want when
she looks at mine. That electric, buzzing,
sparking feel that soothes rather than singes.

I do believe in that spark, like a song that
you are certain will be one of your
favorites for all of your days, a love
should effect you in the same way.

That song is a tattoo, emblazoned,
on your heart, your head, your soul,
and embraces you as a lover,
comfortable with your terrible dance moves.  

Thursday, March 23, 2017

We're All Wrong


We’re all wrong.
She’s wrong.
He’s wrong.
They’re wrong.
Everybody’s wrong.

She’s wrong for him.
He’s wrong for her.
They’re wrong for each other.
We’re wrong for it.
It’s all wrong for me.

The country is wrong.
The politicians are wrong.
The pundits are wrong.
The scientists are wrong.
The deniers are wrong.

The country music is wrong.
The Rap is wrong.
The punk music is wrong.
The reggae fusion hip-hop is wrong.
The gospel music is wrong.

Negativity is wrong.
Positivity is wrong.
Growth is wrong.
Stagnation is wrong.
The middle is wrong.

So what is right?
Knowing when it is wrong,
and learning to make it right.
There’s nothing wrong
with that.

This poem is wrong.
But I’m trying to make
it
right.

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Stuff to Say



So then I was about to say to you,
how much I wanted to say
to you, about that and this
and all those things between.

I was about to tell you how I was
about to tell you, about how I was
telling everyone, about how I was
feeling the things and such in between.

I was going to tell you, that I was going
to tell you how I never wanted there to
be silence between us about those things
and that and this.

I was going to whisper those whispers I
was going to whisper, in your ear, as you
smile patiently and felt the heartbeat in
my words on your skin.

I’ve heard that you’ve heard about those
things and I hope you can say to me all the
things you can to say to me and tell me how you
were going to tell me.

If I say, and you say, and we hear those things,
the this and the that, and it stays between,
and we agree, then we’ve got chance by the hand
and no silence will deafen us.

Thursday, March 9, 2017

The Lights Upstairs


I’m struggling to understand
why the lights aren’t on upstairs.

I’m pretty sure there are people
up there, but I’ve no idea what they’re doing.

Because there’s no lights on.

They seem to be bumbling around,
in the dark, bumping heads, like coconuts.

I don’t know why they won’t just strike
a match, turn on a light or otherwise illuminate.

I’m mystified as to the darkness upstairs.
And why no one can get in there.

But it’s crowded with people, in the dark,
mumbling nonsense from the shadows.

I tried sending a flashlight to them
as part of an aid package.

They ate all the crackers, but sent the
flashlight back along with the flashlight instructions.

Which had the words, “Witch Craft” scrawled
across them, in blood.

I don’t know why the lights aren’t on
upstairs. I’m not sure who’s in charge.

Maybe they don’t either, because
it’s too dark to see, in the upstairs. 

Wednesday, March 8, 2017

Looking Inside


When you crack open the
shell and see the gooey innards,
there’s often an instinct to be
repelled and choke back the vomit.

That shell, crafted so delicately by
nurturing nature, or natural nurture,
is filled with the horrors and odd
delights of history, evolution and growth.

The shell is a rainbow of colors,
organized through layers of time,
chemical compositions and a symphony
of complex microscopic organization.

The inside is goo. Viscous goo.
Slopping and sloshing around in the
evolutionary marvel that is its
container.

The goo has its purpose. It’s there to
fill a need. It’s not there as an accident,
it got their honestly.  Despite the terrible
odor and the grayish blood color.

The shell survives each ordeal,
slapped, kicked, chipped, worn,
abused by elements and time,
a beautiful shield for the curiosity inside.

A curiosity, beating with fervent life,
crafted to be exactly what it is though
the struggles of whatever time had
hurled at the outside shell.

The insides aren’t always pretty,
sometimes it takes a while to
see the beauty, the effort and power
it took to be exactly what it is.

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

Irritated Grunt


                Today’s piece is titled, “Irritated Grunt”, because that is what I caught myself doing through the majority of President Donald Trump’s Address to Congress last night. I found the whole speech a baffling spectacle of puffery and nonsense.  Mr. Trump said a lot of things that filled the ears of his faithful with the things they like to hear. The Valium of his words were to serve as a relaxant to soothe the nerves of his supporters. However the whole speech lacked any specifics or substance. For those of us with a more critical ear it was truly all sound and fury signifying absolutely nothing.  Grunt.

                 I was really baffled with the 250th anniversary of the United States comments when that anniversary is nine years away! Even if, God forbid, Trump was elected to a second term, he still wouldn’t be President for that anniversary. He was talking about our country in the year 2026 and the wonders this country could achieve by then, without really laying out a blueprint for what will be done in the present.  It was very confusing. It was as if his speech writers, trying to come up with something positive to latch onto chose the future instead of the realities of the present. That was just weird. I would even guess that the uneducated, whom Trump loves so much, think the 250th anniversary of our nation’s independence is this year or something like that. It was a dumb thing to focus on.  Grunt.

                One of the main themes of the speech was supposed to be about unity and bringing the country and our political parties together and encourage them to work together. However, it’s very difficult to seed unity while being sarcastic in your presentation.  Mr. Trump, on several occasions did impress the need for working together while simultaneously gesturing sarcastically at the Democratic representatives in the room. It is possible to gesture sarcastically.  I’m fairly certain that’s not exactly the way to get people excited about unity or working together. Grunt.

                The President’s words did not stir me to emotion. I was frankly embarrassed by his obvious use of Carryn Owens, the widow of a U.S. Navy Special Operator, Senior Chief William "Ryan" Owens for political fodder. It was an abuse of the emotional distress that family is in. The President’s overly drawn sentimentality over it, without taking any responsibility as the Commander in Chief, left me feeling sick. It was the most classic and tasteless use of Propaganda I have seen the Republican right use. I know neither party is above propaganda tactics, but this move seemed too far this time; especially when there is still such controversy surrounding the actual act and facts that left Mrs. Owens a widow.  Grunt.

                The final part of the speech that caused me to grunt with irritation was the President’s closing. His reference to, “We all salute the same, great American flag. And we are all made by the same God.” This last line had me confused since the President had attempted to infer that his American vision was all about unity. This final line seemed to be a jab at those who do not subscribe to organized religion or have different religious beliefs from the President and the majority of his cabinet.  I am a Catholic, but I certainly would never assume my fellow humans believe in the same God as I might. That seems powerfully exclusionary to me.   Vomit grunt.

                All in all, I do not believe the President made for a compelling figure. He was very mild in his presentation, stuttered in the reading of the teleprompters (as if he had only read the speech once on the car ride from the White House to the Capitol),  and seemed unaware of the real responsibilities the President of The United States of America must bear.  It is a thankless and unforgiving job that ages and diminishes even the best intentioned of people. It is our perpetual duty to keep the spotlight on Mr. Trump and his address promises and remind him that he works for us, and not the other way around.  Grunt. 

Tuesday, February 28, 2017

Gourmand Tuesday



This is for everybody,
bothered by the noise, the crunching,
the chewing, the back beats
of an out of control jukebox.

This is for everyone, the missed
opportunities and the taken
opportunities that maybe didn’t
work out because you misheard.

This is for everybody, everybody’s
everything. The drums of The Clash,
the silverware dump by the busser,
timed just right to miss the punch line.

The punch line of that long story your
friend was telling over dinner and you have to lean
over everyone who heard and shout above
their laughter, “What?” As you cheeks redden.

This is for everybody, that missed the
boat, missed the moment, missed the
chance, missed it. That “it”. The all
important, “IT”.

Everybody, you didn’t miss this.
Here it is for you. Here’s what it
reads, here’s what it meant,
and now you know.

Everybody’s everyone.
Is there.
You just didn’t know it,
because of the noises.

Or it was Fat Tuesday, in New Orleans,
and you’ve been drinking all day,
you’re half naked in the street wearing
a jester’s hat, drowning in colored beads. 

Maybe that.


Thursday, February 23, 2017

Free Lunch


Try the sandwich, Sir,
Try the sandwich, Miss.
There’s no charge
you see, for either,
you see.

Certainly it’s disease free,
nothing wrong with our
free sandwiches at all,
we only ask,
Sir,
Miss,
that you sit here for a bit.

Nothing shady or wrong,
we believe,
just a wee respite,
with a free sandwich,
while you watch this amazing
video, of our CEO, eating a
sandwich.
Isn’t the sandwich sexy?

Try the sandwich won’t you?
Miss?
Sir?
It’s free; with only a side of
misogyny, bigotry or alien
conspiracies.

Yes, that is home made mayo,
right here in the shop.
No, it’s not gluten free, but
taste the difference, compared to
some other philosophies.

Try the free sandwiches,
Sir?
Miss?
Mister?
Ma’am?
They’re free…

Tuesday, February 14, 2017

Alternative Fact Valentine's Day




Alternative Fact Valentine’s Day,
which I came up with all by
myself, without any assistance
from anyone, not even my mother.

Valentine’s Day started when Jesus
told the Apostles to dig up heart
shaped rocks on the beach and
throw them at the women they
liked.

It’s also the day that Dr. Jonas Salk
discovered the cure for polio
when he cut his finger on a paper
heart valentine he was making
for a fellow scientist that was,
in his words, “totes sexual chocolate.”

I cannot count the number of lovers I’ve
had on the hands of Vishnu. Who all
constantly call me and beg for my
love and sweet kisses and amazing
Valentine’s Day presents.

In Alternative fact, I’ve never, ever
disappointed a lover on Valentine’s Day
or found myself at a bar at three in the
morning wondering about why I’m
so repellent to the ladies. Nope,
never happened to me.

So enjoy your Valentine’s as much
as I have always enjoyed mine and may
your loves be as extraordinary as I am
in bed.

Happy Valentine’s Day! 

Monday, February 13, 2017

Aw Shit, it's Valentine's Day


Aw shit, it’s St. Valentine’s Day
time again. 

I remember there was a period
when all I seemed to  write about
was how I longed for love with overwrought
sentimentality, dripping with the
flowery language of “romance”.

Now, all I can think is,
“Aw Shit, it’s Valentine’s Day…”

I don’t hate romance, or love poetry.
I don’t begrudge anyone their romantic
happiness.
I’m a big fan of love and romance,
but I’m getting more used to the idea that
I’ll be one of those that just goes without.

Sure, I’m loved in platonic and family ways,
I love others in the same vein. We don’t
send Valentine’s to each other or make
romantic showings.  It’s a Hallmark holiday
without anything real for those relationships.

There’s no need for weeping sentiment
or rosy worded greeting cards covered in
silver glitter around felt hearts. That’s something
couples do, or married folks, or maybe schoolboys
send to their crushes.

I’ll watch TV at home on Valentine’s Day,
I’ll do my normal things.  Normal stuff like pining for
love with that special woman that sparks
my heart into action, eat a microwave dinner,
look out the window, go to bed.

So Aw Shit…,
shit, shit, shit.
Another Valentine’s Day without
that special wink, nod, smile, hand holding,
hair flip, kiss, or otherwise intimate gyration.

Shit.

Wednesday, February 8, 2017

What's in That Cup?


As I sip my coffee and
marvel at the French Vanilla
goodness of it, I wonder about
the processed chemical components
of it and whether it’s bad for me,
but it’s so delicious in my steamy cup.

Do I care?
Do I care that it might be unhealthy?
That it might be made with bug legs or
cow eyes or monkey pubes?
Do I care that it might not be good for
my liver or heart?

No.
I don’t.
I don’t care.
It’s good and I want it.
Every single morning I want it.
I miss it on the days I don’t have coffee.

I take another sip, even after writing the
phrase, “monkey pubes”.
Ahh, satisfying.
The right amount to pick me
up and get me going, to focus on my job,
my poem, my life.  

Is it metaphorical?
Are we all willing to swallow a little unknown
to sate our overwhelming desires for
some fleeting satisfaction?
Are we conditioned to eat and drink from
the table of chemistry without complaint?

Another warm sip, my coffee is cooling now,
it almost tastes better when it’s not piping hot,
its rich and lightly creamy, full of sugar and optimistic
potential. I can get that project done. I can get these
tasks completed, thanks to the coffee and French Vanilla
flavors, and maybe monkey pubes. 

Monday, January 30, 2017

Poetry in Tough Times

Totally terrified of the
tumult taking a toll on
the tolerance and tenacity
of these tethered towns.

They’re making too many tacit attempts
to try and test the temperament
of too many anti-totalitarians and
true testifiers to Liberty.

Tykes with too little intestinal
titanium trying to tumble the towers
of truth down to the troughs of tyranny,
through tepid tonal treasons.

The true test of this togetherness,
through the tidal waves of mis-trust,
takes inalienable truths that all
types are created equal.

Only together, tied in the theory of
this free Nation! Can we defeat the notion that
there are those who don’t fit the type
to make it “Great”.

A total and terrific untruth told by
those that entreat in trysts with
thoughtlessness and take comfort
in veiled trouble-making.

Take to the town squares to tell those
that try to disrupt all our fidelity and liberty
that they have no timber, tell them to
take their distrust and toss it into the sea.

This Nation, tested; testifies to the better
angels of our mercy and takes those that
are tossed out from the torments of their
times, to the potential their tears yearned.

 The tumult that terrifies,
is a tiny tintinnabulation against the
throats of the trustees in Liberty
and tolerance.

Touted by those that tossed tea
 and took taxes to mean the end
of any tyranny for themselves and
their progeny.   

Together, We are tougher than
the temper tantrums of a trumped up
ticking time bomb. Only together are
we all truly free.