And So It Goes

 

And so it goes,

another year passes

us by in the blink

of an eye.

And I hardly remember

most of it.

 

It was a good year,

if memory serves me,

life has sort of settled

down in a good way,

and it’s all entirely

… good.

 

There’s no more late

nights at a bar, sipping

sorrows from whiskey,

as sexy couples twirled

across imaginary dance floors

and bartenders loved me.

 

No staring at pulsing neon signs,

illuminating the dark confines of

old man bars, rife with crusty

opinions and dizzying conversations

about life, religion, or politics.

 

Another year freed from the

shackles of intolerable loneliness

and depression.

No dark valleys of the mind,

crowded with the melancholy thoughts

of the perpetually alone.

 

Untroubled, but still…,

troubled with the state of the World,

race, religion, politics, sex, booze,

and all the tidbits that seems to

fill up every year.

 

There’s something about the past

year, something that retrospectively

seems inherently good, but I couldn’t

tell you any specifics, it was just,

a good year, like fine wine or old

cheese. And so it goes.

Meh at Best

 

I haven’t felt the ink

in my veins for a while,

as it were.

The urge to mash these

words onto the page,

has been, “meh” at best.

 

It’s okay to have a period

wherein the awesome magic

of prose seems to dwindle for

a time. Where things don’t seem

so fantastic or awe inspiring.

 

When things are just,

“meh”, or, “So-so”, or

just “blah”.

Manilla, milquetoast,

bland, without form

or structure.

 

Amebic,

a great sedentary blob,

of ennui and

laissez-faire,

curling the fingers into

mitts, rather than flying

over the keyboard with aplomb.

 

I get the sense that I’ve

said it before,

it’s been said before,

what ever it is that needs to be said,

has been, to whomever needed

to hear it.

 

Yet there’s still something,

thumping in my chest,

an irritated beating,

a thudding anxiety,

begging for my fingers,

to uncurl and unleash

their typing terrors.

 

But then,

“Meh”.

 

 

Buckle your Hats

 

The Pilgrim’s classic

buckle hat is fiction.

No buckle hat ever existed

and no Pilgrim ever

wore one.

 

A buckle-hatted,

white male,

standing a long table

thanking the Natives

for not letting them die.

 

It is, however, that image

that so permeates the

Thanksgiving Holiday,

that we simply accept the

myth as canon and eat.

 

I imagine that Pilgrim winking

to the other Pilgrim’s

the whole time, nudging others

with a knowing wry smile,

saying, “Thanks, but we’ll take it from here”.

 

It is our nature to believe

the legend over the truth,

since legends are often far more

interesting than the cold,

hard facts.

 

We’re a culture built on myth,

mysteries and stories,

ready to believe there’s a monster

under the mountain, belching

lava and destruction, rather than the truth.

 

Despite our mythologies,

we are thankful,

for those that abide by the truth,

and keep us from running off cliffs

in panicked frenzies.

 

In our buckle-hats,

waving muskets after vicious turkeys,

as the Natives point, and laugh, as

we careen over the edge of the

abyss, towards legend.

 

Happy Thanksgiving 2023

 

 

Learned Anything

 

I agree with some poets

who say it’s difficult to

write poetry in difficult

times.

 

The effectiveness of the words

is infantile and helpless,

when global doings are

transpiring.

 

What great deed can be accomplished,

with the meager strings of

vowels and consonants,

so timidly conspiring in the dark?

 

Will trench poetry emerge as the

salve, soothing the injuries inflicted

by despots and territorial

pissings?

 

The afterthoughts of afterthoughts,

written in blood, smeared on hospital

walls, as warnings, as condemnations,

as epitaphs.

 

Flag waving and heavy footfalls of

militaries marching, through deserted

streets, the music of lost souls, echoing

through alleys and history.

 

Graveyards alive with flags for

the fallen, flapping in foul breezes,

with a few sad words hastily written

on tombstones.

 

The poetry of the now,

seems too weak to fight the onslaught

of the present, and it’s perhaps only in

memory, wherein peace resides.

 

The future, reflecting on our words,

will be the judge of history, so maybe,

the difficulty will be worth it, and what seemed

ineffective, will be remembered.

 

Although I’m not sure we’ve learned

anything yet.

___________________________________________________________

Photo:  https://clarkcrenshaw.photodeck.com/media/857a4301-751f-460d-96f5-cb0d47ad1a19-old-school-room-2 

Interview for a Hero

 

So, what’s your superhero name?

 

“Kid Crunch!”

 

Kid Crunch?

 

“Kid Crunch!!!”

 

That’s…quite a handle.

What’s your superpower?

 

“Crunching!”

 

Crunching?

 

“Crunching!!”

 

I see… so you crunch like,

villains or their stuff, or just

like, stuff in general?

 

“I crunch injustice!”

 

You… you crunch injustice?

 

“Yes!”

 

How, and forgive me for asking,

how does one crunch injustice?

 

“Squats!”

 

Squats? You crunch injustice

with Squats?

 

“Yes! Squats! Cuuuurrunch!!”

 

Is that your, like catchphrase?

 

“Yes!”

 

Okay, great, thanks for coming

in and I guess, you know, we’ll

let you know. Anything you'd like to add?

 

“I was also President once.”

 

Super. Thanks. We’ll be in touch.

Every Day Halloween

 

All Hallows Eve,

Halloween,

Hungry Ghost Festival,

Tuesday.

 

Snow on our Halloween,

in the Midwest;

or perhaps tiny Trick-or-Treaters,

dressed like snowflakes, no two are alike.

 

Powdered sugar perhaps,

to sweeten the grimness

that has recently prevailed

for so many.

 

The day before All Saints Day,

in which there is likely a long

list of Saints, Saints in waiting

and your classic well-known Saint types.

 

All Saints asking for candy,

door to door,

dressed as Princesses, goblins,

demons, and non-canonical lore.

 

The typical creeping gloom,

of an Autumnal rite of passage,

seems less dreary, when every day,

seems to unleash Halloween horrors, somewhere.

 

The killer at the Summer Camp,

nothing,

the killer in the attic,

a chump.

 

It seems, as of late,

that every day is Halloween,

followed by mourning,

for the fallen Saints.

 

Ding-Dong,

Trick-or-Treat,

here’s a full-sized candy bar,

to dull the impending doom.

 

Happy Halloween!!

October Magic

 

                Harlan held the Witch’s Rune stone up towards the Moon. He squinted in the dim light trying to make sure the full Moon was precisely centered in the small stone. The Witch told him that he had to be in the woods, at this exact spot, at this exact time, holding the rune stone up to the moon, making sure it was perfectly centered in the little hole in the stone and then all his wishes would be granted. His arm was getting tired, but he wasn’t going to let that get in the way of all his wildest fantasies from coming true. It was the price he had to pay, that and his everlasting soul or whatever.   He started chanting the magic words the Witch taught him. 

                “Oh me reng ki-ko, oh mi reng ki-ko…,” he chanted.   

                The Witch had a small shop on 9^th Street where she told fortunes, read tea leaves, re-soled your shoes, did a little laundry (with magic Harlan assumed), and put curses on woman that rejected potential suitors. She also would let you touch one of her breasts, but that was always an extra fee and Harlan would not stoop to such low levels of depravity. Not with a Witch anyway.   

                Harlan had gone to the Witch many times over the years; when he was being bullied in High School, or when he was being bullied at the Movie theater, or when he was being bullied at the Auto Parts Store, or when he was feeling bad about himself for all the excessive masturbation. She always knew what to do for him and how to give him the right potion or concoction to free him from the curses of others and his own thoughts. She was always very reasonable with her prices too. Which Harlan respected. He’d tried VooDoo with a “Doctor” but all he got was very drunk on Rum, an empty wallet and, a pin in his butt. 

                So Harlan was all about the Witch. He did everything she directed him to do, and his life had never been so good. He was never late on his car payments anymore and his skin had really kind of sort of started to clear up, except for the rash, which he kept applying the cat grease to as directed, but it didn’t seem to be getting better, but he had faith in the Witch.  She hadn’t steered him wrong yet. 

                “Oh me reng ki-ko, oh mi reng ki-ke…,” continued Harlan. The Moon was slowly moving across the sky and Harlan’s arm was getting really sore form holding the stone up so high. He wished he could lean against a tree or something, but the Witch was very serious about standing inside the protected circle of random leaves. Otherwise the consequences would be dire, she had told him. Harlan wanted nothing to do with dire consequences. He didn’t even like regular consequences. 

                A night owl hooted as it flew overhead. Harlan could hear some cracking of sticks and crunching of leaves through the trees, and he felt a shiver run down the back of his legs. He dared not look away from the Rune Stone Moonstone thing that cost him thirty bucks though.  He needed his wish to come true. He needed Nancy to stop ignoring him and just start being his girlfriend already. He’d sent her all the signs and posted so many notes to the window of her car and she just needed to realize that he was the man for her. Not Brian. Her husband. He was not a cool guy. 

                “Oh me reng ki-ko, oh mi reng ki-ke,” said Harlan as loud as he could. All while feeling his arm shake with exhaustion and muscle pain.  He was having a hard time keeping the stone centered on the Moon. But then, he couldn’t remember how long he was supposed to hold the Moonstone Rune in place. Maybe he did it long enough. He couldn’t remember what the Witch had said about how long to hold it up for since she had opened her shirt and asked him if he wanted a touch for $20. 

                Harlan didn’t have any more money, so he told her No Thank You.

                A cloud moved across the face of the Moon, dimming it and casting Harlan into further wooded darkness. He decided the cloud cover was a sign that his chant had been successful, and he lowered his arm. He stood there, gently massaging his sore arm, imagining Nancy waiting for him at his apartment door, dressed in the Halloween costume from three years ago, that showed a lot of leg and cleavage. He was excited by this absolutely sure thing that was going to happen, thanks to magic and the Witch. He just knew it had worked. 

                He wiped his dripping nose as it had started to get cold. It was nearing three in the morning, and he had to trudge his way back towards his car parked over on Route 23; or was it Route 25? He could see his breath in the cold October air. He paused, trying to remember which direction he had walked to the clearing from. He got turned around using his flashlight trying to find the circle of random leaves. He looked up at the near starless sky assuming he could simply navigate by the stars. How hard could it be? 

                There was a crunching sound coming from the thick brush to Harlan’s left and he quickly flicked the flashlight beam in that direction. He swore he heard a child laugh.  Nothing was there though. 

                “Pssht… typical scary movie trope,” said Harlan, “I’m not scared. I’m protected by a powerful Witch!” 

                A cold wind swirled around Harland, blowing a small tornado of leaves around him. He felt something brush the back of his neck and he jumped, screeching like a startled pig. 

                “I’m not scared. I’m NOT scared,” said Harlan as he waved his flashlight back and forth through the pitch blackness of the woods. He was panting and felt a gurgle in his stomach. He wished he hadn’t eaten all those oysters at that little shack he stopped at while driving here. He knew it didn’t smell right, but the waitress was pretty. 

                A thud in front of Harlan, sounding like a large tree branch crashing to the ground. Harlan squealed again and turned to run. He farted in fear and grabbed for the back of his pants, fearing something worse. He was bent over and running awkwardly, like a gazelle with mis-matched sized legs, and he stumbled and fell face first into a giant rock. He hit his forehead hard, and he saw a bright flash and brilliantly lit holes poking through his field of vision. He screamed and rolled onto his side, clutching his head. He moaned. He sat up and turned his flashlight towards the rock he tripped on. 

                “Oh no…,” said Harlan before he fell into unconsciousness. 

                His flashlight fell, still illuminating the rock, which had the matching markings of the Rune stone in his pocket. The woods were silent.

 

 

To Be Spilled

 

Blood as currency,

to pay for the impossible,

unlikely and incomprehensible,

never enough, a lousy

down payment on an

unscrupulous future.

 

Never enough,

blood,

to satiate the leeches,

that need to feed,

on innocence and

on corruption without distinction.

 

Blood,

spattered and sprayed,

in Pollock-like pictures of

carnage and misery,

mixed in the mud of

history, legacies of blood.

 

Bloody ideologies,

soaked in gore,

heartache and

the great mystery,

of why we kill our brothers,

over nothing.

 

Sand.

Dirt.

Grass.

Stone.

A layer of blood

between each.

 

The geology of

death,

for the ideology

of death.

Surrounded by oceans

of tears.

 

So much blood,

for so much nothing,

over and over again,

winning nothing,

but more blood,

to be spilled.

The Good

 

The Good,

has been hard to

see lately.  You have to squint

your eyes to make sure

it is there.

 

It comes into focus

like some Magic Picture,

barely discernable from

the dizzying dots across

the image.

 

The Good,

buried under rubble,

covered in darkness and

dirt, lost in the backdrop

of horrors.

 

The darkness in the

hearts of men,

makes my heart heavy,

with agonizing grief,

looking for the Good.

 

It is there though,

slightly ignored,

corrupted to mean different

things to different people,

rather than a moral Good.

 

The Absolute Good,

the unquestionable Good,

children’s happy laughter

or a rainbow after heavy rains,

the Good in life and nature.

 

Obscured in murky black

spiral smoke of fires and

twisted in hateful speech,

The Good, begging, searching

for its place.

 

I hope we can find it

soon.  And feel the warm sun on

our sickly faces.

And see The Good, Be the Good,

I know we can be.

 

The Distance Between My Ears

 

The distance between my ears,

is sometimes a great chasm of

bottomless terror,

or a happy little skip over a

simple crack in the sidewalk.

 

There’s a lot going on in that

space between my ears,

fireworks of furious capacity,

melded with dribbling brooks of thought

over rocky riverbeds.

 

Civilizations of imagination rise and fall,

between my ears, under my

scalp, below my hair,

growing and dying,

in minutes.

 

Timelines,

playing out in my own

self-contained Universe,

amid the actual Universe,

whose seconds count for nothing.

 

Fears, joys, lusts, loves,

lies, prides, satisfactions,

dissatisfactions, annoyances,

anxieties, all jostling; elbow to elbow,

ear to ear, as it were, in that space.

 

I enjoy this personal space,

between my ears,

it’s a wonderland of impossibilities

and irrationalities, of simplicity

and complication, memory, and regret.

 

The lumpy, wrinkled space between

my ears, is me. It’s where I am.

Where everything that is me resides.

Except for now, when I’m in your

space, between your ears.

 

You might want to dust in here.   

 

 

Regular Day

 

The Sun rose like a

car crash,

bursting through the

bedroom window,

all fire and fury,

demanding attention.

 

We rolled over,

my lover and me,

just ignoring it all,

even the urge to pee,

let insurance deal with

this bold intrusion of morning.

 

The blankets kicked off,

as it was too hot overnight,

our desire to be close,

overcome by a desire to be

cool, super cool,

which we are, in bed.

 

A horn blaring as morning

sharpened its focus in the bedroom,

Alarms ringing, bells chiming,

birds screaming their desperate

mating calls into the urban void,

as sirens answered.

 

My eyes opened to the shadows

licking the ceiling in a do-si-do

square dance between sunlight

and the waning dawn.

My lover, also awake, nestled her

head back into the crook of my bent arm.

 

The night before,

taken away in an ambulance,

not battered and broken in bottles and booze,

but exhausted from footwork and dancing,

singing and talking, all while smiling,

in sweet satisfaction.

 

Another alarm, no more snooze,

my eyes truly opened to a normal

morning, mouth dry,

another regular, day.

Another,

Regular. Day.

Ignotus Homo

 

I heard the sound of speeding

footsteps pounding

the sidewalk.

The quick patter of adult feet,

slapping hard on the concrete,

in a hustle.

 

I rose from the sofa,

to see, who might be running,

or from what they may be running,

or where they are running to,

or why they are running, so fast,

on the sidewalk, in the night.

 

But I never caught a glimpse,

save for a long shadow, trailing

down the sidewalk, a silhouette

of someone, unknown, running,

swiftly towards the unknown,

or my unknown.

 

A shadow, ignotus homo,

charging through the city

sidewalks at full speed,

maybe hounded by memories,

or bad dreams; speeding like

winged Mercury.

 

The footfalls echoed in the night,

as the mysterious runner’s steps

faded from my ears. The Doppler effect

as the distance between us grew.

I looked in the direction from which the

runner came.

 

Nothing chasing, nothing pursuing,

no mad dog, or witch on a broom,

no angry Dad, or screaming girlfriend,

no violent low men or police officers,

just the nighttime silence,

passing by, as if everything was normal.

 

 

Photo Credit: “Untitled”

by Fabian Schreyer, Augsburg

The Sky was Falling

 

It seemed, 22 years ago,

the sky was falling, and

the ground moved beneath

our feet in terrifying quakes.

 

For those that know,

saw it all, felt it all,

gasped and covered our

mouths; the sky is still falling.

 

Falling, ever since, in

drop after drop of

new paranoias, of new

fears, of bumps in the night.

 

The perpetual “other shoe”,

hanging over a generation,

like the sword of Damocles,

to pierce our already delicate esteem.

 

Time hasn’t softened

the sky falling,

it only falls a little differently

than it did.

 

The effect is the same,

the fears are the same,

for those traumatized,

the terrors are still falling.

 

The sky was falling,

only then to be replaced

with a horrible,

unfamiliar silence.

 

Maybe once,

the sky was falling,

and Chicken Little wasn’t so wrong,

to be so worried.

 

 

The Sands

 

                The sand twisted and curled through the desert air. Sam adjusted the handkerchief covering his mouth. He reset his sand goggles over his eyes. The desert sprawled before him. An impossible dead landscape, void of any signs of life. The Earth baked to a crisp under the tires of his desert Jeep. Sam knew where he was going but wasn’t entirely sure of the direction.

                 The road was long gone in the shifting and blowing sands. Eroded or covered by the infinite grinding of sand scouring the land. Sam reached for his GPS monitor on the front seat. He was still on-course to make it to the bunker. If anyone was still there to make it to.  The sun was at midday now. Four more hours through this parched desolation and he’d be there. He wondered if he might be the only one to make it out alive.

                 “Surely the others made it,” he thought. They had a two-day head start over him. He had to stay behind to make sure the viruses were well contained, and the facility was completely locked down. He didn’t want to be the last man, or the Omega Man, or any other classic sci-fi trope about the last survivor of a doomed world. He wanted others to be there. Other people to be with. To go on with. He didn’t think he could make it all alone.

                 The Jeep swerved on a mound of sand causing Sam to be thrown up from his seat. His seatbelt keeping him from flying out of the vehicle. “God damn it,” he shouted as he wrestled the steering wheel straight. His handkerchief fell down from around his nose as he hit the brakes. He came to a hard stop in the blowing sand. “That was no ordinary mound,” he thought to himself. He looked in the rearview mirror.

                 A flicker of metal shining in the bright desert sun caught his eye. Sam swallowed hard and pulled his handkerchief back up over his nose. He unbuckled the seat belt. He turned the Jeep off, hoping it would restart. He looked again in the rearview. The metal flickered again. Winking at him. He fixed his goggles and took a deep breath. He opened the Jeep’s driver’s side door and felt the heat and sand as he stepped out. The wind howled as the tiniest of granules peppered Sam’s body. They were so small, but he felt like he could feel every single grain.

                 Sam made his way to the mound of sand. He could see the small bit of metal protruding from the sand. He knew what it was without having to dig. It was the passenger side rearview mirror from the convoy. Sam bent down over it and tried to pull it from the sand. It was stuck. Sam knew it was still likely attached to the truck, which was now buried under the desert sands. He began brushing the sand away with his hands. The wind pushing the sand back almost as quickly as he could brush it away. He pushed the sand away from the side of the door revealing the University logo emblazoned on the side.

                 Panic started to creep into his mind. “Connie was on this truck,” he thought. He started digging faster, tossing clumps of darkening sand over his shoulders in a frenzy. The wind, swirling the sand above his head, twisting sand devils. He brushed the sand away from the passenger window. The cab was empty. There was no one inside. “Oh god,” he thought. “They made it out, but where…,” he wondered.

                 He stood up and scanned the barren desert, shielding his eyes from the Sun. No tracks, no footprints, no way to follow anyone who got out. He felt his heart breaking in his chest as he turned around and around, looking for any sign of anyone, of Connie.

                 “Two-day head start,” he said. He turned away from the wrecked truck and jogged back to his Jeep. He got in and luckily the engine started. “They made it. I know they made it,” he said. He stepped on the gas and Jeep roared forward over the sand.  He had to hurry.

 

 

 

 

Whiz Bang

 

Holy humming and

whizzing in my head,

whirring and clanging,

as the magnets did

what they do

around my brain.

 

An MRI,

two of them actually,

over two days,

to see what it is,

that is causing what it

is.

 

In a small tube,

like a packed cigarette,

huffed and puffed on

for a medical diagnosis

for the hemispheric facial

spasms I’ve had for a while.

 

It’s like a facial tic,

comes and goes,

it's often annoying,

sometimes it’s hardly

there at all,

but I notice it.

 

A twitch in my left cheek,

around my left eye,

across my left upper lip,

a hiccup of a motion,

making me blink,

making me annoyed.

 

I’m just trying to find out

what it might be,

it’s likely nothing but the artery

being too close to the nerve in my cheek,

and with every heartbeat,

the blood pulsing through my arteries,

triggers the nerve and viola,

a twitch.

 

There’s treatment for it

of course, nothing I like,

but a treatment, nonetheless.

Unfortunately the treatment isn’t

wine, women, and song.

But multiple injections

to the face, with Botox,

so yeah.

 

Wine,

Women,

and song,

haven’t really cured

much of anything come to

think about it.

 

Although it certainly beats

the humming and buzzing

and whirring of magnets,

electricity, and mechanics

of modern medicine.

 

At least I know where

to get a kiss.

When I need it.

 

 

 

Red Light

 

Red Light.

 

I like cardigan sweaters.

I just do.

They fit me for some reason,

I don’t know why I

identify with cardigan sweaters,

yet I get great

enjoyment from them.

 

Did I choose them based on

how I wished to be perceived as

the exemplar of my identity,

or did my pre-existing identity

choose cardigan sweaters?

 

Is our identity a product

of our choices,

or are our choices the

product of our identity?

 

Is how we wish to be seen in

the world just ego manifesting

or is it deeper, something that

simply makes us who we are

and what we like buried in our

DNA?

 

Is there some genetic memory

woven into what I presume is

my identity that has an affinity

for cardigan sweaters?

Was I always just a sweater guy?

Or is it simpler than that?

 

Maybe I just like being warm

on chilly afternoons.

But it’s Summertime, and

I shouldn’t worry about sweaters

so much.

 

The light turned green.

And I thought about something else.

Fire Dancing on a Pinhead

 

While Angles were

dancing on the head

of a pin, things

went and got a little

crazy down here.

 

It seems there’s only

so much punching at

the air I can do,

or so much keyboard

pounding I can muster.

 

The World put on

some insanity pants, a fruit headdress

and started an

apocalyptic cha-cha

to the rhythm of our own muttering.  

 

A haunting cadence of

voices, cold and muffled,

chanting some ancient gripes

in modern times, hoping

things will fix themselves.

 

We may have started this Fire

Mr. Billy Joel; we really may have,

been the bringers of our doom,

amidst our myopathy and self-involved

self-involvement.

 

So many fires,

so little rain,

so many opinions,

has so many people,

acting insane.

 

I’ll use this pin,

to post this message,

hoping not to disturb,

all the Angels Dancing,

to the same sad fiery beat.

 

 

Guilty as the Next

 

Junkies and pinheads,

roving the dirty, urine soaked

hallways of a shuttered

apartment buildings,

shouting and demanding

their needs be met.

 

Stealing and grifting

their way through the

night, to support their

habits, their lifestyle,

their unintended

consequences.

 

A policy of plague,

unleashed by other

policies of ignorance,

from policies of condemnation,

exclusion and inequity.

Shaking an empty cup,

looking for change.  

 

It’s very hard to care

for a society that doesn’t

care about itself.

Like an addict, bent on

self-destruction, regardless

of the help offered.

 

Another rung on the ladder

of society, needles still

sticking from dirty arms,

stepped on, in the climb

to be superior,

rather than be better.

 

I’m guilty as the next addict,

hooked on my comforts,

anxious without them,

irate when crossed-examined

about them. I offer nothing.

I leave a mess.

 

I am,

the junkie,

the pinhead,

and I am tired.

With needs to be met.

To Be Beautiful

 

To be Beautiful,

is relative,

to what is beauty.

 

A puddle in a

pothole,

a rainbow in oil.

 

A sad smile,

tears on a cheek,

laughing through pain.

 

A ticking clock,

in an abandoned house,

measuring time.

 

A meal that lingers,

heartburn,

but delicious.

 

The hint of nudity,

when not called for,

in casual moments.

 

An abundance of

subtlety,

in loud places.

 

The depth of emptiness,

in a crowd,

dancing to the band.

 

Stilted sunlight,

through blinds,

against a plain wall.

 

Their laughter,

standing out,

filling the heart.

 

The beholder,

smitten,

with wry intimacy.

 

Strange beauty,

abounds,

everywhere.

 

No Old Souls

 

Old Souls are not a thing.

It’s something I’ve self-referenced

and have been referred to as, by

others, but I’m coming to realize,

there’s no such thing.

 

If souls exist, they are neither

old or young, it’s a pretentious label

slapped on the prepackaged idea of

who you are; your self-identity

as described to you, by others.

 

“Young Mr. So-and-so, is very responsible

for his age,” doesn’t mean Young Mr. So-and-So,

has an Old Soul, it just means that they

might have a greater sense of responsibility

or have developed some empathy at an

early age and comport themselves as such.

 

The same applies to those we accuse

of having a Young Soul, some youthful

exuberance or Devil may care energy,

it’s not a real thing, but a crafty way

to classify and separate people.

 

We’re all just (if you believe in it) souls,

bumping into shit as we plod along

this pathway of life, tripping and stumbling,

learning and growing, breaking and healing

with each precarious step.

 

We do not need to be labeled,

we do not need or branded into some

codifying corral, we are who we are

the moment we reach that moment,

and whomever we are at that moment.

 

There’s wisdom in the soul, old or young,

(if you believe in that sort of thing)

I’d rather believe that people are capable of

great acts of good or of evil and hopefully

choose to be good.

 

For the betterment of their soul,

(if you, of course, believe in that sort of thing.)

 

Battle

 

How’s it going to be

when you won’t believe

a word I say?

 

How’s it going to be

when you won’t hear

the tone in my voice?

 

Will you stay?

Will you go?

Will you put away those

childish things?

 

If you hear me,

if you see me,

if you understand.

 

Will you pretend it

never happened?

Will you ignore the

things you said?

 

Will your legs still

ache after walking in

my shoes?

 

Words are the warriors,

in this ceaseless battle of

ideas and feelings.  

 

A battlefield cluttered

with ideas and theories,

clashing across ideological

landscapes.

 

Words, jabbing and stabbing,

slicing and cutting,

with vitriolic hate lashed

with ignorance.

 

Ideas, dead on the ground,

shields glinting in the noon Sun,

as smoke tendrils of fire linger.

 

Can you imagine?

Can you see?

The power in poetry.

Did any side win?

More Thoughts for Independence Day

 

I do very much enjoy

the illusion of freedom I

have as an American.

It’s marvelous to know

that I am, essentially,

a free person, able to choose

any path I like.

Sort of.

 

Kinda… but it’s good…

 

We are indeed the home

of the brave, land of the free,

like every other Republic or

true Democracy, we’re only

special insomuch that we

believe we’re special,

because we’re pretty special

patriots.

 

Patriots who believe

they are the only patriots

and their patriotism is more

important that your patriotism,

and that you might not be a

real American if you disagree

with their beliefs or that brand of patriotism.

 

Which I suppose you’re free to

do in the United States because we’re

all about Freedom, as long as that

Freedom doesn’t make the other

freedoms uncomfortable, or offend

God, even though we are Constitutionally

a nation wherein Church and State are separate.

 

Just another one of the pluses of being

rebellious colonists, who felt like the wealthy

weren’t getting treated well by other wealthy

men, so they encouraged the poor to take up

arms in order to protect those money making

freedoms.

 

I recognize the bitter tone of this piece,

as it is my right to be so as an American, I suppose.

My hopeful optimistic myopic view of

The United States has grown from 8^th Grade Civics,

to a more fully developed understanding of how

we got here and a critical concern

for where we are headed.  

 

The divisions in The United States,

do have me worried.

Neither side of the political system

is 100% right all the time,

there has to be room for compromise,

otherwise this Freedom we

hold so dearly, is in jeopardy.

 

So yeah, We’re Free.

We’re Independent.

We’re rugged individualists.

Kinda…, sorta.

I guess.

 

Happy Independence Day!  

Crumpled

 

The crinkling of paper

reminds me of thinking,

the silence of a photo,

reminds me of noise,

a cold shiver,

reminds me of memory.

 

The correlating conditions

collaborative in creating

our constructs, consuming

inconceivable causations,

and charging the chaos

of civil consciousness.

 

The inconsistencies inherent

in ideological instrumentation,

idolatry and indefensible

inhumanity, inhospitable

ideas or immeasurable

idiocy, irritate me.

 

A river rushing,

a stream gurgling,

an ocean churning,

a creek bubbling,

bodies of water,

that are the same,

but different.

 

Actions abrupt and

awash in an abyss of

ambiguity, awkwardness,

and abject affability,

always atoning after

abasement.

 

Feet shuffling on gravel,

reminds me of waiting;

Roaring engines make me

afraid; strong winds rattling

the branches of a tree,

make me respect the power

of simple things.

 

Crumpled together,

incoherently organized,

made one, in a faceted

mess.

It's Probably Chocolate

 

The drunken poet in me

rambles on about

the inequities inherent in

our society and pontificates

on how to then fix those

inequities, then cries when

no one hears.

 

The professorial poet in me

feels shame when basic intelligence

is challenged by ignorant bullies,

hell bent on shaping society into

their image of might making right,

rather than compassionate understanding,

and empathetic reason.

 

The sober poet,

feels the wealth of sadness,

in everyone’s souls as I see them,

trudging through the difficult

tall grasses of life, swearing under

their breath, a cold smile pasted

on their faces. No poem to fix it.

 

The writer, tells a story, about

robots going to prom, or goldfish

eating people, or going to the Moon

to die, and none of it seems to have

made much of any difference,

the World indifferently carries on,

to my chagrin.

 

In my multifaceted and obviously

complex internal struggle as an artist,

a writer, a drunken poet, an armchair

philosopher, a lover, a fighter, an ally;

I recognize the contradictions of my soul

and wonder how real it is, and how I can

best keep it uncorrupted.

 

It’s probably Chocolate.

Yeah, chocolate is usually the solution.

Until it runs out.   

Then… we’re truly doomed,

and then no poet can save us.  

Waves

 

Look at all these words,

crashing like ocean swells,

against the beaches and

breakwaters, foaming

over one another in

huge tidal waves of

verbosity.

 

My boat is being battered,

by the words bashing against

the fragile hull, I’m getting

seasick from the rolling torrents.

The horizon invisible,

against the words cresting

high into the sky.

 

If I could just reach out

with my net and capture

all the right words, all the

right combinations of phrases,

to clearly express all the thoughts

running though my seasick brain,

and paste them to this page.

 

Tuna.

Fish.

Sandwich.

with,

chips.

And a

pickle.

 

The words swirled around

the boat, and I laughed,

because of the chill that ran

down my spine.

Maybe I need to be on land,

for more land-based words.

 

Heading to shore,

to reap from fields

of words.

If I can find them.