Poems

Delicate Eggshells

At once when I was young, love intersected a dirty play
Societies bucked before the bosom and brown; truth stood rightly
Laughter brought up a hint of millennium trick, zeroed in on flurry but dialed into slick. Echoes of an injured wolf unheard by you, me, or punch drunk TV. Societies esteemed measurement, put forth inevitable - the truth: nobody knows what went on. But really, who dares? If there is one thing I regret it was the inability to share grief. But the tears were a gift from the Gods flipped upside down in a rush of wolf barks from the ancestor soul. Asleep? No, awake. I shot baskets alone that day in the stunning rain after the bizarre phone call with the crazy woman. How could she have known more about my life than I, the crazy woman? Abandonment in a past life in the post-Woodstock era, caught between the phony and obscene, but by no means misplaced. Love there, always present, however misunderstood - overwhelmingly the mother's, making up for the father whose been cast out by the lead: a gentleman. Somewhere I may meet you. But for now you're just a dream. Never seen.


Remembrance Play

Feel free to escape into this bloody game of chance. You'll be compensated with a college degree, a steady paycheck, or a high stakes cakewalk in embellishing lies, if you seek. Such a simple price to pay, is it not? A game of Chance, Sorry, Clue or Risk. Life. Payback for a pound of rotting flesh I suppose. The misery felt by generations in the dark lost on the young sneakers and sparks. But the look and smell will twist your sorry guts, excruciating the vertigo sentiment. That's the devil's ploy. You will notice the weak have a way with abstract verbs. Nerds or jocks in three-piece suits twisted and twirled to dance like loonies in drag. But listen closely to the baby's words. The golden rule that Jesus, Mohammed, and Buddha expounded, that a kind lady at one point stood still and told us calmly over and over, goes over the moon into a cabbage patch river of dust. Why must, why must, we lust for lies while the lonely mother cries and the young man dies.


Whistler Dream

He rides a crested diamond of marshmallowed fluff
This way and that
Like Elvis on crack;
Wick-whack, loads of natural knack, excited teen, too gone, unseen
March brings an arch to the buttocks formed heart
If April was lying, she'd be stealing and teasing, through corduroy trails in steeps of pleasing; the eye candy travels down the narrowest of ridge lines, in a take you for granted pose beneath the silent still snow, a hasty crested retreat of crass and glow
Take good care all you Western youth: drink up the laughs and the Mary Jane grins, but never forget just where you've been