Saturday, December 31, 2011

On the eve of Another Tomorrow

Intention and actuality are distant shores,
the water betwixt full of pale & bloated floaters,
those that tried and drown,
whose hollow eyes question,
                  without sound

why, why, why
     does this always happen to me?

Unwilling to see that some where between
     the champagne flute, theirs lips
     and the first year's kiss

they ain't foolin' no one but themselves.

"I hear you are good at scoring deals,"
     a statement and question, she spins
     like cinnamon buns, the day after Christmas

But she is right, I always check the clearance
     aisle at Walmart, Kmart, Target
     the bookstore, where ever

And you would be surprised what i find
     no one else wants or they over stocked,
     opportunity i ferret away throughout the year
     in the basement closet for holidays,
     birthdays, preparing for always, rainy days,
     those when snow cocoons us in the house,
     or just because days to say

"i love you," or make you feel special

Cause a penny saved is still a penny,
     but added exponentially makes sense
     which is not common and no one
     asks the cost of a gift unless
     that is where they find importance

So tonight, when you resolve to
     lose weight, get out of debt, save money,
     stay together for more than the children's sake,
     curb your anger or whatever your heart
     desires, know this---

There is no shortcut on that which is price-less,
     epics are carved out of ordinary moments
     and tomorrow---

Tomorrow is just another day
     to those that don't notice

Happy New Year everyone! As you read this I am on the road to or in Cleveland to spend New Years with my son at the last Pittsburgh Steelers game of the season. A Christmas gift to us from my parents. Be safe out there and embrace the turn of the page tonight.

Over at dVerse Poets Pub, we are having a little party to celebrate and you are invited. Doors open at 3 pm EST.

Thursday, December 29, 2011

55 - Holy Separation Anxiety, Batman

"---so, put my campaign contribution in the offering
plate on Sunday and they will get it to you.
Ok, thanks for calling."

a'least spit
on your finger first

oh whoa
how many knuckles


guess you
will have to stop at the pit


hea da mah mouf

vote for NEWT
     vote for NEWT



so that's what it feels like
to be a puppet

just not what i expected
in church

Got a story? Say it in 55 words and you can go tell g-man. After recieving a Christmas card addressed to the most politically incorrect person they knew, i could not resist on last bit of snarky truth for you. Smiles.

Wednesday, December 28, 2011

Future (im)Perfect Tense

Sterile. Some may describe it that way but no matter how much chemical you put on it, the smell of decay is there. 

They all smell the same. Human, in all of its scent textures, past and future.

"I don't look like much. I won't sit in this bed with curlers in my hair that is just tacky."

A man shuffles down the hall, captured for a moment in the doorway. The tennis balls on the legs of his walker are bright green, as if they are fresh out of the can, never having the chance to see the court. Baggy white hospital pants and a blue flannel robe,  big eyes behind thick glasses. He looks in, looks back, moves on.

My extended family rings the room, in chairs, on counters, in the floor on the cold tile. I stand against a wall. Holding it up.

"Is he male?"

She is talking about me, in the midst of a conversation with my cousin on Vegas. He reaches over grabbing a handful of keys in my pocket, jangling them, out of sight where she can't turn far enough in her bed to see.

"Yep mammaw, he has all his parts," he replies.

Family laughs, but she is serious. As serious as a few minutes later when she rants about the atheist ruining Christmas, making us all take our trees down on Christmas day. Or when she says its been 25 years since she last had sex or when she looks at the family portrait we gave her for Christmas and wants to know where we were going hunting.

The fall. The breaking. The pain. The medication. These are things we can blame for this addled-ness. And the laughter, perhaps to hide the sadness, of marbles rolling haphazardly across the floor.

My youngest tugs my hand toward the door, wanting to leave. Me, just to breathe.

They all smell the same. 


Poetry Jam ~ Theme Thursday

The title is a play on this song by Sweet Billy Pilgrim

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

OpenLinkNight: Cleaning erasers on the brick walls of the school

Four hours and 1254 Legos later
the Millenium Falcon sits in the middle
of my parents dining room table

Ready to make the Kesel run
in under 12 parsecs, take up
residence in the belly of asteroid worms
or be dropped,
which at this point would break
my heart

My son beams & i bask

Then go in search of his brother
who somewhere around piece 732
i told i did not have time

We were so close

Drawing him in my arms, i ask
to see the football game he wanted
to play before

And we do, until a quarter in
when he declares he is bored
and takes off to see which planet his brother
has landed on

He has already forgotten the words

Still they run their finger nails slowly
down the chalkboard in stuttered screams,
the feet of 1000 ants down my back

As if someone walked across my grave
without a glance at my name.

OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets - Tired of leftovers? We have some verse fresh off the stove? A whole buffet for your poetic palatte. Write something poetic and come join us. Doors open at 3 pm EST.

Saturday, December 24, 2011

Merry Christmas


& play

cause fast forward happens
     when you don't look

and the rewind button's
     broke on this tape deck

but growing up, it was all about
     the records, come Christmas,

pop & crack in Bing's voice
     and on Christmas eve we'd
     gather in tight in the back
     room at uncles house and talk
     to Santa on the hamm radio

feed the dog brussel sprouts
     to clean our plate
     cause that might determine
naughty or nice

& for one night just be
     and be family

     so tonight

& play

cause fast forward happens
     when you don't look

and the rewind button's
     broke, but bing he still sings,
     though sometimes skips

h-h-h-Have yourself a merry
      little christmas

Through the years
      we all will be together
If the fates allow

And have yourself
      a merry little Christmas now

Merry Christmas Everyone ~ Much Love, Brian

This is my gift under the tree for the Christmas celebration @ dVerse Poets

Thursday, December 22, 2011


And to top it all off
     the damn window fell
     into the driver side door
     unwilling to roll back up

And it's raining as if
     the next great flood is here
     & Valkyries howl, slashing wet scimitars
     at my face through the gaping hole

And it's thirty four degrees out
     so my damp body shivers to maintain
     some sense of warmth

And it's not like the day started
     any better, the holidays being
     what they are, there are black holes
     once filled by family members
     set to suck any joy

And my kids feel it so i have been
     around the world with them,
     missing as many shots as i take

And one's family gave away his dog
     without telling him until he came home
     with a stocking of goodies for it

And his cousins ran endless circles
     room to room around the house
     banshee screaming before kamikaze
     diving onto us, biting and pinching

And another client felt tonight was his coronation
     crowning himself king & declaring
     war on the rest of us, his parents saying
     "we just need a vacation" as they look
     upon me in askance

And my feet hurt from ice skating
     this morning

And, and, and

And as I draw a hand across my eyes, to clear
     my vision, the Christmas lights, caught
     in the rain spattered windshield dance
     Roy G Biv universes, each one a tomorrow
     among the black space between

Over at dVerse today, Victoria is leading us on a merry chase for contrast.

On another note, I had a poem published in the December issue of PunkSoulPoet, which can be viewed here. It is on the night I met my wife and originally appeared here a couple years ago.

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

given gifts

It's like riding a bike,
     unless you have never ridden one

you would think at fourteen he would have, or desired the freedom or wind in his hair, the sweet kiss of tires on asphalt or the fear laced thrill of lifting your hands to your side as you fly.

my bike carried me miles from home to cut grass, to see friends, to chase dragons back to their caves and rocket me into space and

he is a maelstrom of excitement and fear, unsure of himself and reliving all the times he has been told he could not, not because he couldn't but because of who he was, what he was---the knife at his throat, insecurities of a man bent to make his son smaller than himself---before he ran off

you are good for nothing-weak, i oughta kick your ass--
     and he did
          and he did
                 and he

there are moments i have to turn away, to catch my breathe and push back the thoughts that enter my mind, of meeting the fathers of the father-less, less fathers than

and he says, "don't let go"

as we start, handlebars dancing at the first bit of forward motion, but i know it is coming, i told him it was coming, and he will crash and craSH and CRaSH

skin his knee and bleed, but smile when he finally gets it, finally believes, and is free, frEE, FReE
 and flying

leaving me behind, a solitary shadow with cheeks damp, knowing i may never see him again, but he will always be a gift given me, even if only for a moment as i move on to the next.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

OpenLinkNight: Are we there yet? Are we there yet?

Since time began, man sought the stars,
once as gods then for life on other planets,
in our universe & without

without much luck, so we turned to building blocks
that make it sustainable


and search surfaces for beds were rivers
once ran and now sleep, dormant, but

when we find it you can be guaranteed
our curiousity for little green men will be over-
run with the need for

     water fountains
           & toilets

rest stops to the stars in our endless quest
to obtain more, i mean imagine going on vacation
and you are barely passed Saturn, kids screaming,
fear gripping your innards at the thought
of a million golden balls of urine ricocheting off
the walls of your ship in zero g, and knowing
it's light years to next rest stop

trust me, growing up, my sister
would not have made it out of orbit,
but this is not about Mars and Venus bladder sizes
but Uranus---or our anus
and propensity to deficate our own planet
as an expense of today, despite future indebtedness

so mr or missus spaceman you might want to invest
in a better cloaking device, or start cutting down
all your trees pre-emptively to mass produce
toilet paper because we


and've flipped the script on Orson Welles
and won't be asking to see your leader, but take us
to your natural resources

and don't expect a kiss as we take off, and yell
"So long and thanks for all the fish!"

OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets - a revolution in verse that marches weekly (not weakly) across the net every Tuesday @ 3 pm EST. Today it is hosted by skilled pen of Hedgewitch. Go write something poetic and come join us.

Monday, December 19, 2011

Magpie Tales: Where you put your hands (or Teaching middle school boys how to dance)

Things do not always turn out the way we hope. I never developed a mutant power upon reaching puberty, nor did I join the FBI or become the next James Bond and just when I thought I had grasped the direction for my life, it slipped through my fingers, leaving me feeling like a blind man working a jigsaw puzzle by touch with pieces made of broken glass. Not a whole lot of fun, yet...

He knows these things but right now all I want him to get is Over, Under, Around and Through.

Over, Under, Around and

No, no that is too loose, let me show you again and I take it slow, he has never had to tie a tie, relying on mom, but she is not home and it's less hours and more minutes until we have to leave to make it to the dance. Fashionably late he says, and I joke that one day his wife won't put up with that.

Truth be told a week ago he did not want to go, not his scene. Now he hides behind the fact there will be free pizza but I know there is more to it. A girl has caught his eye and...he does not want to talk about it, doesn't want to hear it from brothers and sisters or even me---he just wants it to work itself out.

I release the tie once more and he does a passable job, that still lets him breath while letting everyone know he was the one that tied it. We pressed shirt and pants already, and he's ready. Do you know how to slow dance?

'No, and that scares me a bit,' so I show him where to put his hands, how to hold her with respect and lead, all the while he worried someone will walk in and see, so I let him know my wife is prettier than he is and he laughs, just a little uncomfortable. It's all hypothetical anyway, since there is no girl, according to him and he keeps repeating it as if I might actually believe it.

[CLICK] the necessary picture to share with his mother, and we are off once more through the wet dark silence, and these are moments his dad sits in the shadows, mocking voice echoing around the head room, gone but here. His dad left over a year ago, or better yet they escaped. He did not pick this either and there are days he wonders and days he cries.

It is ok, I tell him, men cry. Men hurt. And this is contradictory to everything he understands but he does.

I remind him once more the meaning of respect and how to make her feel special. He takes it in and reminds me there is no girl. He gives me a fist bump as he steps out the door, then turns back, "Hey, I can't thank you enough."

How we got here, got us here, and here is what we make of it. Sometimes it hurts and sometimes, it is all worth it. Would I change anything? Some days, maybe. Then, though, I might miss out on this.

He crosses the asphalt and she steps from behind a brick column. Their shadows mingle, then her hand finds his and they enter the middle school. I smile, pop the car into drive and join the stream of headlights returning to town.

This is a Magpie Tale, and a true story.

Thanks to all the thoughts and prayers for my gramma yesterday. The break was worse than they thought, both horizontal and vertical. She will have to be immobile for 4 months before they ever consider rehabilitation. But she survived surgery and is still among us. Smiles.

Sunday, December 18, 2011

The rod and the staff


my gramma
goes under the knife,
fell last night

while we count
valuable minutes

& wait
& wait
& wait

My grandmother fell last night and broke her leg. Surgery is at 1 pm today to put a rod in her leg. If all goes well she will be in a nursing home for a bit recovering. Thoughts and prayers appreciated.

For those that did not see the other day in the comments, my son is doing well. The lump in his neck turned out to be an infected salivary gland It has gone down and is nearly gone now.

Saturday, December 17, 2011

Poetics: Balloons & Dirigibles

You want to see the world?
You want to see the world?

Let me fix you a cocktail
     one part Crash, cause it hits every angle
     mix in some P.S. I love you
     stir with Hotel Rwanda
     and garnish with a spritz of Once

Watch them all in one night, no matter
how your eyes sting, not from lack of sleep
but where the shards of what ricochets
round your chest scRaTCHes tunnels
out your tear ducts, one spoonful at a time
like Edmond Dantes,

“Moral wounds have this peculiarity -
they may be hidden, but they never close;
always painful, always ready to bleed when touched,
they remain fresh and open in the heart.”

But tonight I am in McDonald's & she
is wiping trays, with a white rag speckled
in slight stains


they say she is touched, fucked up or just
REtard-ed (oh, how i hate that word)
with their looks or stance or awkwardness
as they pass with perfect polished balloons
& she a dirigible, which may seem more
powerful but pulls her here & there, especial-
ly when she opens her mouth as her face

goes sideways, everything rolling gravel,
elongates & does a twist as it passes her lips,
so she mostly
               just smiles

Kids love her, gather at her ankles
with empty trays, cheeks red sun rays
at the twinkle in her eyes, opposite the ones
that turn away as if she is contagious, or act
oblivious in ignorance

The kids though they know she is a special
kind of beautiful---
        my son pops in the last nugget of his
        happy meal, seals the red & yellow box
        with prize inside and goes to slide
        out the booth, tray in hand, but i intercept
his pass, not wanting to miss the chance to intersect

& say "Thank You" just to bask in those pearly whites
so brite i'd hate to pay the light bill, on our way out
as the credits roll on just thirty minutes of life at McDonald's,
so tell me

You want to see the world?
You want to see the world?

Let me fix you a cocktail, better yet,
try taking a trip on a dirigible.

The above picture was done by tera of olive hue designs. I have had the privilege of writing to her art work or inspiring her artwork with my writing a few times.

Today, over at dVerse Poets, I am hosting Poetics, where you will get the opportunity to do the same. She has offered four different pictures to us and you will get to choose one to write about. It opens today at 3 pm EST. See you there.

Note: The quote is by Dumas, in the book The Count of Monte Cristo.

Thursday, December 15, 2011

55 - Unexplainable questions

why men have nipples
     is one of those things
i can't explain

like why we don't believe in global warming
     when it's 76 degrees
                      on December 15

or that we only     pierce the night
     with light, one season yearly

all i know is,
     Santa should not walk the streets

nor his children go hungry.

Over at dVerse today, Gay is leading everyone in Caroling and Lullabies if you are looking for some poetic fun. I still may write one yet.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Breakfast with Divinity

The local news, this morning, featured the inventor
of the Jesus toaster, which may or may not be a
great Christmas gift but at least

This way you can have breakfast with Him
any time you want, look him in his slightly charred eyes
as you give thanks, before biting His left ear off,

Or let Him know you will butter His toast if and when
He butters yours, but I wonder how He feels
with jam smeared all over His face, does it
have to be sweet Concord grape
for a proper communion.

Being fond of black raspberry, i am
hoping for grace and

Having seen the ones that burn NFL logos
on your bread, perhaps He was jealous
seeing as they already get 9 hours on Sunday
to His one.

Then again, I won't speak too loud considering
the gas station carries 12 inch buck knives,
one inch for each disciple, with His brand
and 'GOD is love' down the handle
for when you need to clean your kill

Honestly, I changed the channel,
I can only take so much news,
before it gets depressing.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

OpenLinkNight: The journey love took

Nothing says love louder than
     letting your lover warm
     cold winter feet
     against your body
     as you try drifting 
     off to sleep

The same feet you dulled
     your fingers on earlier
     working kinks out
     the sole of a hard day

Or bringing those same hands
     to your face, as you lay,
     wincing, so you can once more
     catch the scent  
     of the journey love took,
     to come, to this place.

OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets - Come gather round and hear---poetry fill the air with oo's ahhh's and sighs, you will not believe your eyes...and it all begins at 3 pm EST. 

A special announcement:  Just released from Willow Tree Press, a poetry chap book, featuring Claudia Schoenfeld, Adam Dustus, Pete Marshall, Gay Cannon, Shan Ellis and Brian Miller (hey that is me!) is available for purchase here. In the Presence of Poets, Volume 2, and it is my honor to be in the presence of these friends and word artists.

Monday, December 12, 2011

Magpie Tales: That day, we raged

Do you remember our anger
the day they pulled the bodies

Limp and dirty, coated in grime
and how care-less they seemed and we

We would change things, punish them for
what they did, it would never happen again
we raged, raGeD RAGed

In tweets, blog posts, opinion columns
in newspapers, it was what people talked
about on talk shows and news

But today, as the numbers click, click, click
fast for three maybe four dollars a gallon,
our minds rest only on the destination, or
anywhere but the bodies they pulled out
that day,

That day that we raged.

Looking at the picture, my first thoughts was the man was overboard but color being what it is my thoughts went to the oil spill that happened in the Gulf about 20 months ago. At the time there was outrage at BP and then we found something else to rage about. Right now we Occupy, but will it really matter a year from now or will we be once more resigned to our position.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Well, the mouse might not be stirring

Christmas lights cast soft rainbows
on walls
on the floor
on everything
& we

On the couch, for what better place
to open presents,

Once the kids are sound asleep.

Ribbons & bows
round all i have,
all i am

& the tag reads

To: You
From: Me

And hea-ven
and heaven & nature sing

55 words & a here you go G-man! Merry Christmas to all the 55ers!

Saturday, December 10, 2011

Poetics: Eclipse-ing the Ending

Landfills are full
     ---of discarded poems

Lines left in notebooks
past expiration date of enabling
unable to find a hook, or hitch a ride
     ---into a verse, 
their thumb grown tired, card
board plea faded and flown
on the last breeze

Look at their eyes as they watch others,
previous neighbors on these pages,
     ---roll by, mouthing "get a job"
or couplets lips pressed, hearts banging
metre in rhythm, knowing they too
     ---felt that love once, ink still wet

What, what happened
Don't ask them, they never saw it coming,
dreaming a poet tonguing them on stage
one day, and then---

Some lover lost their way, gave up, put
the pen down forever, decided it was
no longer worth it to bend words into
shape, when they only got broken or

Deciding it best to speak only when spoken
to, so lived on in silence, worse yet along came
something better, fancy words with just the right
number of syllables, leaving them humiliated
at missed publications,
     ---trash, good for nothing

I gather them around my ankles,
piles higher than mountains, slide down them
on my stomach, roll, revel in their inadequacies
stitch them in a quilt so they connect,
and tell their story,
     ---i rap them, round my body

to keep warm at night, inviting a party
to join in, under them
     ---cause these words are never forgotten

but abandoned, and one day when all the burned,
torn, trashed, flushed, beaten, shredded for being
shallow, clumsy, sentimental, silly or unoriginal,
are in place, i will hang them
     ---from the moon, and no one


will understand, why they can't help but smile
as tears roll down their cheeks.

At dVerse Poets today, Victoria has us all stitched up in sentimental clothe swatches for Poetics where we can warmly spit poetry. Hehe. At 3 PM today, it will open and you will know what I mean. See you then.

And for Shay, cause she is cool as the cat's pajamas.

Thursday, December 8, 2011

55: in the night

it is the scrape of each raised ridge
fingerprint across mine, my hand
emptying as he disappears over
the edge---

questions forming in his mouth,
shock in his eyes---
that wakes me

on the floor by his bed,
i stroke the cyst in his neck

his soft breath(es)
his soft breath(es)

mark time til dawn.

Over at dVerse Poets, Victoria has written a very nice article on evoking emotion for Meeting the Bar. And having said it in 55 words, I will report in to g-man.

Some of you may have seen on Twitter that a large cyst has appeared where the jaw meets the neck on my son. It came up rather sudden two days ago. They have ruled out strep and mono. He had more testing this morning and he is now on medication to see if they can get it to go down.

Also, I was interviewed this week, over here on writing and life.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Aeschylus on Time

We measure time in events. Births and deaths set firm roots. September 11th and Pearl Harbor. Holidays find their place, sometimes in vague remembrance of a feeling we once had or wished would come again.

Today is Wednesday. Nothing special or any reason to cement it in memory.

A man in his elder years, white tufts of hair playing out the grip of a hat that has seen better days, steps off the curb to cross the road. He stares straight, always keeping his destination in mind, one foot in front of the other. His navy wind breaker clings to him where it is pushed by the wind. An irritating mist of rain fills the air, dampening everything.

Time has nearly loved him dry though, the skin of his cheeks cracked by creases, worn leather, spotted here and there with marks. He does not see them as blemishes, just ticks on the clock he can not wind himself or unwind. His flat house shoes scuff the pavement as he passes, already the WALK sign counting down at a pace he can not match.

Car engines growl from their restraints huffing clouds of breath. One driver talks animatedly on his cell phone, his hands casting care like spells in the air. Coffee is sipped now that it's cooled enough and wont burn the lips. Children in the back of a van get their moms attention, she watching them in the rear view mirror.

The man shuffles on nearly three quarters of the way when the light turns green.

The inside lane veers around to keep moving, the outer already feeling left behind inches forward a bit to ensure he knows what he is doing to them. Somewhere back down the line, someone honks, perhaps unable to see what causes the hold up but feels the rising anxiety at the injustice of the moment creeping their spine, one bone at a time.

Time is a fluid thing, slipping through your fingers, elusive to any hold you might feel entitled to, easily lost among the debris we capture in our pockets. We trade it, this for that like commodities, based on our needs or wants in the moment. A yes here means a no there and if you are lucky at the end of the day you have just a bit to do what you want with, unless you find yourself wasting it waiting in traffic.

Still one foot on the asphalt, the other on the sidewalk the dam breaks, unable or unwilling to hold any longer, passing within inches of the seat of his corduroys. Having made it, he breaths a few quick breaths to cool the flush on his face, then turns left.

No one will remember this day or understand any hidden significance to a man crossing the road and after the emotion has passed they will no longer feel the need to bring up at the water cooler the reason they were late. But one day they will cross a road, feel the warm breath on their necks, eyes only on a destination and if they survive to the other side, perhaps then they will and appreciate each movement of the sweeping hands all the more.

Just not on a Wednesday, which bears little significance.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

OpenLinkNight: Fetishes of the Always Smiling Faces

The inside of the window
covered in white paper, where
they are remodeling the interior
and want no peekers,  someone
dropped a cup of coffee, and
its splatter slashes the window
as it floats on the surface
of the glass.

i call it art.

i call it "Someone dropped the coffee:
the sacrilegious desecration of spirit
in mankind's postmodern polymorphic

And puff my chest, because big words
make me look smart, despite the way
i am dressed & bequeaths me status
to dic-t-hate that which

Oh, no. Really?

I ejaculate judgement & blessing
as i pass, and while you are already
marking me an ass - trust me i know
what you are thinking - but truth is
those that tell you what you want
to hear, you can find them anywhere---

Who do you have that will say what
you don't and won't slip you rose
colored glasses, blowing smoke
up your various orifices?

unless you like that,

who am i to argue your preference, i just
struggle in the transaction of saving comfort
for progress without labeling it laziness

and i'd rather see the scythe that cleaves coming
over leaving, or more masochist than a faux
silk kiss, iron on iron

sharpen my knife
sharpen my knife
sharpen my knife

and the three blind mice
coincidentally are also
now tail-less, regardlessspilt coffee moves me to tears
far more than milk, yes,

Oh, YeS!

OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets, the premier place for poets on Tuesday nights, opens at 3 pm EST hosted by the lovely Natasha Head. Go write something poetic and dont worry if I think its art or not, smiles. Its time to get your poetry on. See you there.

Monday, December 5, 2011

Magpie Tales: In human Interaction

clink skrik mmph ssspssspp-ah clink
skrik mmph ssspssspp-ah clink skrik
mmph ssspssspp-ah clink skrik mmph
ssspssspp-ah clang "check" ching clink
skrik mmph ssspssspp-ah clink skrik
mmph ssspssspp-ah clink rrrip mmph
skrick clanng ssspssspp-ah "check" ching

KcRiIIisScHkkkk clangtinkclish



clink skrik mmph ssspssspp-ah clink
skrik mmph ssspssspp-ah clink skrik
mmph ssspssspp-ah clink skrik mmph
ssspssspp-ah clang "check" ching clink
skrik mmph ssspssspp-ah clink skrik
mmph ssspssspp-ah clink rrrip  mmph
skrick clanng ssspssspp-ah "check" ching

This is a Magpie Tale

Sunday, December 4, 2011

160 - phones and trees

if all you ever hear
is a busy signal in your ear

how many times
you gonna keep calling here

how many years
how many years;

an epiphany hanging
among empty trees

What can you say in 160 characters? Well this is your last chance to try it, but if you do, go tell Monkey.

This is Monkey's last time hosting the Sunday 160. It has been a mainstay on my blog rotation since it began. Thank you Monkey for all you do and did and hope that you have a wonderful break. Peace and joy brother.

Saturday, December 3, 2011

Poetics: Birth pains of a Still born superhero

The last panel of Uncanny Xmen issue #132 was the gospel
i needed growing up, the promise that i might
have a time or turn to look up from the sewer & smile
in ways that sent shivers down the spines of my enemies


At night I dreamed obsidian dreams, of finding them
in the parking lot behind the local motel where they hung
their shingle, sheets in the wind on Friday nights, & i strolling
between the cars, hoods still warm from cruising, confidently
into their circle letting them beat the hell out of me


And when they spent their last slug to my temple,
laying in broken puddles amid the asphalt, look up
with that smile and say, "that the best you got..."
letting it sit pregnant for a moment as my healing factor
knit me back together, then pop the claws with a SNIKT

The rest of it would probably turn your stomach,
like the sucking sound of wet sledge hammers and knock
on the cutting block when you slice the last bit of tomatoes,
but by the end i was warm and sticky, their entrails
etched with my initials in trails and for once, i felt
like a man, then awoke still a mutant yet powerless,
Peter Parker without being bitten by the spider, lacky,
lacking luck to Flash Thompson and his cronies

I'd spend saturdays, halfway down Williamson
at the little white house named B&D---i still smell
the memories of getting lost in the stories, among
racks and racks of comic books, they were hope for me,
the unlikely imbued with the power, forget responsibility
i wanted my pound of flesh & to be something greater
than me, and for the first time, blurred the lines between
hero and villain

Along the razor's edge we walk daily, so if you ask how
i understand, it is because i too sat the bar for communion
& threw back a shot glass of the darkness that dwells
in the cardiac corners of man, questioned heroes extinction
or existence, felt the worm turn round my spine
on its way to my mind &


Today at dVerse Poets, Claudia will be leading us on a grand adventure, but I swear I will no wear tights or a cape or leap tall building, but I can write poetry. Any way, for a super Poetics poetry prompt, stop in the pub after 3 pm EST.

Comic characters mentioned are property of Marvel Comics. Comic books were a big fixture in my early life as I struggled through slow development. Much appreciation given.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

6:8 at Plato's (re)Public Park

my cat purrs like parked bulldozers
hiding behind badges

at the sparrow perching on the window sil,
feet up, a broken neck

did it not see the glass waiting for it
to rise just high enough?

use your fingers, flap its wings
passerine pantomime looking for seed

it no longer flies

it will not sing

Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see g-man.

Over at dVerse Poets, Gay has us writing in allegory and metaphor. Should be fun, so join in.