Tuesday, January 31, 2012

OpenLinkNight: Sequences & Ratios II

A. Bogen

They press papers in my hand
before we pile on the elevator

for identification, in case
i am stopped, and i am to memorize them
because they are me, now
and they will know if i can't LIvE
up to them

Dejan Dusan Popovic,
born March 1, 1897
in Surcin, Yugoslavia
a doctor of Obstetrics-Gynecology

The walls are steel. Hard. Pitted. Stained.
Everything is hard here in a building three stories
tall telling millions of stories, telling
one story,

Starred arms and Marked stores,
protested for the measurement of a man,
charts of eye color, tassels of hair held
to match, calipers for the nose
all to determine your worth, unless
of course you were homosexual, jewish
or handicapped, they were---

hate. hatE. HAtE.

on a train car now, which carry them
to the ghetto, all packed in pressing against
and sweating, i smell them, their bodies
i smell them, even holding my breathe,
even when---

the furnace where they burn the bodies
after the gas, and i can no longer move
and there is no bench, just a chain to cling
as my legs give way and weep, i---

taste their ash on the back of my throat,
the heat, and every wall has eyes, hundreds
of them staring at me, asking questions---

Dejan Dusan Popovic, mArch 1st,
YugoslaviA, one of nine childreN, I
just need to sit, but there is no bench,
and each corner is taken by ghosts in black
&white pictures, flesh defining bone structures,
caricatures of living death
with eyes, eyes, I can't count high enough to add
up all, but I know 1.5 million children, 1.5 mil-
lion children and how many more---


no one is saying a word, language lost for what
we ArE
experiencing, reading, watching like a rApe,
our eyEs stapled oPen and can't look away & i
am sTucK in the secoNd act, before saLvaTion beCaUse
no one KnowS itS cominG, we doIn reTro but
theY muSt not haVe

it is tOO muCh, mAke it StOp

because i am beyond numb
             and feeling every thing

everything is HARD here
i smell their bodies
i taste their ash
i am Dejan Dusan Popovic, Yugoslavia
          (i keep walking)
they break my legs, my hands, gouge my eyes
          (parts of me will never leave this museum)
and skin me alive and i live like that
         (taste, smell, weep, weep--)
for nearly a year, before they
hang me


OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets - We write poetry and then come together and celebrate verse. Go write something. Or just drop in to enjoy the people and listen for a bit. Doors open at 3 pm EST.

This is part II in a series on my day in DC last Saturday. Have at least one more day in me, maybe two.

Sunday, January 29, 2012

Sequences & Ratios

happy hands man
dancing while he runs
the mall between Lincoln
and etched wall
names of soldiers fallen

oblivious to the rest of us
ear buds in, at ease in
his spandex skin
under the spotlight of the sun

almost blinding on
a cold January morn

all the flowers turn
their heads in the passing

then once more trace fingers
along loved ones
& others

This is a Magpie Tale.

Written on my trip to DC on Saturday.

Saturday, January 28, 2012

Poetics: blue balls & wrist watches

found graffiti

Live for greatness, the ad for Rolex
on the back of Travel & Leisure


soft fingers along my ear & her
fierce eyes thumb through my book
scent marking each page, dress cut
below glossy breasts, just a hint

and what? what?
        she wants to sell me

           a time piece, no

because who needs a mortgage
just to tell time, never be late but
its moments---she pedals,

a bike down a dirt lane, tires on pebbles
grind and skritch, green grass lined, the sun
beams bubble, her short floral dress, wisp
of wind & her legs tan as fried chicken
with promises of secret ingredients, sticky
finger lickin', running them slow along
the length with her tongue


she teases, taps the crystal face as hands count
       n until she's gone,
                      a slow dancing vapor, gasping
flower unfurled damp & heady,
            entwined round
                      a pole, upside down and sliding,
           of what
could have been if---

only i wore a watch, but my wrist is empty
of such constraints, acidic coffee krinkles
the corner of my eyes as i take the last sip,
savoring its bite, then rise from the bench,
cross the tile floor, trash the cup & head
for the door

           leaving greatness

by where i sat, to shine
                        for someone

Over at dVerse Poets today, Sheila has brought in Karin from ManicDaily to stir the 'currents under' our poetry prompt for poetics today. Hehe. Should be a fun go. Doors open at 3 pm EST.

Also linking to Poetry Jam.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

55 - Monkeys & Space don't mix (by Logan) & Fit for Human Consumption (my response)

Albert was the first that tried
    he suffocated and he died
Albert2 made it to space
    but crash landed
    making a crater with his face
Able & Mrs. Baker's success caused hysteria
    but he died in surgery, under anesthesia
Gordo's ship had parachute failure
    Monkeys are glad
    they don't get shot
    into space any longer.

The above 55 word poem was written by my son Logan (9) for a science poetry contest. All the names are the monkey astronauts that paved the wave for our invasion of space. Smiles. Write a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see g-man.

And over at dVerse Poets, Gay is challenging us with French Ballade's, which is kinda like being beaten with a rubber hose while counting syllables and rhyming. Really is is probably fun for some that are not as addicted to free form writing like me. But I gave it a try below, in response to my son's poem.

Fit for Human Consumption

Too risky? Let's send a monkey
into space, to do man's business,
close enough, not revolutionary
when they come back home lifeless
and we can still call it success
as we breach the final frontier
keeping our sunday best bloodless,
who's really the animal here?

It's consistent with who we be
when no one's there bearing witness
intelligence's comedy
turning tragically witless,
just smiling in front of the press,
no tears, dominion's volunteers
for our own salubriousness,
who's really the animal here?

Hold on, as long as it's not me
what's all the fuss, no need to stress
not like they have feelings really
but where do we turn our head next
in this morality morass
a slippery slope without care
even our own, broke'n hopeless
who's really the animal here?

What we sacrifice for progress
(or who) from our mirrors leer
three monkeys, deaf, blind & mute, yes
Really who's the animal here?

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

maintaining positive balances

You are in the kitchen,
or watching one of those
home make-over shows on TV
that make you cry
when i slip into
the bathroom
to do my business

fifteen or twenty minutes
go by
before i emerge to continue
on about the evening

we play games
or whatever until bed,
your body to my back
with nothing but heartbeats
between us

& when you rise in
the morning,
a soft click as the light comes on
in the bathroom, door
closing, i wait in the warm
spot of your leaving

listening for the shower,
that never thunders through the wall
and i smile
knowing you found it

sorry about wearing your eye liner
down & i'll clean the mirror
when you want
but when that feeling hits
in the pit of your being
some love notes
just won't wait.

As of yet, she has not asked me to clean off the note I left for her on the mirror. Go figure.

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

OpenLinkNight: Upside down stamps

Why is it we expect honor among predators
     whose core intention is their own coronation
     this is not Camelot, nor some fictional play
     enacted out by two bit actors in the public theatres

Guinevere's waded into Manhattan from the harbor,
     laid down her tablet, bent over & taken up jousting,
     not surprising when under tarnish her torch is just sputtering
     it's all over the nightly news at six,
     but king Arthur's cronies are obviously oblivious,

The round table is taking bets, ante in is 300 Clevelands,
     pocket change to hustlers sporting private jets
     fueled by corporate sponsorships,
     ok lets be PC and call them endorsements
     just don't get caught up in the fine print
     of, in return, what they expect
     & in our silence what we accept,
     great divide growing between us & our political connects

(Record scaAAtCccH) Is this thing on? Let me clear my throat
And remind you we have the right to vote
     (for whoever they put in front of us),
     our rubber stamp to make it due process, 
     indoctrinated from birth by the school & the steeple,
     that silent devotion is what makes you humble,
     cause that's how it works in the land of and for
     and by the invisible people,

But before you rattle your swords & get to fist pumping
     or jump just because someone says jump in,
     ask yourself this, how far are you willing to go
     when the revolution gets uncomfortable---
     realizing we are responsible cut bets on political saviors
     wielding excalibre & start acting like 'We the People'

Want something other than a messy divorce, founded in ignorance
     like a spouse on the couch, behind whose back we bad mouth
     for our own impotence, raising children bearing scars
     of a broken nation cause we were too busy pointing fingers
     to take action---a more perfect union, it don't just happen

OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets - where poets from all over the world come to sling verse. It opens today at 3 pm EST. Be there.

Wrote this after a trip to Washington this weekend, walking around our nation's history, seeing Occupy and those gathering for the anniversary of Roe v. Wade, talking with a few of them. And of course seeing what we have been presented as far as choices in the upcoming presidential election. And no Mr. candidate it is not because I am jealous of what you have. Smiles.

Sunday, January 22, 2012

Magpie Tales: A marriage of Sushi

Why a woman chooses to bind herself to rice, I do not understand.

Labor intensive to cultivate and in need of ample water, yet still she lays upon this seed, exposed herself, to what it might bring. Named together, they are 'sour tasting', but that is history. History upon which artistry is built in the hands of a master. Married with wasabi, a splash of salty soy sauce---a delicacy to be savored.

Some conundrums are not meant for understanding, only to be appreciated.

And that I do, most vigorously.

written for Magpie Tales.

Saturday, January 21, 2012

Poetics: Somewhere along the Border

I am not the guard at the border,
     but the one they bring the body
        not for the autopsy

but whats left to sew up after
     attempting to put back together
        some semblance of a life

& there are nights my fingers bleed
     where the needles nicked,
        my skin not thick enough
        not always

i order chicken salad on wheat, comfort
by choice, with potato chips and a pickle
spear, root beer---not noticing my friend's

selection, focus being what he is saying,
concerned with decisions his daughter is making,
wondering how to handle while
allowing her to feel trusted & empowered ,
not see him as "one of those parents"

"what if i am over reacting?
        what if i push her away?
                what if..."

"she comes home pregnant," i interrupt, "how cool
will you be then?"

Still stuck in the tension between being her friend
and giving parental direction, as if she needs one more
person unwilling to listen to what she is really saying,
and I refuse to give permission to shirk the responsibility,
providing a place to lay the guilt when it happens

Will opinion polls & popularity ratings
keep you warm on those nights?

"Isn't it worth a conversation?"

A reuben. He ordered a reuben, which the waitress
delivers, sits untouched beside chips, but no pickle---

it crunches with each bite i take, sour on the back
of my tongue, as i watch his eyes for more than
a night of American Idol & ice cream

absently rubbing old callouses 
     on the tips of my fingers,
        just to feel their texture.

Today @ dVerse Poets, Claudia has us crossing more than our Ts for Poetics. So get ready to make a run for the 'border' come 3 pm EST when the poetry goes live and in living color.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

55 - I think I left my deity around here somewhere, can you help me find it?

OMG they text
     chasing HEr
          down side streets
along worn wood pew backs,
                           little dips where bowed heads rest

prayer rugs east,
                        tongued communion cups,
furious grunts, during bathroom visits,

             counted beads, conjugal picnics &
forest floor tree knots, not finding
     HEr anywhere, cause sHE

looks nothing like
                     who they see
in the mirror.

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

Over at dVerse Poets, we are looking at Imagist poetry, which I understand on some level and on others I have no clue. Victoria leads us on this merry chase, there are several online articles and examples. I did not use any metaphor that I can see, so I got at least one thing right. The worst that can happen is you fail and write again tomorrow. Ha. Do check it out.

The owl picture is a random picture I found online, having nothing to do with the poem...or does it. Hmmm. Haha.

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Inputs, Outputs & Permission slips for the living

Girl holding balloon

The corner produce cart is empty,
end of day folded, down & locked

A brunette, redhead & a blond
stand on the island, no joke

traffic lines in coming and goings,
everyone with somewhere
                                 to be
     every make & model crawls the streets

Balloons (red, blue & gold) in the wind,
              dance tether's ends
curled in their fingers, headlights
     glint their party dresses

Some special occasion awaits,
                                 be it
     a birth, union, re-union, anniversary

could be any number
     of things, or just be-cause

                but someone
has reason to celebrate,
                                  so i do

as the light greens,
     my foot no longer on the brake.

This site is shut down

Remember a week ago when I joked about men in suits showing up because of a phrase I turned. Well... 

Today we take a stand against censorship by going dark and not participating in any social media or web based activity. Urge your representatives to vote against these bills. Or you may be next.

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

OpenLinkNight: 58 percent of your child's daily calorie recommendation

Someone told me the other day
McDonalds gets all their french fries from Mexico

You better tell the border patrol
cause i think it's the first wave of a revolution
led by a chihuahua rally cry "Yo Quiero!"

But then again, Taco Bell is out of Irvine
so it's an inside job---turn a simile on that
to the government & i can call it
a poem

even write it in form:

There is a reason
they call dollars bills, got e-
nough, you can buy one

Ooooo, i wrote haiku

Which means i must be a real poet,
but then again if i scribe it in words like
Callipygian Osculator Gerontocracy
(Shapely ass kissing old boys club)
it might get me published in a journal

read by people that hmm ooo ahhh
and let me in the 1 % that can actually write---poetry
while the rest occupy
space driving down property values as they
minimum wage by

& my son says, as we walk through Target,
"I need to study Star Wars more so I can
one day be a Senator, say things like

'I was not elected to watch my people suffer and die
while you discuss this invasion in a committee!

& they will put my face
on shopping carts and earrings to adorn
the lobes of ladies that shop there

cause once you are a senator, people will buy
anything" & i

will still be writing poetry that won't sell with small words
and ideals that have greater (not just nutritional) value
than campaign promises or happy meals.

Once again, it's OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets...where we occupy minds with poetry, not made to order, but bring order to the ramblings of our minds. Write poetry. Come join us. Doors open at 3 pm EST.

Sunday, January 15, 2012

Magpie Tales: The trick is not to lose consciousness in death

There is an art to drowning

If you tie yourself to an anchor
better make it tight, chain upon chain
          the body will fight    for

dying is not natural
          before its time

Liquid inhalation in-
          fills, tiding out images
of what once was, compressed
into short films, flickering light
             & shadow
     skipping here or there along
           the time line---

bar nights with friends, first kisses
     faces of intimates like sirens
           seducing you back to breathe
     fresh air, fresh air

Panic : Thrash : Spasm : Inhale

Death is meant to be permanent
     but then again, it is

A covenant renewed daily
     when my first breath gutters out
     bubbles dancing to surface like stars
in the depths of your lips,

      i find life.

This is a Magpie Tale.

Saturday, January 14, 2012

Poetics: Monkey Nipples & Angels

What beauty is this, the body?

A temple, ransacked by rabid weasels.

She cups a breast, fingering an ochre nipple
with a chipped half painted nail, asking herself silent
What was it they said in Virginia Woolf?

Monkey nipples---

made them giggle in English class, but now
gnarled, gummed by hungry mouths, uneven

& lower, thighs once, spider vein cracked canvases
hips that cradled children, the chalice,
now hollow.

Newton's law has spoiled the apple sauce

Eye to eye, she looks for any glimpse
of the girl that turned heads and more,
finding naught,

is this the volume Botero sought,
as he painted,
tangible in every way?


no. No. NO. NO.

I think he saw her, even in ways she was unwilling,
beyond the fortune teller fool's gold found
in the lies of the mirror, sold silicone illusions
or brays of ignorant jackasses

upon leaving the bathroom she will cook breakfast,
pack lunches, tote kids off to school, kiss her spouse
on the cheek, fold clothes, wash dishes until fingers wrinkle,
go to work, then come home to cook & clean

but when exhaustion sets in and her eyelids no longer refrain,
she dreams lacquered wood floors, room upon room,
and a bench where she sits

looks up and sees this painting, really sees this painting
for the first time.

At dVerse Poets today, Victoria has a wonderful art prompt prepared for us. We are hanging our pens on paintings by the artist that rendered this painting. Poetics opens at 3 pm EST today.

Process Note: Virginia Woolf refers to the play Who is afraid of Virginia Woolf by Edward Albee. I still have my copy from Senior English class. The title of this piece comes from there as well.

"I was in there having a beer one night, and I saw "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" scrawled in soap, I suppose, on this mirror. When I started to write the play it cropped up in my mind again. And of course, who's afraid of Virginia Woolf means who's afraid of the big bad wolf . . . who's afraid of living life without false illusions. And it did strike me as being a rather typical, university intellectual joke." ~Edward Albee

Thursday, January 12, 2012

55 - State of the Union

i found Minnesota today
in detritus along the roadway

without even knowing it was missing
cause they don't bother milk carton-ing
faces anymore,
of things that are broken

but now you reside in my pocket
where rugged edges
bite each time i sit

my elementary teacher
would be proud,
the Capitol(s), i no longer forget

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

Found this the other day and the thought popped in my head about whole states disappearing without anyone noticing. Guess I found a little dark humor in that, and the current socio-economic-political climate. Thus the intentional mis-spelling of capital at the end as well.

If you are in or around Richmond, VA tomorrow night, I will be one of the feature poets at Art 6 downtown. Come on out, it starts at 7 pm.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

One more day...

Put a cap in your kid and end this, your clenched fist
counts months on tucked fingers til his ass his out,
least that's what comes out your mouth...

& we play hide and seek on side streets,
as rains slicks, shines to sheen asphalt in street side lights
and whose fault is it that he is somewhere else
perhaps curled in a ditch, strung out, accosted,
stomach in hunger knots, not yet at least,
it's only been a six hours, but the temp is dropping,
but surely not you cause all you got is "i don't care---"

tires part puddles like ripping paper, head lights
the knife to slice the night & cut the curtain of water
and its pointless to keep circling ever larger concentrically
but he is texting me, and as long as he does i am
assured he is alive and not doing something stupid

i am sick of this bs

seventeen, on the cusp of being a man, trying to prove
he is one and dad's determined  to keep him down,
knocking him down to where he believes he belongs, at the top
I AM ALWAYS RIGHT" as if position, imposing visage
& threats of force will end in any thing else but friction,
each with conviction in their own mental fiction, unwilling
to listen, either one

nothing is ever gonna change, so i am done

& i hear him, as they stay home warm, mom
scared out her mind and dad---on the computer
playing video games---

while i turn up the radio
so i don't hear the cell phone chime that the battery is low,
denying the inevitable conclusion of the only connection
we have with a scared kid, (cause that's all he really is)
with no where to turn, turning round and round
with no way out

& i know he feels insignificant in a world no longer
making any sense, cause i been there on the lip
of the toilet ready to fall in & flush and i steeple hands
either i or the blues find him first when---

hey bro, i am ready to come home

i need help

& i turn the car south, exhaling hard, widow fog
but not relief because there's two sides to every war
and surrender doesn't mean the other lays down arms
so hold off the credits this ain't the movie's end
it's just a pre-view, now the real battle begins

[BULLHORN] chssss Sir, please step out of the house
and put down any weapons...Any thing you say can
and will be used to hurt your son

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

OpenLinkNight: Come back, 2 bed

Frost gathers the edge of the window,
sil where birds trumpet, light cracks
the obsidian obsidian sky & i lay curled
torticone to your back, lips to your neck,

When he burst in screaming,
"Wake up! You have to get up! You will be late
for work! Get up! Get up! Get up!"

And you do---

I secretly plot, as the pounding shower reverbs
through the walls, scribble poetry
of Frost and Pound on the bedsheets, hanging
them on the walls, while humming
'Shakespeare in Overalls' by Woody Guthrie,

Then wait for the door click of your leaving
before finding the cleaver

And if you find the shattered shell of his body,
by the bedside when you return,
not even Marcus Crassus and his Roman Legions
could stop my advance and I spared
not even the snooze button---

So call work, I fear
You may be late tomorrow,

For he will alarm no more,

And if you lose your job, and we everything
I will still have your back,

OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets. Write a poem, come join the party. The pub opens at 3 pm EST. Tonight, the ever amazing Claudia will be our host as we trip the verse fantastic.

PS. No alarm clocks were really murdered in the making of this poem. Only thought about. Seriously. Smiles.

Monday, January 9, 2012

Magpie Tales: Dream On

The Steelers lost to the Broncos tonight on the first play in overtime
after coming back from being two touchdowns behind---

And now, I am watching Oprah

As therapy, as a way not to think

"How does this marriage work,"
she asks

"Apologies by me," he responds,

And this is Steven Tyler, the big lipped free spirit
I once stood in the pit with to 'Dream On',
twice born of rehab, consummate ladies man, a life so twisty turvy
he has his own  roller coaster at Disney Land

Why don't they build monuments to those that screw
up so much they finally get something right?
Or write Broadway plays, hiring perfect teeth-ed
actors with twinkly eyes cause no matter how ugly the life
as long as the actor is pretty---right?

Perhaps they do, already

I went to see American Idiot, last spring
and was disappointed it was not as political
as I expected---

The music was good though.

This is a Magpie Tale.

Saturday, January 7, 2012

Poetics: Between the lines (of the sidewalk)

Two levels of lobbies at the Rock n' Roll
Hall of Fame are free and open to the public
to tease you into forking over the cash
to see all the rest, but we just pass through
& now count the creases concrete, traversing
asphalt at WALK signs in the face of fifty
mile per hour winds & blow smoke trails,
like grates the access that which resides below,
horns beLLOW higher than the


of feet, one foot in front of---

sKriTcH, skRiTCh, SkrITcH,

put enough of these together and you got
the back beat, and voices

"This here'sa greatest boxer ever known..."
a man, flutters and swings in a ragged flannel
and dirt leg jeans, jab, jab, jabs the air,
as he rattles records of wins, pantomiming,
to put exclamation points on his sentences,
then extends a finger & a broke down man
atop a trash can grins through the gash
of smashed lips, under a mound of flesh
that must be his nose, now spread in crooked
strokes along the ridge of his cheeks,
clay shaped by a kindergartner who swears
its an animal of some sort, yet

Read his face and it tells the wet crunch,
kwAMFflakP, of each fist it took, bones rent
kWamFflaKp, KwaMfflakP, cartilage crush
and not hearing his ring man yelling to not
lead with his face, eyes dance even now
looking to see if the blows are still coming
& twitch, & twitch, as his friend spins his tale

"This is the greatest boxer ever, to step
into the ring...a champion among men,"
he keeps singing, looking to score the jangle
of change in the cup the boxer holds in
too big hands---

He is every man i have ever known & none
all at once, i wanna know, was it worth it
to win at times & others kiss canvas, now that
the spotlight is dead

Does he run his fingers in tracks through the playdough
of his face to remember or inhale paper bagged bottles
to forget or feel anything when he winces

This is our champion, This is our champion

I slip him a dollar cause its all i got,
as his friend begins selling him
to the next set of travelers, cutting air
with his jabs and we sKritCH, skRitTCH, skrITCH
to the next---

line in the sidewalk.

A dVerse today, Sheila Moore is leading us for Poetics. It starts at 3 pm EST, but if you listen close I am sure you will be ahead of the game. Smiles.

On a side note, if you are looking for a way to make a difference in the lives of some people that just happen to have cancer, a good blog friend is doing her part here. And you can join in.

Thursday, January 5, 2012

55 - Complacency is an elephant chained to a shallow peg

it was nothing much

an old, paint flecked rust, lawn mower deck
motor removed, wheels greased
& seat attached

a hill,
one pushing, behind,
while the other stared

the teeth of what came next---

death was never a thought,
but always present, in our beating

hearts, too busy
learning life to notice.

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

Over at dVerse today---at 3 pm EST we will be unveiling an opportunity for poets during a very special Meeting the Bar. See you there...

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

a Little Red in the Hood (or the cost of change)

"Look at him, trying to be Wesley Snipes,"
my dad says, a hush, just for us


my son bull horns, across the line, lined asphalt


Wolf teeth white gleam atop the collar popped
black trench as the man swivels his gaze,

eyes us, just
a moment, judgement, measured intentions, apprec-
iations, shuns, disappointments then boots

CLOMP, cLOMP, clOMP, cloMP, clomP
auto-doors shush the held breath, within

the store, a split second, halved, quartered

touched, un-
touched, left on the plate, unwilling to taste.

Later, the drive-through at the Mickey D's,
but broke, my window's now held up

by a block of wood entombed behind
the door panel, so I have to stand outside

exhaust huffing white and purple clouds
against the cold, toes in fries mashed by tires

where they slipped the bag in the back and forth,
and among them i pick up thirty two cent,

three dimes and two pennies, change too small to stop
and pull over, for most, but accumulates

yes, accumulates---for those that do

& how many dead presidents
would it take for you?

Process Note: Dead Presidents is slang for US paper currency which displays the face of past presidents. Figure I better make sure that is clear before the suits show up at my door. smiles.

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

OpenLinkNight: I like a fat steering wheel, she said

i leave breakfast
    in the ditch, at the base of the mountain
a little acid, mostly coffee,
         what a waste

it does not bother me
     maneuvering these curves
when i am the one driving
        but i am better
              for the learning other

still i taste it on my teeth

a small patch of sun
    starts atop the next peak
where animals still warm
         in their burrows stir

     & i

have miles & miles
                  to wait.

Today, I am hosting OpenLinkNight over at dVerse Poets Pub...a gathering of poetic people at all stages of the game. Would love to have you join us. It all starts at 3 pm EST.

The picture is from Magpie Tales.

Sunday, January 1, 2012

12:05 in Cleveland

my wife bought bottle poppers
     (pull the string, loud crack and streamers
          r     e
         a          m
     thinking it cute
     if we set them off at the turn
     of the page

finding them, the boys slipped the trigger
     early, a gunshot in the confines
     of the hotel room

recovering, we told them to hold
     them until after dinner, out
     on the streets

shots fired on prospect street, units responding

asking my son his favorite memory
     of the year, later as we lay on the bed,
     ball spiralling its way d
     it was evading the police

and as we did, i bought a flower
     off a homeless vet for a dollar
     presenting it to my bride

two blocks closer, finding a box,
     tore into, a massacre of petals & stems
     we gathered a bouquet of their bodies
     as the blue lights screamed by in a blur

even now as my family sighs asleep
     fireworks over Indians stadium
     shake the new year air, tainting
     it with the sharp scent of gunpowder.

A quick recap of our New Year's Eve. Hope all are well today. The game is at 4:15 pm and am considering fleeing the city afterward as they are calling for up to 12 inches of snow Monday continuing through Thursday. Or I may sped the week in exile. Smiles. Happy Today everyone!

The party is still going on over at dVerse, with the first verse of the year.