Archive for October, 2011

While a Man Fiercely Smokes a Cigarette

The sun is working to burst through Halloween.
A man shuffles his feet, walking anxiously,
but feet not leaving the ground,
walking between errands, perhaps,
he sucks hard and rapidly
on a barely-visible cigarette,
fast, fierce, focused,
as the smoke goes out,
seeking company,

and dirty pirates,
dirty, pirates in sexually-charged
maniacal costumes, so proud, work,
not even a vague distraction,
but worst is all of the red t-shirts,
not for Halloween, but worn
for the monumental event,
for Monday Night Football,
which I confess to planning
on watching while I dole out the cheapest
candy and sneer at all but the youngest
who will ring my door bell,

but now I contemplate,
that man sucking so fiercely
so wildly on that cig, and I think
of all of my sicknesses,
all my addictions,
most the vicious ones, gone,
resting thankfully in that,
chomping, mashing Nicorette
like it’s heroin for my depression,

but the worst one is this sitting,
sitting alone, judging all that I hate,
wondering how it is I could be alive,
and forgetting how fortunate I am,
how full my life is, and tears come,
they roll while I watch the sun
absolutely obliterating Halloween.
I wonder,
how do all these people
get normal,
enjoy their costumes
and evade the hate.

, , , , , , , , ,


Morning Today, Back to Beethoven

In my crib,
staring at impossible geometries
of a soundboard, now silenced.

The stern, unloving expression
of Mother, her piano dead now,
she, plastered in a wall,
but she is the one,
she gave me Beethoven.
Her concrete face,
the dilapidated memorial,
and the honey and syrup
of the soundboard wood.
She had Beethoven,
giant in her tiny shoulders,
making bigger sound
than you’ll know,
the warmest, entrancing sound.

The unthinkable
inevitability of rhythm,
harmony and tone
smash me brilliant,
terrified orange,
in my crib,
and when in my crib,
the universe is perfection
right in front of me,
right on top of me,
while I struggle
and yearn to reach the hose-blown joy
with a mouth, wide open
in violent surprise,
as joy rockets out of me
in blasts from a furnace
boiling my blood
and the leopard jumps from the roof,
eating the postman for an afternoon snack.

All that I can see,
small world from my crib,
are the fullest waves from my boiler
of bliss, melting the soundboard.
And of course, the glorious horns
of the Seventh, smashing all
of the deceptively-hidden, the bad,
and I am a blistered, babbling balloon
with millions of batons shooting
from tiny pricks in my baby skin

Oh, but my, how I shake,
uncontrollable, unspeakable,
outrageous joy at the perfection
from a man who knew a god,
who knew the most powerful god
man has ever known,
a man who gave me a god,
who showed me god in a
Turkish march,
and I feel the furious happiness
blow out and around me
as I bounce in my crib,
and I think,
“Man, this is good.”

Beethoven, but a temporary impostor,
full of magnificent joy,
and that will be gone soon,
too soon; I’ll be dying,
dying from my diseases again, soon,
but for this moment,
in this genteel, decorative,
flourishing white crib,
“God, this is good.”


, , , , , , , , ,


My Day in Six Words – 45


below inhuman,
topping rivers,

, , , , ,


A Disruption at Work Today

St. Matthew’s Passion in full-out all-red.
The soprano startles me,
something terrifying in German,
which (German) I don’t understand,

and cop car bigger than an elephant
pulls up front,
radio silence to sneak
on me but lights
in big street disco,

“You can’t do that boy!

No Bach at work.

Come with me.”

I loosen my tie
to get some air.

, , , , , , , , ,


My Day in Six Words – 44

Not preacher,

spout love,



, , , , , , , ,


Sunday Night, a Study

Swallows my warmth,
placates my terse disease,
desperate for normal green hopes,

, , , , , ,


Friday Night, Alone at Work

The point was moot, but she was mute,
or shockingly,
The point was mute, and she was moot.
The barking dogs clawed at the clean carpet.
Fluorescent lights smoked my spirit,
and the muted lady trudged in her moot way.
The point should be love but everything is muted.
The escalator grinds endlessly,
and I wonder how she does it,
never having any time away from work.
I am like the escalator,
grinding away but no one benefits.

, , , , , , , , ,


I Thought I Felt Ice Soaking My Core

The darkness had been creeping.
Winter announced herself early
by shoving empty streets at my stoic hair.
My hollow core was crushed, vapid.
I was sucked into the vacuum,
the terror of losing my figurines.

Then I saw the girl with dark thoughts,
and I warmed to a stabilizing glance.
I studied the Roman tiles, very close,
and wondered about her devilish avoidance.

, , , ,


This Morning’s Pep Talk, Falling Short

Staring at disappointment in the mirror,
I asked that I be directed by others,
to help others, no self-pity, no selfishness,
but the beautiful lady was a fucking idiot.
So I hated my selfish, judgmental ways
so early in to the new day.

, , , ,


Crashing Again

I’ve been waiting.
Maybe that’s not right.
My seat belt disintegrates.
I’m green soup through soft leather.
Days have just shortened.
I’m worse than dead.
Save me. Hang me.
I’m scratching escape
with fingernails.

, , , , , , ,


%d bloggers like this: