Monday, December 11, 2017

The Poem

into the morning
     a gleam of rising run
listening to disparate lines
     alone
          in the spotlight
a bleeding monitor light
     on the stage
a rhythm of breathing bodies
          the humming metallic lung of cars
     their dreaming
moves along bedroom walls
          into the horizon
that lingers on the periphery
          of thrift store landscapes
     the life of anonymous painters
retching on spoiled bits
   of rotted fame

Picture

a creek drainage

                           down the hill
below the development of
snow covered plastic houses
whose assembly line windows
watch the continuing storm through
clones of door clones of space
clones of lives

               rests stagnant in milky orange night

recedes as the oppressive aura of the street lamp grows
wider
          brighter
                         definite
like a ship's light winking out of the abyss

Friday, December 8, 2017

Better Times

inside the trailer it was warm
you poured beer into cold glasses
the beer was frothy and golden
      
                                         when you left
                                            you were like the echo of
                                       the last beer you had
                                                                  poured
you collected my tab
and took it with you
                into the West Virginia
                       night

Moorefield

along the ridge line
above the brown field
                                     some feelings aren't like cement
               crumbling foundations
they're stapled to the outline
like christmas lights
                                      and
                                             watching over
          as the highway goes from gray to black

the three crosses
                               the hills spewing coal
into the future
the glittering light
         and november skulls with snow
for their eyes

Monday, November 27, 2017

a tree was born to grow old & strong,
to become the beginning of a tragedy
that ends as stacks of colorless paper,
staked through the heart and pinned to cubical walls,
office numbers printed on its multitude of lifeless faces
the steady swell of standard operating procedures
                                                                              crash
                                                                       
                                                                             like orderly waves
                                                                                  on the staff infested
                                                                      shore

Watercooler injections

Eating an orange in my cell I wonder--
                                                              when i die,
where will all the mesmerizing conversations
about institutionalized hierarchies go

Wednesday, November 22, 2017

conference call

the phone crawls across the table on plastic legs
speaker holes acting as a thousand eyes lined with fluorescent light
inside the digital face
                                   the gnashing brain
upon which is spoken the time
tattooed by the numbers
                  by the numbers
crushing the cellulose tile
pearl of the masks around whose minds are a voice
wired into the unseen outlets
                                  heaven is the floor inverted
above which the phone spins its silent web
within the smoke obscured darkness we all live

the Book

he had someone tell him about the book,
so he asked, 'how is it?'
                                       it was without
like an empty box in a secret basement
one within which the mold could not descend
above which the bodies have been folded
into the floorboards
                                 it was without
like the bodies were of life
                                            it was without
like a wikipedia synoposis of the book
that had been summarized for him
he had someone tell him about the book,
and they told him, 'it was okay,'
and that was alright coming from them.

Tuesday, October 24, 2017

the most famous dogs in america

the most famous dogs in america
walk on sidewalks like blind angelina jolies
posing for all the camera laden cars
riding by with an eye to document their day
to day walks on the small stages of green
the government provides beside its myriad of
gray traveled roadways

these are the curly white haired famous dogs
bred with floppy ears and small bladders
that are unaware of the red leashes
bound around their necks

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

moving

i looked at the boxes 
massed on the living room floor
like i was watching the edges 
of an approaching storm
out over the ocean 
that appeared more like the painting 
of an approaching storm 
as it made its way slowly to land
seeming to be static 
so that there was an eerie sense
of calm that it would 
never make landfall  
until with fury 
it would avail itself upon the shore
bringing rain and wind
and flood and destruction

and I would be left there 
after the clouds had passed 
with the task of disassembling 
each discarded cardboard box
after the contents inside had 
been found removed and inserted 
into their final resting place.

Thursday, September 28, 2017

Who to some is here

Too little too often
Say the empty car
Attached to other cars
On the cigarette line
End of end
Loaded up on wheels
In one direction to go
In another moment going back
Too often too little
Think the shuttling car
All those sleepy heads
Listen to the bell
After the sliding door
Behold its symphony
The color is rust like coffee mugs
Left rings around the ears
What to some is just the whistle's blare

Friday, September 22, 2017

Returning to the purple machine and what that could be

The pen has callouses
                    Have you heard?
It's time to clean up the mess that is my lunch
          Bread crumbs and orange peel
laid out like the schmatics of the purple machine
          Only really, I never got to look at it
I liked the sound of the words together.
The fingers are clumsy so the keys speak for themselves.
The future is like a chalkboard
          locked away and darker than the mildewed basements acting as their graves
there are no factories left willing to produce the chalk.
I dress myself every morning with older rags
          waiting for the accumulated sand to fall out
maybe I can gather it and sell
it would be good if it could be melted down for glass.
Like me, I am see-thru without reflection
          folding each smaller piece of paper tighter
unmarked
it makes the trashcan regardless
humorless
leaving the faintest sense of itself
          that's an uneven jest
I'm still thinking about the purple machine and the sand
          I can't even process what's supposed to come next.

Alone on the train.

Alone on the train
Writing my first poem by phone
Feeling uneasy thinking I've missed my stop
Just because I wrote it doesn't make it real
The motion eats at a different corner of the brain
Having two thumbs
The letters between my hands

Thursday, September 21, 2017

california love poem

she wrapped her arms around the sea,
her breasts became the lasting mountains of the west,
flushed with pounding white surf, she kissed the milky blue sky,
flowers dotted the dunes at sunset, sun blushing pink in her eyes,
the mercurial sand of the beach, a mirror to reflect the stars
upon which she became the darkness over the earth,
I clung to her afraid of all that ever was,
of could be and her the most,
out of love,
the multitude of the cosmos stretched a long line of silver hair across abyss
her legs dug into the magma of time stone black and longed for,
she wailed as the endless wind rose drying my tears.