A Homeless Break-up; It's Your Fault

"Get the fuck outta my face!"
He half yelled, half growled
The decayed insides of the
chinatown bus stop
expanded and constricted
with his breathing,
eyes staring, ears poised,

She looked at him,
her aged navy blue backwards cap,
facing the audience,
"I can't believe you can say that to me...
this isn't you."

So now I wonder,
when this is all over
who gets the house,
how do they split the cars,
will the custody battle over their children
be bitter or one of compromise,
What will their families think,
How will they move on?

***

Who will accept their worn clothes,
jacket piled on jacket,
to curl up against in the cold night
over the sounds and smells of subway and sewer pipes,
steaming air and half eaten food,
"split the shopping cart in two,"
I can hear King Solomon's decree,

And after the bombs have settled
and the contracts signed
who has paid the ultimate price
for their fast cars, expensive food,
little suburban homes and fancy dress?

the look painted forever
on their
forgotten
hands and
ignored
faces
is my answer.

The Frog

We are marching toward
a conclusion, crowds teeter on
the brink, the equivocal grunts
of preachers, prophets and fools
turning us into mush,

You are being shaped by someone else,
from noxious clay with shriveled stones
for eyes, vestigial, yet marked with
bright illusions, painted in colors
inured,

A tactile smile remains
to blind hands reaching out
seeking comfort, deaf to the blissful
laughter and heavy tables, privy
to gluttonous feasts and unforgiving bodies
practicing the religion of perfidy,

The jungles frost over,
snow breathes its way into our lungs,
A little girl offers her hand,
if you take it, they will set you free,
but we watch her leave,
the insects wait and the vultures descend,
there is a voice but we can't make it out
calling from somewhere between history,
like the frog who has run out of lily pads,
there is no path left before us,
He tightens his muscles and leaps
into nothingness,
the water splashes around us,
the parting of red seas,
ripples echo like miniature earthquakes,
and then--
and then--
nothing is calm.

Ignition

you send me on those twists and turns. the road to nowhere is everyday bordered by the lost children of faraway dreams. To cancel your subscription just return a postage paid letter to this address. We are not blind, so then we pretend not to see. A collection of sentences seemingly random. Or unwittingly constructed. overwritten in verse, underwritten in time. Does everything mean something but sometimes mean nothing? If so, when the hour strikes and the sky is gray will you wait for me? (no matter if I spell it with an e or a?)

End of the Year Budget Checks

It looks bleak,
there are many words outlined in red,
there are none in black,
so much so that someone
has chosen to employ a
blue ballpoint pen, though
it has run in several places,
or been accidently smeared;
names are obscured
so too the LLC,
There is another year ahead
and another behind,
Some of us have found cancers hiding,
women leaving,
grades falling,
but the unlucky
ones have just gotten older
and frailer, skeletons
covered in red,
widening sockets
and tired eyes
looking for the black,
hoping even,
to see some blue.

she tugged on my shirt outside the Lions den

She tames lions,
they were once vicious
now their fangs are capped
docile, disciplined
they no longer recall
the wet jungles, the taste of 
fresh blood nor the thrill of the hunt

Like stuffed animals in
a museum, they plant, pivot
snarl, sniff; blank eyes
and tapered claws,

The crowds cheer, a great
mane desexed, a showpiece,
a lion, the king of the jungle
submissive, subdued,
an exhibition for the masses,
a lean, segmented cut of meat,
pages ripped out of
your biology books,

jumping hoops, encircled by fire,
a blank slate, memories chisled away,
a castrated roar like chiming
silver bells, harmless and
on a road that leads
from nowhere
to the circus,
to the zoo,
to retirement,
to the grave.

A Childs Question

Where will I be,
when you call on me again?
My childhood is the bride
of corporate interest
re: Mikey mouse and Double Dare.
So what will I do,
when you ask of me,
knowing all our magic
has left, that what we had
meant nothing to you
but dollar signs and stock options?

This is your Brain on Graduate School

Retractable parts
in composition,
innate responses
solicitous,
humanity misspelled,

A collection of words
aesthetically pleasing,
arduously placed,
perfectly planned,
and to wit--

I've run out of space,

A copy of Been in the Storm So Long
motionless next to me,
aging, yellowed and unread
yet, there is a certain serenity
in sleeping words
carefully configured with the meanings

of love lose love lose love
and lose
but that's the most important
message
to tell us how much we've lost
and how little we've gained,
before we cross the
first page,

the true muses song,
or do they sing?
is carefully relayed
or
I've forgotten--

and so have you,
don't remember
the words have been planned,
selected, arranged, sealed,
the 4th wall overrun
and unbeknownst (archaic)
to Leonard Litwick,
who sits on my mental porch,
the eggs have begun flying
and
the damned are still waiting,
recall them forever inured
and entertaining
that we'd ever extend a hand--
even as the fields are burning

and you're struck with yellowed
thoughts, folded corners,
underlined sentences and marginal notes

all of us reading
forced to follow left to right
a less then tortuous course
without a clear end,
and when you look back it's blank
and before you is too,
and by then Dr. Litwack has gone home,
and no one is left to explain
anything
to
you. 

Bombing Demogoblins: the Untold Story

In the world of text based hockey

a Mike Ortz save is the smallest

possible statistical outcome

of any equation and its most rare

and maddening quantity.

$4.85; A Novel

He lit his cigarette,
took a drag and threw
the match to the ground.
In between these lines
there are pages to read,
You can never touch them all,
there is no ink to dry
and no corners to bend,
Bukowski filled a book
maybe several books,
I haven't got the time,
So I'm leaving the novel up to you
Because I'm sure
if you're reading this
you have even less
to do.

Fluffy

Today I am reminded of my best friend,
he died looking into my eyes
He was strong, and he took care of me
He got old and frail
and I took care of him,
He had orange hair and a wonderful smile
He slept at my feet and
made sure I had enough sleep every night
We grew up together born only months apart
He died when I was 15,
I held him and felt his final breath
He was scared but he waited for me
I watched him for a while and
I gave him my favorite shirt
He looked peaceful
as if he were sleeping,
I sometimes hear the sound of his voice,
recall the touch of his fur,
I pat my bed and wait for him to jump up
He rubs against my hand
We fall asleep.

And Jesus says...

We turn slower than before
knowing remembering
what we saw, what we heard,
you are reading this
in wonder, it is a poem,
it is meant to grasp at some greater meaning
some silver lining, some pretentious
universal truth,
we are all erudite fools,
words meaning nothing
deeds meaning less,
we are born we grow we shrink we die
the universe laughs
the insects chew on us
recycle our eyes our hearts our lungs
our memory our triumphs our failures our life
and the meek shall inherit the earth

Time of Death: Tuesday, October 20, 2009; 2:00pm

I had already taken those steps,
sat idle on turning wheels
and gliding rails
walked steps through streets of urban decay
and into the light of walled academia,
before I heard the news
listened to the voice
read the pain in those words, still
There was nothing else to do
but move on

Autumn Girl

There is a girl,

she draws attention

she sparkles in the sun,

under moonlit nights,

and artificial skies,

The streets move

with her legs

like the eyes of passersby,

men drunken with her image

wage invisible wars on their sanity,

I am a falling leaf

wrapped in the cool air

over a clear crisp pond,

it is mid-October,

a thin layer of ice

clings to its hardened banks,

at the mercy of the wind

I tumble, a solitary leaf

a moment green then

red orange yellow brown

all at once

once green,

and tumbling

tumbling

falling

There is a girl

wrapped in her coat,

hidden from the world,

the October air, victorious

over summers magnanimity,

beats against her figure,

she is walking home,

by a pond,

its icy banks glistening,

by her feet

a leaf,

the scars of

spring summer autumn

dull its color

she reaches down

her soft fingers weightless

over tired brittle skin,

the others look on falling around her

too late-- she places the leaf

in her pocket

the water ripples with

her echo, we are tortured

by her distance,

unreachable

elusive, he clings tightly to her

the envy

of watching eyes

and

passing gazes.

Good Bye, for my Grandmother and Mother

Time is near its end
a hard orange brown light
and my mother by her side,
I have barely known her,
always on the periphery,
outside, strong
hard, unyielding
inapproachable,

now the light clings
to empty glasses,
frozen mirrors,
reflections of a life
soon to pass;
clustered on the walls,
clinging to the furniture
of a single room

a heaviness
weighing on us all,
my mother holds her hand,
dried tears, but through the fog
I can hear her crying,
them crying, together crying,
playing years like movies
before their eyes,
changing, interpreting
in the end there is no bad,
there is only good,
time memory hello good bye

I say good bye to her
a woman I never knew
will never know,
wishing I could have known,
standing walking running
the rain beats down on our heads
we don't lift our eyes,
time stops for but a moment
yet we miss it,
saying good night
to my grandmother.

Breakfast, a Play in One Act

A slogan?
I've got one,
she said, and
it's exactly what you
should live by,

the court adjourned-

It doesn't matter
how mediocre your writing is
just keep doing it
for yourself
because no one else wants
to read it.

And...? When they reconvened.

They threw the book at me-

She smiled.
I tried to smile,
poured a glass of
orange juice,
watched the pulp
forced to the top,
struggle, and finally
sink to the bottom of the glass
and
I sat awhile thinking about how sad
that color was.