at least it's better than instagram

Notice something about the modern pop poem,
it is almost always written in two stanza lines,

of the protagonist it says something vague
like they were recalcitrant; with a semi-colon,

it then mentions a past event in their life,
of course this was on a farm somewhere,

that perfect litttle spot in the barn away from,
where mama used to, all red and like

some obscure and possible supernatural
undertones to finish, a bit of fantasy,

tending toward dark and removed imagery,
doing no work of itself, a mirror deftly cultured for the reader.

then it ends, rather abruptly, always simply, a weighted remark
about childhood that the poem supposedly alludes,

where it is accepted by solicitation by the Atlantic,
or the New Yorker to waste away online with paid for praise.

kiss them cheeks all up

the bus opens up

around the hill

against the curve

away from the light

the baby standing on her lap

jerks the opposite way

two women in the back cannot resist

the pull

the shrieking brake

the mangled exterior

they would spend the day

kissing

what about the baby's head

the head-on collision

how the bus would kick

think about the baby

your lips on its cheek

dead tire marks in the road

a sheet of glass

limited connection

rise and scroll

where there will be new things

normal aberrations

words within the picture frame

would you prefer to exit
                                        or wait?

chattering teeth

broken code

scroll and click

and you will glimpse glowing stars

depressed horizons

a picture frame within reason

a choice to say whether yes
                                             or no

schematic drawings for the purple machine

the garden in the basement,
lately I have forgotten it,
soon, negligence,
then rot;

schematic drawings for the purple machine;

in a dream,

the insides of the house
I grew up in were gutted

replaced by penthouse views
the skyline, new york,

it was up to me to pay the bill;

if standing on a chair
you look down through the camera lens
the blue prints will clear

there, find the doorway;

walk in,

that's where it must be hiding,

the machine,

the one that makes the garden,
where the gas is pumped in
and the chemicals mixed,

how many floors below
make up the basement

the reaching arms of plants

the many acres of dirt torn up

Go On, Breathe Freely Released into the Wild and Available Now!

Well, here it is finally...95 pages of poetry from Chatter House Press
with the wonderful Penny Dunning editing...

Written in rain-soaked notebooks folded and tucked into the back pocket of worn-down corduroys, this collection of poems tell the tale of a ragged band of East Coast wanderers out to find that mythical American freedom of the West.

it's on the press website: https://goo.gl/iYgH4R

and Amazon: https://goo.gl/6fC2kO

sneak peak poem-- 250 Miles Wide

250 Miles wide

What’s Missouri but

a big endless white

cast of clouds above my head?

From the floor

of the backseat,

in the crevice by the sliding door,

I am borne into that

unknown space

by our van that like

the sacrificial lamb of America

has given itself over to our quest;

hear the harmonics

sullen pang, fundamental,

on the lips of the young babes,

ball the jack

to the shining grasslands

of old—without a song,

just a thought—a collective

yearning to get at that thing,

that very thing that has escaped us,

unspeakably, on the horizon.