Last Spring Rain

last sad notes drift
along raindrops
pelt my window
slowly soak my keys
blaze like pearls
on finger tips         (humidity subsides)
thin layers of reality
spread over absent
white graves         (soldier's graves)
first crack of
thunder drums steady
whuuuuuur of
central air          (finally the trees waver)
                          (frrooowwsh of sweeping rain)
wind whips up
silence now          (all that is, is storm)
descending now          (blankets of steam)
the last days of spring

In the city, Stuck

mornings like this  

I am here     I am stuck in a city     cement monoliths

rise skyward to block sun rays     I'd rather have them laid down flat

stretched out into nothingness     the open road     the endless shore

remember pacific coast highway     victory

how the sun was golden streaks through windows
how the sun seemed to sink slower to linger

     music laughter      rolling wheels
     nothing behind      everything beyond

Braided sunlight on cement

gooey night lights
of columbia pike are lit by
morning crisp spring
sunlight, twisted dust
and particles smaller'n
bleary wake up eyes can see
glint and dance reflecting
subliminal views of heaven
into the dreamy visions of
passers-by, a roman à clef
starring the barely fictional
life of gray crumbling streets,
heavy, weighted pavement
wavers, chips, bends, breaks
winters freeze and thaw, 
grizzled fists and battered ice, 
snakes like a dried up riverbed
past homes stacked upon its edges
that stretch and yawn, shaking
of grim winter hibernations
what is real and what is not?
twisted to never know and never tell,
there's a thin film of what's supposed to be,
like what day it is? what time
exact? what faces wait for
green lights, heavenly lights?

in the corner of a book
in the library of the world,
there's a story somewhere
somehow beautiful,
somewhat restrained,
like wispy dandelions in
the celestial breeze,

wssshhhing hwwaafssh frwwsssh
blinking winking fwwssssss aow aow

To you, From me

You're out like
gray lump of clay on
dusty bookcases
of the past--this one
empty sad without
any books just scattered
unwanted memories
just things that aren't useful
unwashed beer botttles
torn posters faded lines
scribbling a red hot madness
of years and years--ignoring
the light that dances above you
the flutter and whine
of plastic blinds in spring winds
lazy cool sundays whatever
day like it matters or simple
recognition of time passes
those orange eyes shut
to the world ears twitching
waiting for me rise to get
going to do something
important but I just sit
here staring typing wasting
no fun not interesting at all.

I'm calling you

imagine color
rainbow drawn over
clear sky and you,
white dress nipped by
breeze, smell of flower
can't quite pin it down,
spring warmth and tanned
legs, cloud casts fleeting
shadows, there's a field
you're walking barefoot,
hint of smile, unknowing
gazes into the horizon,
obscured by green, green
trees like everywhere on
the east coast, it's so green,
and the day is fleeting, already
going, afternoon golden sun,
tired sun, earth turning,
another day, a peculiar
way to tell time, the only way,
you rest your hand on the back
of you head, turning turning
toward the sound,
with your other hand waving
imagine the sky blue blue
blue imagine.

Waiting for Felicia

smells like formaldehyde
everywhere, now spring,
so man decide plant,
pretty up park, where two
limos parked, girls turn
16, take photos,

this might be worst place
on earth right now to try and
read, indoors there's music and
shops, metal wire tables, no
room to think, I want to be out
in that sun but--there's nowhere
to sit & be

water isn't even running through
fountain yet. but fuck, it's nice out

I walk back and forth trying a few spots
all the same, can't find a sentence, can't breathe,

landscapers stop to stare
at procession of young girls,
pink dresses,

limo reads

"Sixteen & Weddings
THE MAGAZINE"

what's the connection?
not sure--

I want to read but the world
chases me
away--

Springs

I hear they grow the lemons here
on trees (stretching/labored) tuned to
major star collision
burnt brown dwarf smile
on 20th and snaking green elevated
highway road cosmic belt going east-west (infinitely)
to ocean towns sleepy and Harrisburg squat buildings
peddling their boring roofs
out behind big Pennsylvania
evergreen constellations,
each sip draining more--

I've fifteen dollars and twenty-three cents worth of groceries
and a few odd blocks to walk
Broad Street at orange night
blessed blue by moony god
spring distance

I'm Waiting

Landscape awakens in
big brawling Cezanne canvas
french countryside in Spring,
brush strokes imagined,
so you almost feel you can touch the wind,
it's tangible color laden wind
twists through your hair impatient
and like blue Easter egg time machine
you go backward through mossy green meadow grasses,
dandelions sensing warm rain and lazy cloud sky wisp,
till we're left standing under some neo-classical
suburban mall ruins (ivory carefully planned) reliefs,
your high heeled shoes click-clacking
forward by pedestrian crossings and changing
spring styles, (it's getting to be there's a new
ancient scent of flowers free of dirt hibernation)
life is crossing some time-dilation
without us, living linear in the dark matter of space
where you're always standing just out of sight
and laughter carries over paved pavillion roads

March

25 days from 27
years, with children looking
up to daddy, job, meatloaf tuesdays
playground afterschool hurry home
from work, spring flowers in the air
hugging mommy,
and I'm so... old...so much older than
I should be when fathers will die after me
in the cold empty sad world of early mondays
coffee ford Taurus roaring like kittens
in the window as I leave, placing my foot
firmly between the door creaking shut
and outside--

I can't remember my fathers face when I was young
and he was towering above purple sky,
atheletic, throwing baseball back and forth
with old softball mit legendary,
I'd run my hands through it,
wonder at how it never missed,
he never missed,
holding his hand along mountain roads-

grass brushing cars silently,
I scraped my knee, blood and bruise
so we sat on old forgotten dug out bench,
grass above my waist,
watching the old ball game roll along
where my father was the hero
at 3rd and short,
bugs screeched loudly in the root jungle
cheering, in the hollow pocono heat

we've got miles back to walk
on the oh long ago road of childhood
and fatherhood,
where I forget to grow old
catching pop-ups
dad fires
higher than the sun