SPAM

The Tomato Giant...
What the fuck is that?
These ads are becoming too abstract,
a tomato isn't even in the shape of a penis.

A dinner for two without reservations

Sometimes I feel like ceviche isn't actually cooked,
like, how do I know that the citrus acids
had enough time to prepare the fish
so it isn't raw?

Then again I know the water in my fish tank
has a good pH because the fish are still swimming
and waiting for me to feed them,

I see my reflection in them,
grey cast eyes looking through glass,
unable to see through that glass,
out into an alien world of careless giants,
marching across suffocating carpeted valleys
towards soft leather mountains,
unknowingly contemplating their end
with every moist flake ingested,
turning in constantly shrinking circles
until they cease to exist or give up living--

on
the other side of the glass
of course,

Once again though,
I'm reminded,
I still haven't answered that ceviche question.

Bob Costas Valentine

Huddled around blue pulsing light,
radiating without warmth,
are skating pairs,

flamboyant clothes accompany
zero missed calls and jumbled silence,
I'm alone,

There is chocolate somewhere
(though I'm allergic)
and the passing scent of melting wax
weighted down by burning wick,
carefully sculpted, adoringly prepared,
these tables across which lovers stare,
are empty but for my glass, coaster-less
and also alone,

a charming reflection of Olympic feats
looped and replayed.

SNOW

I haven't abandoned you,

a bitter winter, and I'm
Knee deep in a misplaced tundra,
snowflakes gnaw at my fingers,
the coarse wood and cold metal
of an old shovel, it's true
we've all seen better days,

But when were they?--

you remember? and I--?
I won't forget you
when the snow melts
the streets are dry
and the squirrels come out of hiding.

Is this the end of the postmodern hero?

Is this the end of the postmodern hero?

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First Kiss

A calm like the end of worlds,
air static where fire rains,
an orange light illuminating,
pulsing from somewhere within,
and without,
sky gravid with hope
fulfilled and dashed,
tiny hardened emotions
glimmer in your eyes
a tortuous fantasy awaiting,
if only the courage could surface
one moment over nervous floods
and crisp black purple waters blue,
a childish facade
and an adults wish,
trees waver, sleep and watch,
there is life in summer nights and
electronic dreams

Local roots of The Catcher in the Rye

Local roots of The Catcher in the Rye

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Pizza

You made a pizza,
with beautiful tired hands
coated in flour,
caked with dough,
the smell of mozzarella
thick and soft, inviting;

a clock-wise spread,
a collage of green and red,
so bright and hot,
and with the night
we watched hungrily outside,
turning tiny crystals
on glass impenetrable,
solitary and silent in the cold.
  

Engaged

I wanted to write a poem for you
because you're sad,
one you'll never read or know,
but one that will stay here and age,
an unremembered  reminder of ends
and beginnings, of
growing old, and
staying the same.

The usual news with your morning coffee?

A car
in forward reversed,
an immovable object
not unbreakable,
bones old and brittle
moving him forward
holding him back,
a wall/crash/no more,
greeted by screams,
grand surprises as suns rise,
sprinkling the day with nascent rays
8.32 minutes old,
in infancy shaking the cold,
crushed mortar and cinder and brick,
ruffled paper and feathers,
coffee still hot,
a wrinkled hand raised,
an assumed voice,
"The usual please, thank you."

Found Poetry

11th and Cuthbert Streets,
the Hilton Garden Inn Hotel,
Enclosed Walkway,
Greyhound bus
parking lot and
Transportation Center,
Market East and the Gallery shopping,
A Sign:

"Fresh Donuts and Coffee,
We
All So
Have
Food!"

Bull Pushing your Babe?- Be a Carnal Maniac

If?
If you automatically get relegated?
When deletion eliminates you,
Before forever
in my trash can,
Why?
Why keep sending?
So I have to put you down?

An Exuberant futility,
your exuberance pushing send in the face
of failure, the futility of defeating my spam box
never reaching you,

One day we'll all understand,
and test your miracle,
we'll measure and lie and smile and talk,
asking for returns, money back and postage free,
and that's when you'll stop hitting send,
Your spam doing all the work,
an answer content in our futility,
exuberant.

An Idea for a novel that just won't work

Rabbits. Fucking Rabbits.
They've followed me all my life.
I've learned to avoid them by now,
But every once in a while
I'll let my guard down,
reading a book by my window,
daydreaming at a traffic light,
that's when they get me,
and can they ever talk.
Once they start. And I mean it,
once they start you can never shut them up.
They'll tell you they've seen so many things.
Been so many places, but one thing they can't do,
and if you've had
enough experience like I've had,
you know,
one thing they can't do is tell a story...
They will ramble on and on and on
for hours,
tangents and side stories, little anecdotes,
but you'll never and I am serious about this,
never, ever get to the meaning of the story
no matter how long you sit there
hours, piling on to hours,
its like watching a never ending half time show,
yeah it might be interesting and novel at first
but eventually you just wanna get to the game
know what I mean,
sure you do, I'm sure you've had a
conversation like this before,
You sit there nodding politely,
pretending to make eye contact,
but really you're staring at their mouth or past them,
wondering if they'll ever shut up,
or if you'll ever have the chance to speak again,
feeling like you are the police officer or the ballerina
or the clown from that Twilight Zone episode,
except you're hoping and waiting for someone
to ring the bell, shoulder to shoulder
straining, listening
for that loud bang,
the cold snow on plastic. Ignorance.
Whatever, even if you hadn't seen it
you'd know what I mean, right?
I guess,
all trust and what not...
 
So anyway back to the Rabbits

Conquistador

There is a ring
stained and smelling of coffee,
I've forgotten my keys
and you,
It's cold, wind blows outside
breath fogging windows and
ice melting, freezing, melting
and bitter,
mug stained, the scent of coffee
concrete though fleeting,
Still life and cold,
like the window chilled,
and waiting,
round and round
round and round,
the Inca, the monk
black and biting,
brown and sweet,
a new land to conquer--
Beware the high flags and heavy ships.

Work Quickly

Those cool breezes track the morning light. Illuminating instead of heating, they play tricks on morning commutes.The sun has yet to find its coffee left by the moon. I am yet to find my coat. Or one warm enough, you tell me to match the three protecting you. So the winds pick up and the sun hits the snooze alarm. The coffee grows cold. The nascent light hides behind brick and mortar shells. And I am left with freezing chest and sore throat and you are left with a sick and sorry man lying in your bed,
waiting for you.