On Hold

i acquiesce to the subtle music

steady in my left ear.

my fury subsides and my

passions are lulled

by this stoic acoustic guitar.

perhaps this time, it will

subdue my wrath.

Alien-in-VASION

**a Redbull induced poem**

In great stormy clouds they came

with squishy green feet and black eyes.

Little big heads bobbing like dandelions

as the procession continued to the

center of our small town.

The Head head appeared from the middle

and took his place behind the microphone.

He waved his hands about and made demands

and threats that all must submit

to his 3 feet 8 inch stature.

People gathered and C-Span spread

his message throughout the land.

TV tubes and grainy YouTube videos

flooded the airwaves as Mr. Head Head

spouted and spat and quivered and shook

and laid out their entire agenda.

When he finished, the other heads all

bobbed in agreement and you could hear the

wet splat of hundreds of squishy green feet

on the cool black asphalt.  Hundreds of black

eyes darted around waiting for our own applause.

But it never came.  Mr Head Head’s words were lost

in translation.  Would we rebut?  Rebut what?

No one understood a single damned word.  We

all just stared back them, like big, dumb cows.

Like cows chewing cud in a green field, staring at

the spaces where cars had stopped and honked hours earlier.

Big bobbing heads bowed, exasperated hands

hung heavily as squishy green feet plodded back

through the alleys to their ship, parked in an empty

baseball field.  The door closed, the smoke plumes rose

and the flashy craft lurched upwards.  One small child,

amused by the ordeal, began crying as his bright blue

balloon soared upwards after the ship.  As if it might somehow

escape this life.  As if it somehow understood.  But it didn’t.

That would be nonsense.  Helium is simply lighter than air.

Kellan

she was born on a Thursday.

with a lifetime of promise to fulfill,

she was only given four days.

i lost her on a Monday.

like water in my hands,

she seeped away

before my very eyes.

Promise Kept.

Simple Things That Waylon And Willie Tried To Teach Me

i strive against forces that i cannot see.

a tug of war between me and me and sometimes

you, but mostly me.  on cloudy days

i’ve been known to simply drop the rope

and watch the otherside fall

like dominoes all neatly lined little ducks in a row.

- The singer ain’t singing and the drummer’s been draggin’ too long -

i’d like to believe you, Willie, that the answer

is that simple.  just drop the little weight on

this metronome down a few clicks and simply

speed things up.  your dusty old hat and well worn

boots incline me to believe you outright.  trust.

who do you trust Willie?  Waylon?  when the lights

all dim and you finally make it to that room all

alone, who do you trust?  what’s left when the

song’s finally over?

a sly little smile stretches across that worn face.

i expect something profound.  something different.

something unexpected.  instead it’s the same old line,

the same old lesson.  no matter how many times i

listen, it never changes.  like the click clack of this

steady driving metronome.  a relentless pursuit

of the steady, always sure, always solid, beat.

- Time will take care of itself so just leave time alone
And pick up the tempo just a little and take it on home -

Take it on home.

Take it on home.

This, from a man, who’s home is a bus.  Easy for you to say,

Willie.  Easy for you to say.

If Heaven Ain’t Alot Like Legoland…

i was created this way

flawed and absent at least

half a dozen moving parts

and a few outer decals.

my packaging was ok.

must’ve been a mix-up

down at the plant.  maybe

Quality Controller #12 was

having her smoke break as

i traversed down the sterile

conveyor belt.  left to check

my own quality with nothing

to measure it against. perhaps, she

was there – all the time, watching

for me and chose to secretly

scrape some of these needed

pieces off onto the floor,

to be re-melted and used

in someone else’s box.

imagine my surprise when

after years of painstaking

work to fit all my parts into

their appropriate places, i

finished only to find these

gaping holes in me.  i must’ve

checked that empty box a

thousand times for the pieces

that i knew wouldn’t be there.

still i checked.  always hoped.

that maybe i’d find this piece

or that – behind the coffee table,

between the cushions on that couch

you hate, or perhaps the dog ran

off with them.  please don’t

fault me for my faults,

i was simply

packaged

this way.

separationniversary

this morning the wind

bit my lip, so

in protest i hid beneath

my gray collar.

i fixed a single cup of coffee,

soothed the bite with

the hot liquid,

and marked our

sixth month of separation.

Southland Seduction

you’ve never seen eyes like this

they are humid summer mornings

they are frozen winter evenings

they are bitter autumn breezes

they are lewd spring blooms.

they crystallize and magnetize and energize

my soul, my being, my sweat, my sex.

nothing escapes those spiral stares

she then arouses me with her smells

apple pies, salty hams, crisp flavors

of this years best fatted calf.

if asked, i would willingly

lie down on her plate

and cry with joy

and quiver with anticipation

as she sharpens the blade

that’s she’ll use to peel

my skin from my soul.

she pulls from her cupboard a

cream-colored jar that she’ll

use to store what’s left

of my bones and my talents.

she will stew me and slay me

and cook me up into the

kind of man who she’s been

yearning for since her young

legs knew what they needed.

this is how it’s done in the South.

our Women bake us into men.

Late Night Tryst

gravity brought her gentle sway

sucked the wet air down

she laid across these fields

like a blanket.  thick wool.

heavy films of wet fabric.

the breeze was stilled completely

nothing moved.  nothing disrupted.

the moon lost her crisp lines

and bled into a pale cauldron

of sickly blues and whites.

distant flecks of lightning

pounded helplessly against

the black fog.  desperate knockings

on a locked door, that no one

would ever hear.  heavy air,

hard to breathe, turning my

otherwise soft cotton into

sticky membrane against my skin.

i stand from my chair and walk

slowly through her silky hair.

i breathe in her wet words.

i walk until the porch lights

dissolve into a splash of wet

yellow paint on a black canvas.

let her embrace me fully.

let her molest me beneath the

shadows of her misty skirt.

everyone breathes slow

everyone waits

a lone star peaks, unexpectedly,

through a gap in the sky

then fades again.  millions and

millions of miles of travel and

its eager light never arrives

at its intended target.

this is Spring at night.

Observing The Alcoholic Paradox

Drunken Stupor,

the sun bleeds

and the

empty bottle

swears that

you’ll arrive

at any

moment…

right..?

under the Influence

have you ever had just one thought?

that one thought, that when

realized, can be held indefinitely.

it is here that one passes

from time and space

– what are you thinking about? -

to there.  time resolved.

in the thought is truth

in the truth is freedom

- in the distance, a man chops wood -

but it isn’t freedom that i

need if i’m to hold onto

this one thought.  rather,

i need captivity.  i need stone

- how do you know it’s a man? -

walls and bars, to keep this

thought in.  i am the Jailmaster.

- the chopping seems manly -

i am the mortar.  i am the iron.

in that moment of singularity

- you’re an old fool. -

i wait for the dream dust to

settle and see who is

- wait did you hear something? -

there.

- hear what? -

-     -

contemplations and depressions: The Boat Man

this morning came quick.  vibrant

yellow.  invaders of dark mornings.

ramble and bramble and fashion for

me a walking stick.  something solid

to take underneath her green bosom.

in that canopy let us lose some of

ourselves.

last night slept in my space.  moon

and lark staring through my window

your place was empty.  a soft depression

in the sheets.  egyptian.  1000 thread count.

is this my life?  walks in supermarket

lines, examining all of the empty

ring fingers?  tracing the eye-line

for other searchers.  perhaps we will

bump into one another near

the canned vegetables.  long since dead.

i’ll drop my Rice Krispies and you’ll drop

your lightbulbs and hair color.

then what?  stammering.  stumbling.

so we bump heads while kneeling

to grab our wares?  do we?  continue

this one life as different lives?

i daydream these things as

my fingers trace the empty outline

of you in these sheets.  egyptian.

1,000 thread count.  but

i’ll pass.  thank you very much.

instead, here are my two

coins for the boat Man.

may that River bear me up soon.

The Thought Occurred To Me While Removing My Sandals.

There are a few of us who remain.  Stranded here in this salty flat.  We scavenge for little bits of history and empathy.  We troll about these shorelines hoping to trip over that perfectly shaped piece of driftwood, or to stumble upon that untouched conch shell – still glimmering from the dying wave that spent its last breath pushing this empty home ashore.  I found you on this beach.  Crusty salt stains in your hair and eyebrows.  Skin kissed by the sun’s browning lips.  Feet polka-dotted with sand and shells.  Body, a translucent mirage of sunshine and water.  When you came to be, the waves paused.  The wind died.  All of this searching, toiling, sifting came to an end.  All of those poorly shaped pieces of driftwood became worthwhile.  But the moment passed.  And after a few miles of following, the pursuit became a drudgery.  And soon enough, your glow faded into a perfectly flat horizon.  As I tried to focus on the nothing that’d become you, I tripped, over that perfectly shaped piece of driftwood.  Not all bad.

Truth In The Inner Most Parts.

i am exhausted.

i am bewildered.

i am the end of my own rope.

i am stagnant.

i am transfixed.

i am the lost coin toss.

i am afraid.

i am reviled.

i am the space between.

i am baffled.

i am dejected.

i am the denied denial.

i am exhausted.

i am exhausted.

i am.

i.

.

…skin…

bag of bones.

soft blanket membrane.

antennae to signal and

divide myself and others

and you.

Skin trusts and yours

is a blanket of wind.

your tiny blonde hairs

tickle my very fabric.

the afternoon beads

of sweat on your forehead

and neck are sometimes

considered the

warning lights of Love.

it envelops us, wrapping smooth

boundaries across our chests, ears,

fingers, backs.  we intertwine

and interlock and impart and

deposit ourselves within and

without each other.

warm, calloused, smooth, tickled.

in this world

billions of bags, walking,

connecting, escaping,

and of them all

i would know your skin

above all other senses.

i would know you

by nothing more

than a

simple touch of the

toes underneath

a Midnight blanket.

Whiskey (for m.l.)

smooth crude flow

amber waves

of mellow tones

echoing in

my innards.

swallow me

as I

swallow you

and in me

spring

fountains of

flames.

dripping through

my pipes

and levers.

twice bitten

i return to

your brown

barrel

and bellow

just below

the surface.

sorrows swim

in your tides.

haze, and violence

and torrid nights

before a Whiskey

sunrise.  alive

and dead and

alive again.

Reflections of That Night in the Field.

your face shines by the

dim green of the dashboard lights

you recline and anticipate

a touch

an invitation

a hesitation

before release.

your breath is soft

in that green haze

the fumbling and

meandering.

quiet whispers.

your eyes, reflect green

stars and your lips

an iridescent cloud

of want. i will use

that glow, to read

the map of your

body. peaks,

valleys

and everything

in between.

and in the

end, we will

light small

orange stars of

our own. planets

in the backseat

with no orbit

and no

way

home.

skirts and Poetry

some days,

i like my

poems,

the way

i like skirts.

short.  subtle.

but to the

point.

i wonder,

when wearing

a short skirt,

how you

like your

poets.

jumpstart

all pleasantries aside,

i am occasionally

convinced that

i could jump

and that

Gravity’s deceptive web

will hold me

up.

early morning robber

you sleep

lose locks of chestnut

hair sleep too, in

rivers against your pillow

you stir

the soft music of your

moans fills the room

like wisteria

your skin is warm

sunlight through green leaves

on my arm.  soothing.

you breathe

a soft wind meandering

through pale skinned trees

birch leaves fluttering

your lips

moist and full,  moss

clinging desperately to hard stone

yearning to be touched

so in quiet ease, i oblige them.

an early morning robber

among Earth’s finest.

Vamp Ire.

today plumes of smoke spill into the sky

no Virgin to particles, she tenderly accepts

the seeds sown from flaming towers

and men of Design with innumerable powers.

i watch the gray snakes streak clumsily

across the sky as we drive eastward

the even Tarmac, a wicked ribbon wrapped

around a gift you gave, then trapped

in this elliptical course

we spin and flail and plot a path to set sail

man was removed of his terrible claws

replaced with Fangs in expandable jaws

that we use to suck the blood of those we Love

just enough to remember how good they taste.