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This Is Where

This Is Where

 

This is where my seeds are planted,
this is where my thoughts are filed,
this is where I house my visions,
this is where I lose my mind.                           

 

This is where my ghosts are living,
this is where my child was born,
this is where I mourn the lost day,
this is where I dance the dawn.

 

This is where I feed my cattle,             
this is where I starve my pig,
this is where I bury my feelings,
this is where I start my dig.                           

 

This is where the sun is colder,
this is where the moon is hot,
this is where the jazz bleeds pictures,
this is where the rock’s forgot.

 

This is where the smoke is golden,             
this is where the fruit is stained,
this is where I rest my body,
this is where I feel the pain.                            

 

This is where my mind is floating,
this is where my feet are lead,
this is where my life excites me,
this is where I seek the dead.

From a Box of Old

From a Box of Old

 

From a box of old photos

fell the picture.

I am pressed against

my dad’s back,

cheek firmly between

his shoulder blades,

arms wrapped around.

We sit on a rock

overlooking the Celtic Sea,

wind running through our hair

and I don’t want to ever let go.

We stare through the camera

and I am happy,

a smile as wide as the picture itself

features on my face.

From behind I could not see my dad’s face

but thirty years later

he looks worried,

something is about to happen,

the picture is about to be lost

amongst so many other

painful images.

At the Airport

At the Airport

The laptop-tapping-

cell-phone-talking-

bad-suit-wearing

zombies wait for their flights,

dragging bags and life behind them,

a slow death delayed

due to head winds.

The departure board flickers

like a stock price ticker

to all the hopeful suit boys

taking the delays as a personal affront,

the forces of nature having conspired

to keep Mr. Tie-Wearer

from his meeting.

I sit in my jeans and t-shirt

reading a poorly researched

Bukowski biography

waiting for the same flight,

delayed by the same winds,

only difference is

I’m laughing.

Laughing at the wrinkled frowns,

laughing at the frantic phone calls,

all the huffs and grunts

as the schedule is updated.

What can you do?

I guess some things

cannot be bought.

I Miss Myself

I Miss Myself

 

My little girl hugs me, squeezes,

Daddy, I miss you when you’re at work.

I squeeze back, me too.

She commands my eyes with her question look,

you miss yourself?

We laugh and I say yes.

But, you’re there?

But I’m not.

Death Without Any Words

Death Without Any Words

 

When you roll out the folds of your failed years,

and carefully trace back your choices,

each morning that you stepped into the shackles of life,

closed to the torment of voices.

 

When you lay down for a final time to rest,

and stale visions turn out the lights,

what stream of empty memories will climax with your death,

without any words save for last rites.

Freak Show

Freak Show

              inspired by David Lerner’s Mein Kampf

 

Step right up,

              step right up,

come see the poet at work.

 

Gasp at the furrowed brow,

              the constipated demeanor,

marvel at the rigor mortis life skills.

 

But please Ladies and Gentlemen,

              DO NOT FEED THE POET,

this creature must not be encouraged in any way.

Hopscotch

Hopscotch

 

Rain cries away chalk on ground,

my Angel howls,

all those opportunities lost,

but with the promise of reincarnation

television calls