Monday, June 15, 2015

After Work One Day



You find yourself
sitting there
at the bus stop curb
looking up and seeing sweat fall
from a man’s head trickling,
unphazed from the steam that whispers
from the grate where another woman’s foot
waits for a road to elsewhere

There’s water spots
on the shelter glass where
rain dried and loitered by
a panel
where somebody with dollar-sign intentions
tagged their name with a black marker

You see a man near
               the intersection,
a black man with a corona for a beard -
he sits cross-legged and slouched with
a sign and an outstretched hat
with the bill half-torn

Thursday, June 4, 2015

Untitled

I am Lucifer,
cast out and damned
to my beautiful pursuits
In what seems like
absolute freedom

I felt a finger pointed at me,
some kind of invisible conviction
that led me to mundanity

I am Camus' reverie,
rolling a boulder up
and letting it
descend again

After all these years,
blisters
form
like little volcanoes



Monday, April 13, 2015

Barn Poem



Can you hear the rain
tap on the tin shingles?
The night's black like a
burnt hole in the couch
from my mother's dropped
drunken cigarette

dendritic lighting splits
the sky and flashes light
through the transom while
cows shiver off midges

We play chess under
the warm yellow bulb
and you check your watch
for how long we have
‘til your phone rings

I see the halo tan line of
your once-loved pride as
you move your rook to d5

Outside, in view through the open hatch,
the sand vines climb the paint-chipped siding
above the overflowing gutters of our house

spider web cracks on the
black Ford Focus you
bought her two years back
with a sparkling grin and a
mouthful of promises

Even with the drops of rain
and murmurs of thunder,
we hear the irate screams
from the upstairs bedroom

You place your hand
on your mouth as if
covering a yawn as
you ponder your next move

Thursday, March 12, 2015

Avon Lake

The sand was
trapped in my shoes
like the smoky, sour
aftertaste of a stale cigar

A man had a metal detector
at the beach that day and
walked sun-hatted and stooped
on the miniature dunes of Erie

Some children ran naked and
flapped in the water like it
was the first thing they ever saw
as the old house of Thomas Folger
overlooked the scene
like a frail witness 







Wednesday, March 4, 2015

"I remember. I had goosebumps," she said.
Tom laughed as he looked toward the lake."You always enjoyed scary stories." He smiled and took a sip from his coffee mug as she lifted a glass of orange juice to her nude lips. "I remember when we came out last year - right after your mother died and I built a campfire and you told stories." A smile appeared out of Tom's face unexpectedly like the phoenix from ashes. "You were smaller then."
A flock of ducks quacked as they flew over the lake. "Looks like they are back for spring. You know - they fly in V shapes to conserve energy. Less wind resistance. Plus, each member can keep track of each other." The ducks crashed into the lake and they shook their feathers. "When they are in the water, a group of ducks is called a paddling."
"Dad, you know so much about nature."

Monday, February 16, 2015

Nightmare

To me, it wasn't
a hypothetical,
clandestine
experiment of
armchair sitting

a dormant body
and rapid eyes with
covers high
and darkness swells

I was in a mirror
somewhere past
the sign for then -
a place only where
memory can fathom

It was a matter of 
mere mathematics

May you rest in peace - 
you umbra of happiness - 
you tempting end-in-yourself

Plug me in, Mr. Nozick - 
let me float in nothingness
while I experience her love again

That's what I thought - 
that's what I feared - 
prostrated there 
in night sweats

The darkness satisfied
like water at the end
of a desert quest:

Blackness like a blooming
fruit was the beginning of
that memory once realized