. . .. through the cold iron shove

.  . .. through the cold iron shove
    of a stranger’s winter night, all too familiar.

Pour the heart into a tumbler.
Hot water and whiskey.
Watch already smitten girls
and let it tear you apart
as if it matters a lick in this life.

*    *    *
Jona lusts a night away,
drunk gazes the girls,
got upset because he didn’t get his.
Strokes his ego
in the mirror.
Strokes himself
pretending she’s actually
straddling his waistline,
she’s pressing her breasts against his body,
she’s nibbling his ear,
her hand’s on his leg,
her leg’s are crossed against his,
her foot’s touching his ankle,
she’s going home with him.
Ah, yes,
this is how it was supposed to go tonight.
Not that Jersey horse
haranguing on the empty train,
the only voice to carry three cars
and Jona knows she’s been eyeing him the whole way.
Yet,
there she turns,
shoulder blades to him,
back into Jersey horse’s chest,
and his arms wrap her
and Jona smirks,
because he’s been drinking for the last seven hours.
I don’t give a damn.

He steps off the train,
reaches for his inside pocket,
grabs the pack,
clicks the match,
lights the cigarette,
in a proud display.

    *    *    *
If you were honest with yourself –
but who wants to be? –
you’d know all this doesn’t matter.
But you consider your options:
1) Pretend these feelings are real
and get upset when she won’t reply;
or,
2) Acknowledge that, once,
you had it right and gave it away.

    *    *    *
It’s easier to rush after
bare shoulders
and pouting lips
that blow smoke;
legs that reach stilettos
and into mini skirts.
Ah, the lonesome soul’s a mighty
fool,
so easily manipulated
to think that smile means kindness
those eyes mean purity
those cheeks are warm
those arms are for touching
those hips are for holding
those legs are for wrapping
those lips are for whispers,
those ears are for kisses,
those breasts are for caring,
those shoulders for sleeping.
Such a fool, the lonesome soul;
so naïve and trusting.

Ah, but it must have been right,
right?
So he calls, calls again, and again.
She says,
I’ll contact you,
which means when she’s bored
or upset with her love-boy
or wants a free drink.
Jona knows this,
yet he’s quick to oblige.
A lonely heart takes what it can get
and keeps pretending.

It’s cold outside, Jona
watching lovers walk arm in arm
and their breath drift off
in bursts when they laugh.

He gets lost
in cigarette smoke,
arms clutched to his side,
hands deep in pockets.
His eyes water in the cold wind,
face burns,
lips are chapped
and tear as he peels the cigarette away
leaving blood on the butt.
He licks the sweetness off the wound,
puffs again,
and continues home.. .  .

The Hawk-Browed Man

The Hawk-Browed Man

The cruel joke by
God; that cunning and sly,
malicious jester: I
could never be satisfied
if love did not leave me wanting.
In every bar, a haunting
am I: a brute with widow's eyes.
I have been cursed. I cry.
I stare into this beer stein,
sullen, yet satisfied.

The Honest Writer Struggles, Incriminates Himself

I have ego enough to pick up this pen,
yet lack the courage for inner-most reflection.
My pride tells me you want to know
who I am, yet the ink globs in unsteady hesitation.
I fear what I have to say.
Have I the strength for honesty?

Let me pour more alcohol into my gullet
and we may see how strong I am,
for I am strongest under the careless
hypnosis of inebriation.
Does this tell you enough?

Springtime

In springtime the wrong plants grow.
Pungent smells of rancid blossoms
flood the nostrils of girls wearing sundresses
who stop to smell the youthul life.
Their noses crinkle, and they accept it.
This is the smell of the new Season.
Birds forgot their songs over Winter.
They sing the wrong music, and out of key.
They nest in cellphone towers and power lines -
in the car engines of convertibles
parked through Winter, the fools.
Springtime returns wearing the wrong garland.
Last year, when she returned,
she showed up in the wrong fashion again,
and this year,
she has only fallen further away, it is apparent.
Oh Springtime,
how you must have been splendid once before,
yet you come around too infrequently
and you grow old and careless in your time away.
You have forgotten how to fit in with this crowd,
silly girl.

Someday-Professors (Is This Jealous?)

Published poems are written by someday-professors
for someday-professors.
Poets do not get published
because publishers don't know what is good
and know only what they like,
which happens to sell
to someday-professors who pick apart each word
and tell other someday-professors
what the writers are trying to say.
The poets are stumbling hobos,
well-oiled vagrants,
ramblers with no one to talk to.
Their words are missed.
They are crazy. They are not meant
for poetry.
Someday-professors and publishers and
someday-publishers hold a convention
to discuss, to share, to learn
what it means to be a poet
and you will not see a poet there.
He doesn't fit in,
just like his words are too earnest
and truthful,
honest and forthright
to get into someday-professors' publications.

Royal Gorge

I took a detour in Colorado
to see Royal Gorge.
I wound up hills, and steeper ones.
I arrived.
A parking lot surrounded by
a wooden fence, which blocked the view,
led to a gate, ticket office.
Tickets cost sixteen dollars
for every adult. Extra to drive across.
On the far side of the fence from me,
a carrousel, a gondola ride,
concession and souvenir stands.
I passed the gates and a guard stopped me.
"Do you have a ticket?" "Can I just look?"
The cost to see nature is necessary
so gondolas, carrousel, and gates are maintained
and the guards, ticket-takers, concession workers,
and maintenance workers are paid.
"No. You need a ticket."
I walked away and never saw the gorge.
Nature used to be free.

Bellyaching

I take joy in the bullshit,
so much so I no longer recognize
my lack of sincerity.
I used to would at least
explain away my reasons,
but lethargy killed that effort.

I recognize the specter now
that warns me -
and I will recognize it once more,
I know from experience -
as soon as it's too late.


You, so simple, complaining of who done you wrong;
                who is a fool;
                who lied;
                who bailed and changed plans.
Have you no mind?           
Trust is for the helpless.
Who are you? so simple.
Have you taken no time,
            made no considerations that
You are all there is to trust and only hope yourself?
Have you no heart?           
    Honesty is for the spineless.
    Who are you? so basic.
Do you not realize
            it has never dawned on you
Honesty only leads to your own suffering, so lie.
You, so simple, complaining on about common betrayals,
    refusing to recognize how common they are,
you ache in my ears when I hear you
                    blah, blah
        a five year old who doesn't get his toy.
Life is this way. You complain of nature.
Deceit will defeat you
if you fail to see
that it is not rare
but rampant.



Noon, sunny, and nothing makes you happy. Look into the selfish trees, living to outgrow the rest. When did you begin to see trees as self-important? Was it the time you used vulgarity to hurt someone you love the way he hurt you? You recognized at that moment that despite your efforts for calm composure and forgiving nature, you cannot maintain this. Or was it the realization that you never lived to turn the other cheek - the way you believed - but instead that you are utterly apathetic and you do not love your enemy, but allow him to trample you, simply because laying down is easier than a confrontation?
The weakest trees die soonest and the strongest in their selfishness grow into splendid landmarks of old age and wisdom. You are no longer a sapling. It is the year of nudge and flex and you must reach toward the sun. If you do not do so now, your growth will retard. You will be nothing; cut out later to make space for the progress of those trees still growing. You will have no strength or age to claim your place. You will become wood chips, particle board - cheap and used cheaply. You sit watching the man with the lawn mower going around the big trees, mowing down saplings like grass.

Happy Fourth of July

Chaston and I headed for the beach, sometime in the night when the streets were quiet and most houses were locked. Chaston held two cans of beer, I had one. We left the driveway, roughly fifty feet, and Flic pulled up beside us. I looked over and he fingered for me to come over. "Those better be closed," he told me. I hesitated. "These are closed," Chaston said, holding up his two. "And yours?" Flic looked at me. "This is open." "Pour it out." "I came from just over there," I explained, trying to reach the point I will finish it at my house and throw the can away. "Pour it out or I'll take you to jail." I poured out half, told him okay, and he drove off.
Chaston and I retraced the fifty feet back home, shared the remains of my beer, poured a second into a tumbler, and went again for the beach.

Scene

Hello, Deer.
  How's your meal?
I have some grass here,
and beer.
Come. Sit a spell.

Spotlight the night, Moon.
  Thank you.
Could you help me
  shoo these raccoons?

Tents like teepees
  not on the ready,
around the grassland,
feed the scavengers.

Bugs in my can,
midnight moonshine.
Oaks around
circle the deer in the middle.

Night Camping

Whippoorwill? Gotta be.
I hear only one.
Lonesome whippoorwill.


Wind blows latrine odors.
Locusts? Maybe.
Here and across the stream.


Crickets' songs are
their own communication, like
the Whippoorwill, stream, and locusts.


Cicadas sleep now
in cool night.
Long day in hot tree limbs.

Dead Hope

Living room, dining room
white walls and carpet
spiritual indifference
warm cradle of monotonous knowns

thrilling cold of uncertainty
warmed by excited heart-poundings


You smother your aspirations in the guilt you give yourself.
You choke your dreams with the thumbs of someone else's goals
You drown your desires under motherly lies
        You have what you need here
        Stay in suburban womb
You weep away in the bosom cradle of what makes you cry.
    You know you need to leave and you know why.
You don't do what you want to do because it's not what you must do
  but what you must do is what you want to do or you whither;
yet you're distracted by what Else says you must do, telling you
    it will take you to what you want
  and this long in, it hasn't.
        This is my problem.
        I need to have faith in you.
    I can't forgive you for that pathetic hug,
    afraid you were in trouble, meek as a kicked puppy.
                                 My God.
       I was stealing out for adventure, You must come!
    and I took you.
  In the end the decision was yours.
    She gave you those eyes that said You're disappointing and
distracted from what you need to do with words that told you
The decision is yours in a tone that quietly judged you, and later,
        she gave you her breasts that she may comfort you
    for your disappointment in yourself when you cried there
                                for not leaving;
  that you may lay your head and weep for following temptation
  again, rather than the finger of your soul, pointing, saying
  Go! Why are you still here?
And I cry for your spirit that fades and will tell me later,
  like others have, I wish I had.




Devastation when
expectations are not met,
yet they never
matched in the first place.

This is my own fault
for misunderstanding.
I can't blame you for not
following through with what
we talked of for years.

Spontaneity combusts
only sometimes. More often for some
than for others.

Some need added effort to bursting doing; you, when offered help,
instead, accepted running water
and blankets. Spontaneity smothered before
the friction of activity even warmed.

This
must be
my fault. The
problem, certainly,
is mine. I am the
scoundrel, with no goals
to support my ambitions.
I am only ambitious.
I'll leave you alone. But no,
I need to needle you more.
No. I know it won't help.
How then to steal you out
of that cozy
stranglehold
asphyxiation
nearly comatose?
Let's attach for you
a purpose to support your goals, then
maybe
you can
support
your
Ambition
and spontaneity can prove itself some sort of worthy.

Eye to Eye

i never meant to hurt you i know you never meant to hurt me
so why don't we speak anymore
we just don't see eye to eye
big man don't cry
and neither will i

you never know how it will go till it goes
lets not judge the paths each other choose
we just don't see eye to eye
don't pass judgement big guy
and neither will i

all your invested time is not for naught
and all my lack of direction don't mean i'm lost

i can only guess what you're doin and for me you only hear through the grapevine
well maybe we'll reconcile sometime
we just don't see eye to eye
but big man if you try
well then so will i

Barfly

She wears a lovely dress, patterned in checks, double-lined squares a variation on plaid, something argyle to it. She wears a light fabric black top and her brunette hair drapes over her shoulders.
He leans in, talks loud; not shouting, but quick, and he wants her to hear him. He dons a sweet smile, several days gruff, red shirt, plaid with cream and blue, a solid tie, black-rimmed glasses. His short hair he parted on the side.
They talk like this is their first time to hang out. Get to know each other; and she is nervous that they met at a bar. She doesn't want her face to turn red from the gin and tonic he bought her.
He talks about music he likes, that she should hear. She will. He gave her a mix CD. This is going well, he must think. She likes the gift.
He's sweet, flattering, preppy and handsome; talks about respecting women. He loves that she laughs. She drinks slow. He has to keep his voice wet with all his talking. His drink is low.
She asks a question. He answers, then explains.
He asks a question. She answers, then he explains her answer to himself, out loud, leading to another question, or how he answers his own question. Boys are funny this way.
He leans on the table and pulls his chair closer. Their knees are close. She reaches for her phone now, out of her purse, nervous? This eases the spectator's mind, which began to fall jealous, watching, thinking, What about my chance to woo her? But if she isn't so interested, as she seems, distracting herself, then all is okay. Although the one watching this scene doesn't blame the guy for his efforts. He's seen the girl's knees, legs, and since he started watching, she has turned her head, and he saw her gorgeous face.
Her leg swings and she brushes her hair behind her ear. She may be less interested now. She talks more now and the spectator lets himself think that she does so she can gain his attention. Boys are funny this way.
The spectator, halfway through his own drink, halfway through his starved day, watches closer now; looks closer to her legs, her figure, the breasts that hold themselves up beyond the profile of her arm that faces him; looks at her hair, and her ear that holds it back; wants to brush it back for her, rub her smooth cheek; make her smile.
The boy in red talks about a second drink. She doesn't want more. He compliments her frugality.
Words run low. He starts to sing the song that plays, then realizes "Satisfaction" is not a good karaoke number on a first... does he call this a date? Does she? He stops singing and talks more.
They talk about leaving. He says that's a good idea. I have things I should take care of, He says. He would stay all day if she would. The spectator knows.
She says, We should go out again. She's being polite.
We definitely should, he agrees.
They stand up. He gathers the glasses and follows her out.

Curiosity

I love who I love, however,
I want to explore the intricacies of another.
I want to roll my fingers over hips and ribs,
under the crease of breasts.
I want to see dimples in the small of the back,
shoulder blades, the spokes of spine.
I want to discover
what makes that body move in contortions of pleasure.
I want to hear the voice and feel the breath as whispers
"I want you" into my ear.
I want to know what those lips do against mine;
what that tongue does against mine;
the uses of that mouth over my body.
I want to go on an adventure,
rollicking through bedsheets,
smiling and moaning, with a stranger.

This is My Country

This is My Country

This is my country: well-dressed, unimpressed passers-by.
This is my country.
I don't mind.
This is my country:
You want free bagel?
    It's free.

This is my country: hear it.
It sings frustration and anger
and, on a good day,
sings
'Howdy, Neighbor, Howdy!'
and shares water color conversations
 over glasses of lemonade.

This is my country:
pleas, prayers, and anthems.
This land is your land and mine
and theirs,
owned and operated by
businessmen
and their hired labor.
Sounds equal.

This is my country:
sidewalks trod by
many generations of
my country before.
 A dollar to the minstrel boy.
   Keep the faith.
   Thank you.

This is my country,
divided 50 times over
and sub-divided evermore;
red on blue.
Neighbors nervous to say hello
cut glancing eyes away,
look down and walk on;
dog-tired dirty bums
greeting anyone who sees them;
   angry homeless men with their dogs
 tired of being ignored, wanting
 someone to look them in the eye;
someone who looks past their demeanor,
to find them at their aching heart.
This is my country: hoping for justice,
believing in freedom,
forgetting community.

This is my country:
a pulse
that quickens and slows
and forgets so quickly,
distracted, that
i need you to hope for me,
and, you need me to hope for you;
forever waiting
for Tragedy to remind us
that we are not so different;
that we are together always;
that we need to slow our egos
and entitlements
and quotas,
and take a little time
to share a glass of lemonade.

Spring

I am watched by Spring. That is all.
Her contented lips never smile;
her brow never condemns;
her cheek forever rests
in thought on her forefinger.
She wears a floral garland atop her head
and she watches. That is all.

Spring listens to my song.
She listens. That is all.
Her lips remain contented, approving;
she never excites
and never scorns.
I am shy with Spring.
She refuses to judge anything I say,
which means I get no compliments.
She waits for me to impress her,
 that is all,
so passively genial
and interestedly unconcerned.

Her gaze is aware of nothing in particular,
but everything,
so she sits contentedly airy
as if she herself was her own neckerchief
blossomed out of a bare tree branch
and freshens in her breath.

I could never invade her by talking,
but she doesn not mind to listen.
She is not firm in form,
yet she is of every way unshakeable character.
Too graceful for delicate, and, too delicate for stubborn,
nothing could ever disrupt her.
She is eternally her own.
 That is all.

Albuquerque

My body once wet with oils and sweat,
now dry as the bones within it;
my skin now itches with blisters and rash;
dusty eyes, caliced lips.
Love once poured as a fountain does,
poured and overflowed.
The well run dry as the climate around;
dry from desert and wind.
Forgiveness once sprang forth from my heart;
once lept with joyfull embrace;
now lays idle, a coward, deep away,
refusing to show his face.
The man who was has gone away quick.
I never saw him take his leave,
but he's now far gone and all that's left
is an arid skeleton of me.

Dunce

In the corner,
one 12-watt bulb, one wire,
one glass.
Slide.
Saunter.
Misstep.

Your life is the dunce cap upon my head.

Go on to the next room if you rather.
I've something to say:
    Dogs dig holes and discover.
    You dig holes to die.

Am I lost?
Words are images, paintings speak to us, what we taste is what we smell, so,
What the fuck is going on?!

Constant itching of flesh and desire.

You wear a hat to cover your greasy smile.
I'm in a dunce cap and I'll be here a while.

Widening Night

The land is separating and the valleys deepen;
desire remains frantic
as desolation sits idle.
   Brenda keeps busy folding
   Daniel raises the lanterns.
Night turns in; and the land is separating.

The music turns until the needle is removed;
the mind becomes oblivion
and Tomorrow is suddenly Yesterday;
   Today forgotten,
   Brenda folding.
Night turns in and the land is separating.

Daniel lowers the lanterns at Le Fin;
light towers rotate like a record waiting
for someone to remove the needle;
   Day broke.
   Sun lingers.
Night turns in; valleys deepen.

Card tables, towels, and t-shirts folded.
Candles, incandescence,
and the moon are raised;
   Daniel turns in for the night.
   Brenda replaces the needle.
Oblivion mind, Night turns on; light towers beckon.

Desire shattered like a record, desolation is a needle;
the void widens and Night
turns into oblivion.
   Brenda, busy folding;
   Daniels lanterns are low.
The land separating, valleys deepen.

Train Ride

She's seen in glancing moonlight through trees; in flashing tunnel lights through train windows, you catch a glance of her jawline in light blue light, her lips, flush in purple, pouting, disappear. She looks straight; her eyes are wisdom. You want to know what she thinks, looking forward, blinking slow, breathing, her nostrils flare with her breath, hands in her lap, knees together, feet together, under her seat; you want to know what she's thinking, but truly, you're afraid to know.