. . .. 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.