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.