Don’t speak in questions,
my dear.
It makes one think you don’t have any statements.
And, after all, you don’t really need
our approval.
We know what you mean,
without the squiggles.
Monthly Archives: September 2019
The story
Someday soon,
by chance foreseen,
I may be on the roadside,
with shaky and doubtful thumb.
Hoping to connect to anywhere.
Fearing to squander the story
that my Lord has yet to write.
Over-sensitive
Fresh red road stain
and I don’t know who it was that bled out
in sudden surprise
seconds left of innocent life
and that’s how it works,
this sadness.
Always falling when you come calling
Slate grey bird
high high up
sails slowly and grandly
skimming the underbellies of grumbling cloudbanks
Pteranodon of today
we think he summons the outliers of fabulous flocks-
chortling geese bound for southern climes-
the Flying “V”‘s of fall.
The Difference
Clarice awakes,
but her dream abides.
Don’t be offended when she speaks pleasantries,
or not at all.
What you might hear is only a placeholder
for a short story of ten thousand pages.
She’s seen a distant horizon, but can’t get there.
Knows the true names of our colours,
and how to ask questions of God.
In the saga of her sleep,
charging. Unresponsive.
Billy’s Boots
“Be a man.” Yes, they are all men. I am almost ashamed to be of the same species. Great cautionary tale.
Rebirth of Cool, Mod and Skinhead Clothing, Dublin
At night, Billy sits with Brother John and the guys at their WAR house in the Panhandle as they watch the videos of the National Socialist Party. Billy always sits on the scratchy green tweed sofa that reminds him of his Granny’s but Brother John’s smells like earth and rain and the chocolate smell of mildew.
It is Hitler’s birthday. Mother Beulah has made a Nazi cake in the colors of the flag. She sets it on the oilcloth. Her arms are exposed and giggling like Granny’s. He imagines them soft to the touch. In the center of the sheet cake she had written in a thin chocolate scrawl: Happy Birthday, Hitler! Mama Beulah has arthritis and her hands weren’t steady but Brother John doesn’t fault her.
Billy gets a corner piece of the cake, where the piped chocolate icing has bunched…
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The spirit is willing
The ghost plans a jailbreak.
Pinpricks of itch are felt in unscratchable places.
Toothpicks to the temple-
bookmarks of dying dreams.
Figurative fingers squeeze the liver, now the spleen.
The heart and the brain begin their acquaintance.
Give it up.
Give it up.
Are you talking about that little girl that was murdered?
Leland,
she was yours
by accident of birth.
But your stunted love
sprouted to garish green jealousy.
Control was all.
Sully her
so she’s no good for anyone.
Then consort with Bob
to kill her for what she’s become.
May you char on a slowly-turned spit,
and heal each day anew,
in Hell.
Poem up at Spillwords.com
Dismissible
The ones that speak softly,
blushing their diffidence
without fakery.
Waiting out the loudness.
First, sometimes last, to leave.
Speak when spoken to,
unless principles, passions arise.
Uninteresting, dismissible, no fun.
We won’t remember you,
and may not invite you back.
Aremyfeetofftheground 