Month: June 2017

the north has to win again

there’s nothing worse than getting
drunk to punch up a great poem but
getting horny instead. you stare at
the page yet the south begins to
rise again. but the prose general
in you sternly tells it to
quiet down! The north wins this
one! and it does for a stretch but
that window you opened in your hot
apartment leads to hearing women
laugh on a patio at a bar just
downstairs. the other window you

opened in the kitchen picks
up the rhythmic chug of a freight
train bobbing up and down on
rails over and over. and you drift off

to a brunette siren with shimmering
shoulders gracing the outside of
straps on a blue dress. a coy smirk
forming on the left of her lips as she is
about to take a sip of red. her smooth
legs shifting slowly to the right; her
neckline plunged and peering into
your wide eyes.

there’s nothing worse than getting
drunk to write but getting horny
instead. I think I have fought the
good fight on this one- it’s
almost complete but then,

I hear a door open in the hallway and
two women share a laugh that bursts
through my door reminding me that
this work is lost and I

am

finished.

cartwheels

there is a young girl doing cartwheels
on a beach somewhere. her hands and
feet taking turns on the dampened surf
driven sand. the

sun beams above, watching. the few
wispy clouds moving quietly to the
east, watching. the seagulls bobbing
in blue tub, watching. the marram
grass on the sand dunes, watching. the
splayed shark eye and sunray venus,
watching. youth and wonder- watching.

lands for the last and turns to
face her family. one busy reading an
airport magazine,the other
dozing with reddened belly and empty
busch can. she sighs and

dejectedly looks down. but with a burst
of confident breath, she lifts her head,
her freckled shoulders and takes
cartwheel form again. she knows who

her true audience is.

that night something happened

my buddy and his wife came over
to my new apartment. I feverishly
cleaned the place up. this wasn’t
a woman that came up at two thirty

in

the AM for some lights out moan, plus
this was my first place, alone. always
a girl or friends but not this time. have
to pretend I know what I’m doing. I
live on some hip little main st, with
hip little bars and restaurants just
steps away so we head out and walk to
the first. have a beer that’s not

on

the menu but now that I’m a regular, the
owner orders a case of model especial just
for me. felt like a big shot. a big shot
with his specialty ordered beer in some
special town with his especially clean
apartment. we laugh and converse and the
bartenders I always see can now believe
that I am not just that weird loner with
a notebook

in

his back pocket. we finish the beers and
head to the real hip joint that just
opened. the bartenders there now know
that I am not that weird loner reading a
book and drinking whisky. It’s a beautiful
thing. I enjoy their company, it’s been
awhile since I’ve had company and genuine
conversation as

it

is just always that weird loner with his
notebook and novel, passing the time
with too much booze.

sham

I live across the alley from the
back of a bar. the window is always
open and
I can hear the dishes being
washed in one of those three
compartment steel sinks. the food
being
sprayed off white plates with a
pre-rinse
spray faucet, the kind that bobs
up and down. the kind that’s
held by an overworked hand. I

am envious of that hand. envious of
the careful eye looking for specks
of spinach or shrimp. ten hours of
this, with simplicity and detail.

I do not wish to have this job
of a dishwasher, well hell maybe I
do, but this envy derives from a
more genuine place. I am envious of

hands that are honest. as the hands
that
type this are

sham.

silent disco

stood with flashing headphones in a
great room- blue. some had green, some
had red. a disco ball speckled the dance
floor. stoned, so all
of this has

meaning. missy elliot get ur freak on
flooded
in. I removed headphones to watch 25 people
all dancing to different tunes while a
shuffle of shoes on hardwood filled the
vaulted ceiling steeple- this is how

a foley artist must feel when adding
sneakers and high heels to some
absurdist film.

headphones back on and I immerse myself
in some early two thousands

absurdity.