Weary Tombstone Blues

There are days that exist, when the grave begins tugging
On pant legs, and reminders abound that the chilled teeth
Of some nights will leave more than just the body cold. Those
Are nights that Plath’s warm oven answer begins to make sense.

These are the times when an Angelheaded Hellcat blazing a blue
Streak of frenzied chaos, and a Giggling Fountain of Youth whose
Crooked smile holds more laughter than a million mischievous
Monkeys, take time to tug at my tired bones, marching arm in arm
Across the world. Away from the chattering of neon lights melting
Plastic Kens and silicone Barbies, out past manicured neighborhoods
Housing slumbering victims who sit staring blankly at screens,
Glimpsing vacant, make-believe lives far more real than theirs,
Up onto over-traveled highways beat flat long before Dulouz
Became legend, and we have Cash preaching the virtues of walking
The line while the old Chevy hangs on and labors for breath.
Wild eyed adrenaline-fueled rides always ending flat on backs, resting
On grassy hilltops, watching as the unseen hand of God
Tattoos brilliant freckles on the negro flesh of the universe.

These are the nights, lying between two old souls who spill
The unspoken secrets of unknown tomorrows, glossing my eyes
With a fresh coat of paint, keeping tombstones at bay, and Death
From pulling on my coat about an appointment left unkept.

V

Their voices were wild parrots. Diving
chittering narrowly missing the other. Chiding
back only to drown the other.
His was a cannonball. Rumbling
in from a distance bowling through obstacles.
Her's a vanishing mist, there and then gone.
Together they were a hammer and anvil. Dropped.

Why I

Cash and Watt both taught
Sing each song in your own voice
That's why I woodshed

Pantoum

It was the fall of youth, and I was drowning in cider.
Roiling in the riptide were reasons for ending lives
that belly scraped at her feet along with the rest
of a self absorbed humanity cheating at cards and spouses.

Roiling in the riptide were reasons for ending lives.
We tightroped through awkward glances and sweaty palmed silences
of a self absorbed humanity cheating at cards and spouses
celebrating premature divorces and Vegas weddings. Everyone breaks even.

We tightroped through awkward glances and sweaty palmed silences
when finally a fractured union agreed to die out warring in civility
Celebrating premature divorces and Vegas weddings, everyone breaks even
shuddering in an unmarked grave. Danced upon by boots.

When finally a fractured union agreed to die out warring in civility,
she was an olive branch sharp as a spear. I was a wrung neck dove
shuddering in an unmarked grave, danced upon by boots
of her malnourished band of tin can chorus boys.

She was an olive branch sharp as a spear, I was a wrung neck dove
that scraped at her feet along with the rest
of her malnourished band of tin can chorus boys.
It was the fall of youth, and I was drowning inside her

Hooky on a Thursday Afternoon

The little towhead raced his shadow to the end

of the wooden pier. His father,

thin legs and decks shoes, followed and whistled

a tune he’d never heard, noticed

the heat that poured down through salt spray

the dozens of fishermen lining the railings

the pair of pelicans that silently waited for scraps.

The little towhead leaned over and loosed a ball of spit

watched it sail in the wind

join the sea.

The little towhead took his father’s hand

pulled him to the ice cream shack.

Kobenhavn

Just before the hour where the

exhaling sky deepens into darkness

it pauses to match the harbor’s hue,

match but not mirror. No,

the stilled waters have the power to

stretch and pull

lights of waterside taverns

reds yellows and whites

to elongate masts that have slipped

in for the night.

We slip from rented rooms to hear

words we cannot speak raise toasts

to those we’ve just met.

Hush

The young mother watched from the window. Watched as her daughter pumped thin legs to pendulum herself higher into the blue morning. Listened to the small saucer-eyed girl sprinkle waves of giggles across the back yard. Wished she could feel the digging of knobby knees when the child monkeyed onto her lap. Day dreamt again the days just after the crash. Days when her husband held her close, whispered her name. wished her husband home. The door remained shut. That last night he had smiled, told her he was going out. Going out to buy a pair of mockingbirds.

Old News

Big backyard

apple tree

chain link

runs around the edge

house is battleship gray

corner lot

tomato garden

yellow dog

chicken coop

streetlamps at dusk

mayonnaise jar

washed

label stripped

search the dark

chase fireflies

before summer is

gone

We Speak

Meals allow the expression of unspoken,

choice of drinks or hour of repast suggest

where verbs might be bent and nouns omitted

Pinot slacks jaws into relaxed conversations

while saki brings too loud joy to the table

and soda is the prater of carbonated filler.

Beyond this it is salt that does the speaking, creating

a tablecloth of silent agreement. Full wristed shakes

mean hell will be served before desert while

a pinch or two is nothing more than mild annoyance.

I bend the tines of my fork

squint into the bright brunch sun

and she knows what I mean

challange weakly met

Tom flipped over the palm treed postcard. Neon "Wish You Were Here". His wife's laughing script; the little restaurant with the ahi is still here. Hal and I are having the second honeymoon we never did. Wish you were here. That's what he missed, his wife's sense of humor.