Tuesday, September 20, 2016

Love Was Not Meant To Be A Science

Most of all I miss her sarcasming spirit laughter,
acidic and ticklish love screaming
all over my thoughts
my works
my face and my hands
my time here among the walkers, runners, and flyers.

Fingertips trailing from back to chest,
the nails etching their trail between the worn
out highways and walkways that made us
so much more than a metaphor for use.

If there is a thermodynamic equation that explains this,
tell me now so I can write poetry about the Science
of Love and read it to her when I follow her.

They say she'll never know now,
but I can act and dream like that they are wrong.

She'd like that most, I think.

That, and the title of this poem.

Friday, September 16, 2016

The Best Out of Life

Everything's as dry as a corpse ~
she keeps singing to me
as she passes behind her bar...


It's just passed high noon.

She refills my vodka and cranberry,
we talk circus; my falls and flights,
her time in the Fire-Eaters Guild,
I tell her I was flying earlier today
from a green sheet of sweaty silk
hung from a warehouse ceiling
near downtown Detroit.

She tells me she gets what she needs
out of life,
making the rest from what she finds:
truth and lies -
a long drive down the west coast
as the sun beams off water as red
as a subterranean sea of magma.

I find everything I need and then
I find creative ways to lose it.

It's a talent handed down through
the generations.

I tell her this.

She smiles, starts singing again.

The door opens, more customers
walk in, ready to drink Sunday
to the floor with the chewed
gum stuck, broken pretzels strewn
hitherto; promises no one keeps...

So many jagged pieces.

Just then,
smoke begins to rise from the dried husks
of men and women
who measured woefully less.


Thursday, September 15, 2016

Cold Nights Alone

blue and white
the snow falls,
whilst you keep me
in sight.

cool brittle-bright
glow in blue shadow...
no-one knows me,
not tonight.

Gleaming cold dream.
This restless respite;
shine on me well
for through clutching
dark, deathly night chill

I struggle

I fight.


Tuesday, September 13, 2016


Touched her shoulder, her breath caught...
Does desire sing?
Has heart soul?

The door is closed behind me.
Will flame die slow?
Smoldering low?

The light glows like we as we lie...
Is truth this patch-over-patch quilt?
Could guilt fly?

Streetlights through curtains shine white.
Is nothing so fast?
As this, this mother night?

Her mouth speaks soft-winged words...
Should fates' voice be heard last?
If so, is that right?

Monday, September 12, 2016

She Said

"You need a bigger phone."

Yes... I have an inadequate
smart phone screen to the 
more discriminating singles
out there navigating purgatory. 

The night was getting old
but it could still dance.
so I asked for my bar tab 
and paid it, leaving a nice tip 
for Steph because she has
to put up with a lot 
when she babysits 
all the old drunks 
and the young drunks
and other desperate rats
and bum poets
who lovingly infest this place.

Then I stood from my stool
told everyone and no one
to have fun
and walked right out the door,
when I called someone 
who knows it's not the size 
of your phone that matters, 
but how you use it.


Friday, September 9, 2016

On Damp Mornings Near Detroit

I would love it to death if I were a Raymond Carver poem.

Living among the stands of pines, wild flowers, bears, and bobcats
of the high Cascades, the Olympias...

The Columbia River not far over the distant hills the smell of rain
every morning, even in the dim winter sun,

the hoarfrost riming the black trunks of trees
as snow fallen in the chill night still clings
to each finger branch, tendril of a living life,
waiting to become so green that it can't
be perfectly described in human language

but you attempt to do it anyway because
that is as honest and cold and lovely

as you can muster.

Because that's what you keep living to do, even though the end
might see you driving away from a phone call, a failure, a love
in an old car with the windows rolled up
in relentless rain as the windows steam opaque and white

while somebody tries in vain to talk to you,
your thoughts wandering the pine stands
and the high peaks of Cascadia,
or a dark club in the smokey part of town
drinking a gingerale special after hours.

I would also be about trout. And perhaps Lapis Lazuli.

Something more permanent than all of us left wishing we were poetry.


Wednesday, September 7, 2016

Transiting the Mechanized Jungle

Endlessly passing
cars on the interstate
pointed toward a
distant leaning gray-green
where rent was due in
vicodins and
cheap vodka that flowed
like a stream of fallen rain
and cigarette butts
through the gutters.

Cars outside
loud, over-heating
headed toward
Midtown Detroit
Hades, Indiana
Old Port Callisto.

It didn't take her
that long to drive,
and the weather
was worth it -
even if it wasn't
verily pleasant
to live through
at the time.


Monday, September 5, 2016

Innocent Luck

Picked from a shady field outside
Hot Springs, Arkansas.

Four leaves
reside in my lucky back pocket,
and the years since reflect that fact 
in strange relief ~
a still-life moving forward at my pace.

To my family;

my love

my best wishes

as I walk a strange road of my choosing,
without regret dogging my stride,
and I wish I could verily say,
without this 


Sunday, September 4, 2016

Three Days After ("Impossible is Nothing")

Hardest thing you've done this year
was stop looking at her pictures.

You didn't burn them, or delete them,
whatever, whatnot...

you just left them to sit

alone in a folder in the far corner of
one of your multitude of dimensions.

Now you'll never have to fly to Saturn
and back ever again.

The mile can be cracked in under
two minutes if your legs will carry you.

Everest is a fucking speedbump.

Friday, September 2, 2016

Blue Upon Blue

Summer passes with a great gasp;
the gamesome whispers of spring 
coming to cavernous roars,
now dying low to a moan
of unsurpassed ecstasy 
followed by
unwelcome regrets.

This is the way things go:
Each season brings an end
and a beginning to the next end,
until like a statue it crumbles,
gritty dust in the passing of time.

Leaves will change and fall soon,
and snowy ice will cover the land
at the sky's fickle behest.

Cold night will overtake the day,
but that too is only a prelude
to the whispers of a new spring
to come.