Holy Mañana

Everything smaggle-spratted

Along that blessed lane of

Crazy eyes and goner real estate

With the running girl, running mad,

Running in circles

With her hair following behind

In a close second

While the father of someone who you used to forget

Digs his life and digs out a grave

For himself

In the day after day after day

To the monster purr

Of a motorcycle

Then stops to watch

The little boy skate by

With baseball bat ski poles

That carry him through the floating years

Of hooligan smiles

And ice cream pie rewards

For a good deed well done

Before the tugboat flies

And the fireworks shower ashes

Upon them all.

Combat Zen

Sitting in the midst of chaos

In the lotus position

Trying to ignore 

The battle and the shakes 

And the thunder of the debris

Scattering and blanketing

In dust and plaster and fear

Ignoring the societal crumbling outside

And the trepidation on the inside

Peeling back the tremors

That coincide with the world

Through traces of a blue sky, blue mind,

Blue visions embanking

Support of an inner river

Bringing the satiating peace

That pours out before

Being swallowed through

The fangs of death.

scratch (for friend? for brother? for lover?)

Would that I could reach

but the air, too thin

and the bridge, too long

and the skin-thin veil of this present world

(this present, current world)

(this layer of life-onion in flesh-tone thunder)

the skin-thin veil of reality

(the current reality)

does not permit my trembling touch

(my nerveless grasp, one day)

(on that day that the chill dews glisten)

the trembling touch to relieve and to soothe

ignite and burn

with open mouth and breathless word

to be the balm

The veil pulled back and

pale skin flushed

a shallow grave

marked with a dry, force-fit acacia

force-fit

forfeit

never forfeit

trembling touch pulled back and the lion's paw held tight

blue is the starry-decked heaven

blue is the vein

blue the heart

eternal the burn

Girders and Gusts

The gray dreary industrialist

Clamors to hang on to

A breath of fresh air 

That never arrives

With the current,

Only a cloudy hangover

From a glut of excessive thirst

And hunger for one last nickel bolt 

To hold it all together

Before he rusts 

And crumbles and fades 

Into another era’s dust of a memory,

Her ghost arrives with a sparkle and a spritz

To generate one last quiescent charm

To spark a white hot regeneration,

But the shivers numbly pass through the cold ambivalence

Forcing her to gasp and move onward 

As she passes through Gary.

Verve and Nerve

Spicy rancid lilacs

Removing the sweetness from the day

Mixed with the chicken fat, chicken grease fried smell

That makes him gulp and swallow the morning

Face the unwanted obligations

As the sun drops blind through

The reflection on a shiny cane

That hits the pavement with a thud

And yearns for a hand carved

Sleek, polished walking stick

That he will never see

Because of the wretched

Sweet and bitter

And the noise inside the silence

Cannot be contained within

That fragile eggshell

Of a life that wants to escape

And move on to a greater destiny

An impromptu bouquet

Of color in galvanized buckets

At the storefront

Under the striped canopy

With a shopkeeper that smiles

And hums a wistful tune

But it’s always a mixed bag

With the weeds in the cracks

And the rancid oil in the air

Getting more notice than the

Shopkeeper’s pure white apron

And the hospitable invitation

For a cup of the intangible.

Impressionist

Nobody’s hero 

Don’t believe a word of it

Nobody’s angel

Just a broad on the lam

With a good luck streak

And a charm in a tattered pocket

Keeping on the right side of the wrong tide

With an accidental good intention

Never been a role model for anybody

On this side of the universe

The garbage pickers of the underworld

 

May glance sideways

Only to find competition 

For that cement shoe fitting

With some rhinestone toe clips

And a halo made of someone else’s

Drunken alley delusion

The shattered neon is

Just a buzzing distant reminder

Of some other irritating soul

Like a sad clarinet

With broken trill keys,

Without a reed,

Nothing of quality,

Cheapening the dream

With no cloud and no sheep

Just a frayed bat-wing sleeve

And a constant smudge of mascara

Across a porcelain veneer.