1996, POETRY, Talking with Broken Objects

Tonight I can write

Tonight I can write
of craters blown open deep
into the crust of my heart,
of a hand reaching out across the green,
of words,
flung by the explosion out into the evening sky,
rain down upon the ground
filling the caters,
forming sink holes, booby traps,
for me to step and fall into,
as I pace about my 12 by 12 room apartment.

Tonight I can write
about love,
about the fleeting moments of the sun set,
who’s bright rays grasp up over the horizon,
just before the sun disappeared,
about words as amebas,
filling the air of my existence;
so I can but breath the love
I‘ve tried so hard to forget.

Tonight, I can write
of lips and eyes,
of fingers and toes,
of parts I’m too shy to talk about,
and of how it was forged into a pillar of salt
which taste was so bitter
to the touch of the tongue and lips,
that I repelled it off the wall
watching the pieces shatter,
fall about the floor
and regroup to stand before me.

Yes, tonight I could write,
but the tears
seem to make it all incomprehensible.
So I laugh, raise the pool stick.
“Off that rail, then that one,
around your ball
to chip mine into the corner pocket.”
“Yea, Right.”
“Well at least, I can try.”

1996, POETRY, Talking with Broken Objects

Talking with Broken Objects

Talking with Broken Objects
I’m reflecting upon the coming day
as I examine the new moon.
Delicate gray hairesque filaments and bands
transpose themselves into clouds;
and when composed,
they patiently carry themselves across the horizon.

I ponder what you want to talk about.
There’s a bit of a nervousness romping about my stomache.
In a way, I’m excited, nevertheless a bit scared.
What would I talk about?
I would have to embark upon the trail
by talking about broken objects,
walled hearts,
and leveled siege towers,..
I would have to talk through a mouth full of mud,
about the earth turned dark in the shadows of tall concrete buildings
and black tar rivers of cars transposed across the landscape,
and drunken Mexicans shooting off fireworks
and trash, and teenage whores.
What I have met and crossed are not to be memories,
nor paintings of picturesque dreams,

The lesson learned: enjoy each day as if it the last.
So let’s not sink deeper,
let’s not fillet the corpse;
because I do not have the slightest inclination of what to say
discord erupted into languish and apprehensiveness;
and yet what do I find on the worn mattress?
The face of life sleeping under black blankets.

POETRY, Talking with Broken Objects

Return to a City

La Nina steps in from the south,
infiltrating a cold undercurrent.
The streets spring up with water,
black tar rivers wantonly advance
through the concrete glass and steel man-made mountains.

I could smell it. The Rain.
I knew it would come.
I had closed all the windows,
smothered my bed with plastic
to keep the water, while I slept,
from making ponds in my eyes
and a deep lake in my mouth.

“You’re butterflyesque.” My sister commented,
As I talked to her from a payphone outside a QT
“What do you mean?” I asked.

“No matter how tornadic the storm
when it lets go of you,
you always land upon another flower.”

The storm raves outside, wakes me.
Flustered about the water I was taking in
through the roof of my home-made camper top,
I pull the plastic closer about me.

Why have I come here?
To this city?
This Babylon?
It terrifies me.
But I am here.
Here in the city of my birth.
Yet I have been mutated.
Who was I, then?
Was it really me?
Or was it only a dream?

So many names,
so many lives,
so many styles of clothes
so many books, so many people
separate me from that naive trusting boy.

Who would recognize my prodigal face?
For thirty years I’ve gnawed innocently on bitterness.

This city fortifies itself for an Olympic siege;
and for reasons that are incomprehensible
I have come here.

My Friends,
I hear your words:
those notes, which fill the night air,
keeping me company,
as they penetrate through the cracks of this particle board box
I have constructed and call home,

The rain has forced me to remain inside for now;
but I sing with it tonight.
I sing the song of laughter.
I reach out for new friends.
It is hard but so is seeing the moon behind the clouds.
I just have to be patient.
and soon this storm will blow over.

POETRY, Talking with Broken Objects

Moon Not Out

The stars fall back into the clouds,
As I pull myself into the cab of the U-haul.
I look around for the Moon
but it is not out.

The stars flicker and roll past the window.
The passage of time on the road is interchangeable.
Today, tomorrow, yesterday,
the actions are all at once;
nevertheless, the decisions which were made
brought me away from yesterday,
through today, and into tomorrow.

Some of my friends inform me
I am running away from my problems
and they are right, of course I am.
I am running as fast as I can go,
running from everything that meant anything,
the hopes, the dreams, her love
and the memories connected to it:
each tree, street corner,
each restaurant, pool table,
each movie theater,
and each piece of ground
that covers the square miles
upon which the city rests.

The moon was not out.
I could not see it
nor its glow from behind the clouds.
All I could see
were the headlights beaming in front of me,
showing me
just a fleeting bit of what lies ahead.

POETRY, Talking with Broken Objects

The House of Dust and Cobwebs

How I have felt it,
that strange bird called parting.
Its wings stirring up the dust
as I pack the things I choose to keep.
The past clouds up the air,
as wings rip through the cobwebs of perplexity,
covering me in dust and cobwebs.

In this rotting house
our love sprouted from the earth,
pressed between the cracks of the hard wood floor;
not some craving nor want, but attended to.

I think about these things as I wash the dust off
in a friend’s house, because of a friend’s love;
but it is love all the same.
For so long,
I have not understood this love called friendship.
It rose up as the sun
radiant and intense.
Its brilliance tried to burn away the cold of the night,
but it couldn’t.
A space heater in snow filled woods.

I thank the friend, stay and talk awhile.
I must leave
to sleep on floor and couch
in search of another lover best-friend.