Poem 58

Kennedy Barnum circus markets
Instilled in us the value of deformity.
Insuring the home against fire
Does not make it fireproof.

Landing identity side down we
Jockeyed through dawn on stems
Broken from dorm dust daydreams.
I heard the learned astronomer gasp.

Legibly printed bandit hybrid letters
To the chief editor have yielded
No responses worth mentioning
here in the poem’s third stanza.

We atheist when the failure of faith
Echoes off coffer box taste buds.
I atheist lists of things that have daily failed to grab my emotions,
Fraudulent dramas, network circus cocktease injuries, celebrity pledges and hedges trimmed too close and now my neighbors sin is mine.

Kennedy Baghdad infield bunts
have blunted the wits to avoid stupid.
I agenda even the smallest daily ritual,
habitually seeking audience with empty chairs
in restaurants no one eats at anymore.

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poring over an etching
in a cool museum archive,
the artist’s hands touch mine
over the vast space of time
and it’s been so long since
someone held them,
they tremble.

you call, breaking the spell.
i am so surprised that
i let the phone ring
until the song fades,
the ringtone drops off,
the room becomes quiet again.

i put the print back in it’s drawer.
it’s almost lunch time.

i wish for a long life then.
a long life because i don’t want
to be in a drawer, waiting,
across space and time and silence
to be held again by another.

i return your call
on my way to the car.

Poem 57

piecemeal, i put myself together
from scrapyard leaflet poltergeists.
am i substance or drain water.
do i exist or consist of mists.

 

we broke something in the world.
we broke something in the world,
and it broke something in me.

 

my skin, foe leather, stranger garb.
i discover me in a yorick lawnscape
a fellow of infinite jest,
displacing investigations i flee,
climb a flag pole with no flag.
i was too aloof, now i’m absent.

 

i broke for the woods too soon
i left the house burning.

in the shadow of notre dame

in the shadow of notre dame beside the river

i watched as machine gun tour guides passed

the pickpockets and the weary pilgrims.

a baby cried in the tree lined grove in the

reaching shade of the gothic spires.

papa comforted and mama signed for peace.

accordion street beggars traded talent for cash

on foot bridges above the river and below the temple.

they made euros of their tired fingers.

i wished for a cool breeze in the hot parisian sun

none came but i thought i heard a seagull,

which was really just a pigeon looking for love

in the deep shadow of notre dame above the river.

Poem 56

i am spoken of in hushed lullaby,

a cautionary sunday psalm.

 

i made a move but it cost

lost, the stream too full to cross.

i am blue inside like a blueberry pie.

 

i felt heavy in my faith, a boxer ducking too late,

an appetite too big to be sated,

the last nagging nerve grated,

a broken phonograph erased and a tire deflated.

 

i spoke and no one echoed, 

lassoed an empty chair and waited 

like a dull knife in a drawer to be sharpened

i became alone and a stranger in my skin.

a kin to those who can never hear again.

 

i am empty sky, blue, blueberry pie.

Poem 55

weed bittered wind devils degrade the scenery

as we dine on wound down clock parts skyped from

inside the guts of the night we last felt light in our skins.

 

hell is made by people who want you to hurt for being yourself.

 

i just made a fridge magnet poem from the gravy boat sky,

it sucked as much it sounds like it should,

only good works are made by the righteous now,

and we dine on the clock parts which have

wound down from nights as bastard sized

as the eyes of a japanese monster trying to raze the crazed city mazes

that are navigated by touch, taste, sex and mutual affectation.

Poem 54

i don’t recall anyone

i’ve seen the soul go out of

sobbing for things unbought.

 

i remember machines

churning out minutes,

doctors immune to loss,

faceless nurses enumerating

breath and pulse and fluids.

 

not a single amazon order.

not a last great trip to wal-mart

no car commercials

no radios tuned to top 40.

only cooling hands,

fluctuating vitals,

memories filling in blanks,

desperate, unheard prayers

to the great sponsor in the sky

and no receipt given.