Commerce

December 7, 2013  :: 0 comments

For red-striped notoriety
And shopkeeper recognition

Not always guaranteed
But more likely indulged
By the clout
Of one’s credit card

© 2013

Earthward Plummet

December 7, 2013  :: 0 comments

There’s an eagle
Talon tethered
To a rotted roosting perch

No place to play
To the safe crowd

No one watches
Nor cares
For a fizzled out
Failure of foisted fears

Packaged and imputed
To predestination

© 2013

Cold Turkey

featured in the poetry forum December 7, 2013  :: 0 comments

Cold turkey is a bitch
For the addicted epicure

Take away the wonder
Of art
And all that’s left

Is bug infested mattress
And cold cinder block
Walls

© 2013

editors note:

Is this a case of being sick and tired of eating yesterday’s chilled leftovers? Or, perhaps the public’s palate has been spoiled by processed sustenance disguised as art? Either way, their fat belly’s are rumblin’, their hungry mouths are open, and their cold, steely knives are pointed at you! – jo

Running from a season while chasing a muse through a mall

featured in the poetry forum December 23, 2012  :: 0 comments

She disappears through the doors
while I’m still trying to find
a parking place

Her sweet scent wafts
around the kiosk
“You are here,” it says
I think that debatable

A fat guy philanderer
smiles at her recent depression
left in his lap
I decline to follow suit
suspicious of his red & white motives

A shop keeper gives me
a receipt
says she left it in her hurry to elude me
didn’t say what she bought
but, there are two zeros in the total
and the last four digits of the credit card
are mine

A choir sings standing
I glimpse her face
hear her voice
harmony hangs reverberates

Look again into every face smiling
but, not hers
not anywhere

I am here
apparently, she is not

Might as well shop

editors note:

On the 11th hour of Christmas, my true love gave to me… a trek to the mall, a dash for a parking spot, a map of the madness, a scent of perfumed gifting, an impostor in a fat suit, a Xmas caroling choir, a gaggle of grimaced faces… and a receipt showing all the damage done! ‘Tis the season… – jo

Chocolate Fate & Pinball Circumstance

August 31, 2012  :: 0 comments

OK, I’m sitting in a restaurant at Trudeau Airport, Dorval (My ignorance abated by the patronizing smile of the bus driver who informed me that Dorval was Trudeau—how am I to know these things?). An enormous piece of chocolate cake, on a large white plate, criss-crossed with drizzles of chocolate syrup, is before me. The syrup drizzles are surely arranged …

a christmas pome

featured in the poetry forum December 25, 2011  :: 0 comments

the fool considers
the construct of the season
myriad noels
god rest ye merry
ad infinitum
yuletide eternum
ever glows the fire
heating the outer chromium shells
of jingling bells
dangling jangling from the nape of the neck
of harlequin
covered in black and white checks
yin and yang contrast
twixt blindness and sight
holiday opulence
or occasion for thanks
we make the choices
annual opportunities
to be numb to the game
or look around differently

the fool embraces
the good and the soft
the kind and the caring
with angels aloft
fair messengers singing
a heavenly tune
rejoice in the notion
the faint possibility
that one day a year
can proliferate multiply
into every and always
and peace on earth
good will
good will
good will

editors note:

Why do we limit this feeling to only once a year? Let’s make everyday a holy-day! Come one and all, let’s put on our jester hats and be enlightened fools! Peace on earth… can it be? Who knows, perhaps someday… – jo

Rapid Eye Movement

October 1, 2011  :: 0 comments

Just on the other side
Of all this levity and celebration

Is nothing

A throbbing silence
A heart beating down
To stillness

Jubilant voices
Echo back to dumbness
Before the idea
Before the utterance
No breath
No thought
No
Thing

Just on the other side
Taps the finger
Muffled ticks and tacks
To grab attention
To remind

We tip toe through our reverie
To let awareness sleep

No susurrant snooze
No dream
No waking
No
Thing

Daddy’s Steps

October 1, 2011  :: 0 comments

Aw, Mom
What can I say?
What can I do that would justify
My behavior to you?
I’m just runnin’ in Daddy’s steps
Dark passion and rigid adherence
To rules of propriety and proper deportment
This is the way
I know it, I walk it
In social circles I talk it
The right way masks my dark obsessions
Those black proclivities
My indulgences
Matching step for step
The trails that Daddy trod

You don’t know
Could not accept
The paths he trod in his dark days
Of aimless youth
His pursuit of gonad directions
The frivolous fruit
Daddy’s compulsion
His hot pursuit
Is mine, is mine, is mine
I know him now
Better than I ever did
We have morning coffee conversations
Over eternity and survival
And belief in the cult of “One”
So now, more than ever, I am Daddy’s son
Step for spoor for trail to track
I walk the path from so far back
That I can feel his father’s rejection
A seventeen-year-old’s perplexity
Over what to do
Where to go
Who to trust the way to show

I watched him
While chain smoking Marlboro reds
He crying, rolling on the bed
I was seventeen

Still pristine
Still grasping, gulping, taking all I saw
As mine to be
This world existed for my pleasure
Yet, Daddy cried and howled and convulsed
“Don’t leave me alone,” he begged
I was empty, impotent
Unable to encourage
The icon that could turn my bowels to water
With a disapproving word
“Don’t leave me”
While I had nothing to give
But smoky, 8% tar and nicotine exhalations
You expect me to know or understand
When all I can think about is getting high
Or getting laid
Popping my school-boy cherry?

Aw, Mom
I have the same addiction
The same desire for acceptance and recognition
The same uncertainty
The same intimidation
“I will bury you with a soup spoon”
My exploits are greatness
Like Beowulf or Alexander
My legacy is the steel of soldiers
Who shed their fear and doubt
Who lock and load
And scream defiantly in the face of destruction
Then retreat to the bottle or the needle or the spliff
Or the bottle recedes to the news bite
6 o’ clock monotone
Take your ease, America
For your safety is ensured

Mom, this was Dad’s path
I walk it yet
I can only hope to fill
Those footsteps
With half the weight he carried
I follow his trail
Experience for myself his travail

For I am weak as
Strong as

Full of ideals as
Loving you as
Hoping I can trip by
The grand inquisition as
He tried to be the best as
True as
No patience for the fool as
Cantankerous as
Don’t fuck with him
By driving slow in the fast lane as
He could be

Honest to the end

Mom, I can only aspire to be half as good as that
Walking in my Daddy’s steps

© 2008

Run On

featured in the poetry forum October 1, 2011  :: 0 comments

I’m gonna spill a lot of words
In rapid succession
Articulate angst
That everybody feels
Say out loud the imperative
Not Now!
Not Me!
Not Here!
Not Ever!

Ever goes the swing and sway
The spit-fire words of
What the Fuck?
You wanna do that here?
Now?
Without a net?
Extempore?
Without preparation or education
And research?

Shoot syllabic spider webs
This is connected
To that connected
To you connected
To the unraveled
Unorganized orgasmic obnoxious
Run on sentence

Sentience can’t be proven outside of anxiety
And honest introspection
Spin on spill out
Prophecy forsooth
For who can tell
What happens next?
Elbow to elbow hip to hip
To drop and drip
And scoop up circumstance
To dance
And look askance
At you reflecting me
In your private pupil agony
No worries no waste
No hurry no haste

The peace will come
In time in time
The peace will come
For you and for me
And for some
Running on
Running fast
And stopping never

© 2008

editors note:

Yes now! Yes you! Yes here! Yes… always! Oh, and a big ol’ YES to never stopping! We gotta keep on running on ‘cos if we stop we just might drop. Hats off to poetry editor extraordinaire MH Clay for spilling a lot of wonderfully mad words upon us all. – jo

Thanks
<24Nov10, ThanksEve>

featured in the poetry forum November 25, 2010  :: 0 comments

I’m thinking about this T Day
This Thanks Day

Thanks for this
And thanks for that
But not much giving
At least as much as we get
ThanksGetting

So, this little gift from me
To say, Thanks for all I’ve got

This world of expressors
Singular confessors
Atoning for what they see
And how they see it
Casting their pearls
Towards me

That’s remarkable
Truly thankworthy

So,
Thanks!