Gravity

May 2, 2009  :: 0 comments

If an apple
had fallen
upwards
hitting a mockingbird
in its belly,
would Sir Isaac Newton
have simply laughed
instead of pondering
the weightiness of life on Earth,
and the development of a theory
that turned the world of science
upside down?

Pimpin’ my Muse

featured in the poetry forum May 2, 2009  :: 0 comments

Sittin’
and sippin’
Black Tazo Tea latte
in the outdoor Internet café
the one in the bad part of town
I give ‘em all
that come hither look
through my laptop screen
but sell myself
only to the wealthy,
the prestigious ones
who beg for my
pithy assets.

“I don’t come
cheap, friend,
but if you raise your
offer
we could make it
work.”

Deal done
contract signed
the message disappears
into cyber space
a binding oath
with subliminal repercussions.

Perhaps as long as months
or as short as a few days,
digitized or in pulp,
I get all tingly
inside anticipatin’.
Adrenaline pumps,
heart beats
fast
faster still
until the public
finally sees me
. . . naked . . .
in prose.

Then . . . the moment passes.

I return to my lair,
hunched over
like Rodin’s The Thinker,
light-up a cool menthol
and start anew
to sooth
the savage
in each of us
or excite
the dullest
of the bunch.

Okay, I admit it.

I am . . . a whore.

I am . . . a writer.

One For the Road

featured in the poetry forum April 11, 2009  :: 0 comments

Trains provide both
sleepers and coach seats
to stowaways with dreams
of roads that lead somewhere
to anywhere
but here.

In the boisterous club car,
a reborn
born again
recalls tales of Hell’s Angel days,
war stories of death, mayhem
passion, psycho-analysis and visions
of a higher power
and the end of all days.

I
listen
without notice
and seek out the loneliness of the night.
Through the windows to the world
of high plains and misery
I pray for mercy
from his pickled brain ravings
and retellings
of his truth
that is easier said
than heard.

Sampson,
the pig-tailed muscle man,
shake hands with his brethren
and takes to the stairwell
before bumping aside the young one
in tighter than tight faded jeans
that I wish I could touch
even though
the girl
is young enough to be my daughter.

As the car hits rails
junked with rocks and snow
the redhead falls hard against the stationary table
and yelps like a scolded puppy
before I pull her to safety
with my strong arms
and soon afterwards
into my bunk and army hard cot
as we listen to
the clicky-clack
to the paddy-wack
of the rails
through gin-soaked words
where somehow
she finds a place in my heart
I thought was
dead.

For a few moments
I’m sixteen again
in the backseat of the parent’s
Mustang convertible
in the drive-in theater
where all bad boys and girls
played Russian roulette with love.

When we finish our games
and dawn pokes out in the horizon
she speaks of school,
a better life,
and excuses herself
for her next stop
on the sunrise highway.

We kiss the newness off
before she disappears
down the private car for the privileged few.

As I follow her
with my eyes trained on her rhythmic movements
I realize that crying is for children
who never have enough candy.
My sweet life
is one for the road
and the little voice
reminds me
it’s time to move along, move along, move along…

Poetry

featured in the poetry forum April 2, 2009  :: 0 comments

What is it?

Who composes it?

Undoubtedly
someone
or a cadre
craft words,
xxxrhythms,
xxxxxxrhymes,
xxxallowing us
xxxand forcing
xxxme
to reconsider the images
xxxbeyond the text
xxxxxxthe graphic
xxxand interpret
the dark from the light
xxxthe evil from the good
xxxxxxthe mundane to the sublime
whether it is written in old style feathered pens
xxxor scrawled in blunted pencils
xxxxxxon the pink padded walls of the asylum?

Days, weeks, or years later
xxxtheir insane raving
xxxxxxor common sense notions
xxxeventually hit me
right between the eyes
xxxbecause
xxxI
xxxseldom hear
xxxthe sudden impact
of the chords of a fruitful melody
xxxthat once were scrambled egg thoughts
xxxxxxtranscribed into parsed emotions
xxxleft for dead on filthy bus stop benches
by the bards of our times,
xxxthe ones in each of our
hearts.

Wild Oats
(Ode to the Mr. Ed TV series, 1961-66)

April 2, 2009  :: 0 comments

“Hey Wilbur, why did you place the sign,
Horse Motel above my stall?”
the conversationalist
asked the grumpy owner
who shot evil looks to his long-time pal.

“Well, Ed, its time to pay the piper
or it’s the glue factory for you,”
the middle-aged, sweater-wearing architect
replied nonchalantly. “The way I see it
for the past five years
you’ve had three squares a day
not to mention
all those sugar cubes, apples, and carrots.
I’ve been the green grocer to you
and how have you repaid me?”
Carol cried and cried last night
and why? Because I spent my honeymoon
in this cold barn
instead of a nice, warm, welcoming bed
because you had colic.
Our neighbors,
first the Addisons
then the Kirkwoods,
suspect I have a screw loose
because I always cover for every one
of your cockamamie schemes.”

The Palomino kicked at the ground with his front right hoof.
“Wilbur, would you cover me with a blanket– it’s chilly in here. And if you wouldn’t mind, a cup of tea would be nice, too.”

“See Ed, that’s what I mean – I get no respect!”
Mr. Post screamed . . . before tossing
a scratchy red, green and brown Indian cover
over his tenant’s back.

“Then give me my freedom,” Ed replied angrily.
“I love rolling hills
as far as the eyes can see,
green pastoral meadows with yellow dandelions
and pretty fillies
who thirst for conversation
from a horse of a different color.”

“Ah, I see where you’re going with this
my four-legged freeloader.
To you, friendship is a one-way street.
The real world
would eat you alive – much like what all
old horses are good for – served up in a blend of
Purina dog food,” the cranky owner huffed.
“So make your choice – stop manipulating me
no horsing around, and let me ride you
three times a week around the park.
Deal?”

The chestnut mare leaned over the stall door,
nuzzled up against the man’s face,
whinnied, and nibbled at his earlobe.

“I was just kidding, Ed –
I never would have sold you to the dog food company.
Heck, your meat is so tough no dog could gnaw through it.”

The next morning,
a distraught Carol Post found
her trampled and bloodied
husband’s unconscious body
near Ed’s stall.

The stud was no where to be found . . .
unless one looked far up into the lush hills
where he held court with several wild equines,
eating dandelions and sowed his
wild oats.

Living the Dream

April 2, 2009  :: 0 comments

Deep purple rings
under each blackish-blue eye
extenuates my punch-drunk, prize fighter’s face.

I’ve fought and lost
too many set-up matches for real contenders
in life’s bout with fame and fortune
but no one lays good money down
for an HBO or Showtime
cable rendition
to watch any of my battles.

To tell the truth,
I wouldn’t either.

The reflection in the mirror never lies,
unless I the glass
that aluminates the horror
from the slave laborer
who works another day
for another miserable dollar.

“Break’s over – get back to work!”
the tyrant shouts
to the flock of sheep who fall in line,
rounded up by dogs who herd them back
but not into greener pastures.

In my job, I don’t need the man
to supervise
the hosing down
of the inside
of a dairy truck,
work that always makes me gag,
sometimes puke my guts out.
With temperatures in the teens tonight
the vomit will quickly crystallize
unless I spread it thin on the pavement
so I wash the frozen meal remnants
into the gutter.

I wipe the sleepiness from my open eyes
and examine her exquisiteness
besides me.
The girl, the new desk clerk, the one from Amsterdam,
displays tattoos from her motherland,
needle tracks,
in the softness of her thighs.

Annika asks,
“What do you do besides work the graveyard shift?”

I pause before answering,
entranced by the blueness
of her eyes,
and imagine myself skydiving
watching the curvature of the Earth
while falling through the clouds
and the twilight horizon.

“Don’t you remember, at the bar, I told you
I am a chauffeur to the stars.”

She wipes the seed of sleep
from the inside of her tear duct
before squeezing her legs
around me waist, above my boxers,
and I imagine myself a lobster,
red, boiled and about to be cracked.

“Who was your last client?”
she inquires seriously before giggling,
and tightens her grip,
forcing what’s left of my air out.

“Eddie Murphy – he drove through
on his way to Albuquerque.
There’s a production studio near the Sandia’s.”

I breathe again.

She lets me into her world.

And I thank God
Hollanders love Hollywood.

“Break time’s over I said!”
the man in the rubber soulless boots
shouts,
then kicks my ribs,
as I rest, face down,
on the concrete near the sewer grate,
my arms fat pillows for nearly frost-bit cheeks.

Though rudely awakened from my slumber,
I once again
thank the almighty
for dreams
so much more rewarding
than my so-called
life.

Not Quite Right in the Head

featured in the poetry forum March 17, 2009  :: 0 comments

Why does the young man
xwith Turrets Syndrome
xxspit, curse and shout
xforcing the old women on the street corner
to recoil and run for safety?

Why does the senile dog
xwith a limp
xxgrowl, bark and chase
xthe mail carrier only
performing her daily job?

Why does the teenager
xdiagnosed with AIDS
xxslit her wrist
xbent over the sink
xone hand in cold water
xxthe other on her belly
xrubbing the protruding toes
of her unborn baby boy?

More importantly
xwho elects to write about the incidents
xdefending or condemning
xxthe acts
xof mental
xand physical
atrocities?

The Savior?

The Sinner?

The Doctor?

The Lawyer?

Who has the insight
xplacing flesh and blood
xfor the meaty, tasty appeal
of human or animal suffering?

The Absolvers?

The Manipulators?

The Healers?

The Litagators?

The tellers
xof the stories
xxby pen
xby tongue
through airwaves
xelectronic media
and entertainment arenas
are they the experts
xin their fields
xor are they simply
xthe ones
who are truly
not right in the head?

What’s It All About?

March 17, 2009  :: 0 comments

“It’s quite a simple process,”
the astrophysicist-turned-lecturer remarked to the class
as he wrote the multi-step equation on the blackboard
while the coeds and their admirers
watched from their balcony seats in the college auditorium.

“You don’t know ass from Adam, do ya boy?”
barked the football coach
who stood atop the tackling sled
while his pupil drove the potbellied one towards the sidelines.

“It’s more technique than leverage or strength, honey,”
whispered Lisa, the former strip tease artist turned campus entrepreneur,
as she guided her handsome, hulky, blonde virgin
in the finer arts of romance
while wrestling in the backseat of a Pontiac Bonneville sedan
in the secluded area just outside the campus front gate.

“What is thrust?” the instructor nervously repeated to himself.
“By nature, it’s a reactive force
described quantitatively by Newton’s Second and Third Laws
and occurs when a system expels or accelerates mass in one direction,”
Dr. Keller replied to Amy, the nerdy front row student,
as he pointed to the example cited in the text . . .
although no one in the peanut gallery seemed to be paying attention
to the good man’s not so subtle crush
on the best pupil in the course.

“It’s a simple process, son, if you can get it in that thick skull of yours,”
bellowed the blow heart who turned a deeper shade of purple
as he leaned into the first-year linebacker’s ear
while the 300 pound freshmen turned a brighter shade of red.

“If it’s done properly,
it’s like dancing under a full moon
in the middle of the night, ”Lisa added
as she wiped the boy’s brow clear of sweat,
as they both swayed to the music
while she held his torso close then pushed away, then close again,
until the complete list of favorites ended on the mix tape.

“Can anyone give me an example of how this force
can be used in a man-made situation?
stammered the man with Einstein hair
after he crossed his arms and pondered the intelligence
of the perplexed audience in the mid-west, state run school.
Amy answered,
he smiled,
and continued his talk until
the clock clicked ten till the hour
and the mass of bodies – tall, short, thick and thin – jammed their way outside
in anticipation of that night’s Valentine’s dance
in the student union.

“If ya don’t move your man off the line, he’ll kill our running back,
understood, numbskull?” the athletics coach yelled
as he grabbed the chin strap of his prized pupil’s helmet
before spitting out tobacco
on the young man’s cleats.

“That’s it, good, rock the baby, rock the baby gently,”
the veteran vixen breathlessly moaned into the freshman’s nibbled ear
as his thrust produced liftoff
and the two jettisoned cargo into the stratosphere
in Professor Keller’s new car,
— the one he always forgot to lock.

At the end of a two trying semesters,
the Ph.D. from Cornell
quit – citing a lack of passion for teaching mostly nincompoops.

The linebacker coach was also sacked
by his rookie
and the school
for immoral behavior in the men’s locker room.

As for Lisa and her lover in Dr. Keller’s Bonneville?
They’re now proud parents of a bouncing baby boy.

And that’s what the poetry of motion is all about…

Bon Appetite

March 17, 2009  :: 0 comments

Five hatchlings
secured by nest
in the corner of the run-down
adjacent buildings’ overhang
chirp for mother
and bob their over-sized yellow beaks
every time the camera bulb flashes
against their darkened sanctuary
hoping it’s their provider come back with their daily bread.

Below, a tiger-stripped feline
crouches, anticipating an early supper.
but the starling returns to the nestled crib,
and the thief backs away, submitting to
fierce, dive bombing attacks
of a mother protecting her young.

Around the corner of the alley,
the town canine with protruding eye teeth
poises for the chase
as its prey darts out
into the winding, narrow street
until
the grocer chases Fido,
scolding it in words ill-suited for children’ ears.

After a well deserved nap,
this business owner strides proudly
across the cobblestone to the pizzeria
before his customers flood his store.
Pesto sauce dripping from his chin,
the veteran of many a price wars returns,
views the plentiful, the bountiful, the buyers
who check, double-check their Rolexes
ready to negotiate
satiate their cravings
as well as their children
who cry, whine and scream
for ice cream
or a suitable replacement
for mother’s milk
in a time not so long ago forgotten.