featured in the poetry forum June 30, 2009  :: 0 comments

The stop light.
The only glowing bit
of conscience goodness.

Shining—good natured Christianity.
xxxxxHangs like Christ.
xxxxxIts bright red LED.
xxxxxAbove all our heads.

A couple feet away,
cupped with inches of glass
xxxxxa few molds of plastic
xxxxxa few pings of springs
xxxxxare other human beings—

Where are they going?
To get groceries?
To get an abortion?

They’re next to us all—
but we all try to play it off.
Try to win a race in this mess.

Out of the corners of our left eyes, we spy.
Pry into their space.
Be amongst their wrappers and their cracker crumbs.

Do race car drivers feel like this?
xxxxxDo pilots try to peak as they streak?
xxxxxAny astronauts?
xxxxxMen on mowers?

xxxxxDon’t pick your nose!

Pretend you don’t care…
position your arm on the seat, as if someone’s riding stick.
As you peek to see if your mobile neighbor is wearing pants.

As you ponder: are there bodies in their trunk?
Do they carry a gun?
Have they eaten another human?

Careful though

they’re looking

at you too.

Old Folk’s Home

June 30, 2009  :: 0 comments

Home Sweet Home
xxxxxIt swings— Unacknowledged
xxxxxDiscolored, unloved store-bought sentiment
xxxxxUn-euthanized, unsung, enclaved, Depend’s slaves
xxxxxThey’re not mindless just useless.
xxxxxThat’s why they’re in a place like this.

They didn’t do a thing to deserve existence.
Birthed on earth, birthed to lay in waste.
They all have epics to tell, inspirations to whisper.
They were a wanderer, a scoundrel, a hero, a lover.
One knows to craft clay to gold.
One’s caressed an angel’s wings.
All have received age’s gift.

Wrinkled, thinned, pill-trained train wrecks,
will soon be just lidded, buried piles of memories.

He was a legitimate sex god; he now wears badges of bruises,
xxxxxhe now volcanoes with bruises and hemorrhoids.
She was a worshipped goddess; she’s now wholeheartedly dodged,
xxxxxshe now shits in a bag.
An old man
xxxxxwho shared orgasms with Sirens
A cold woman
xxxxxwho seduced saints.
Now, they’re this:
boiling with sores.
Reciting tales to re-used bed frames.

Secrets die with these souls,
sipping substance through straws.
Their stench stains every wheel chair arm-rest.
Their silent call folds you in every sanitized hall.
Rest their souls, they’ll die soon…

We WILL end like this.
Wrapped in piss.
Missing ghosts.

My Grandmother is like this…

so far from the best Rest.
Ascending, out of sight.
away from this bed arrest.
From sharing stories with i.v.-trailed rank rocks.
On the front row—
awing; singing in the choirs of Creation.
xxxxxAll will be seen soon.
If it’s Heaven or its silence
both sneak or sprint
both are at the entrance
closer than all entice

drying hollow in the pine all along with your Almighty
your sane soul will be far from mad mind.

In one breath,
one bowel movement,
or in one microwave supper.
You’re closer to sweet forever.