POETRY

Box Office Slot

emerging
corners
conquests

we seek to rest in yesterday’s sun
we linger and lounge after the race is run
we picked the winners, but losing is fun

arrivals
departures
gateways

we lost all of what we know in a summer’s storm
the hands that cook dinner are the ones that keep us warm
in the midst of old secrets dying, one breath is being born

callings
schedules
seasons

lovers collapse in the arms of freedom captured
crows and car-alarms announce morning’s arrival, enraptured
and the traumatic aging of the day is seasoned with laughter

and we sit and we watch
from our box-office slots
in the morning after

This Small Version of Now

Everything happens “now”.
The Attention Span is “small”.
This Small ….

(as if you know what you want …)
You grew up around the block
on some different corner
but you didn’t really grow up
and all your friends
who were not really your friends anyway
all left for college or took a different train
and now it looks like rain
or it doesn’t quite feel the same
and you’re stuck with one curious umbrella
but you’re self-conscious, and get soaked instead.
and through foggy glasses, everything looks like home
but you feel so very alone
(is that friendship up ahead, or just a different colored bed?)
and you know they want your money
but it’s looking kind-of funny
like you’ve been playing “monopoly” too long
and sold Park Place for a song
and you still don’t know the Real Estate
where you belong
because all Life’s Love
is hidden in a simple song
(and that song is inside of you)
but the broken cookies and colored balloons
spoke too soon

and so, your attention span is small.
“This small”.
(as if you know what you want …)
This Want.
This Voice.
This Train that goes nowhere …
Except Home.

Everything happens “now”.

Parchment

Skin
Home
Mostly
Music
Rocketman
Goes to the Sun & Gets Lost

Rocketgirl
looks for Rocketman & Gets Lost too.
On the Plaza of Dinosaurs
Time works slowly on Stones
Nature has no coffee
Small Brains assemble Molecules
we’ve never Dreamed Of
Tadpoles lie naked in the sun
the crisp Jewel of the Alligator’s Eye
remembers Infinity
and the Loose Garments Of God
flap in the wind like flags
of a country we once knew.

The Righteousness Of Mountains

The Righteousness of Mountains
Is that they talk only to the Sky
and they pose with God
for Naked Photographs
And they don’t listen
to your whimpering and complaining,
nor do they care that your
Pussy named “Santa” died after
17 years of spiritual vacation
pissing on your living-room floor.

The Righteousness of Mountains
is clearly expressed
by visiting Volcanoes and
Erratic Earthquakes who
Keep the Landlord of Time
on his toes as he harvests
yet another crop of wary
human souls.

The Righteousness of Mountains
outdoes your Suntan once again,
as you confide with Buddha
your uncertainties and pain
about your registered retirement
savings plan and the spiraling
stock market as people you love
die of cancer and your Kraft
Dinner burns on the stove.

The Righteousness of Mountains
echo in the dark
one hollow voice that will save
your soul as your grow older in paradise.
You lost your teeth climbing
your own rooftop, but the Grandeur
of the divine screams louder than
your dentist’s drill, as he removes
the final cavity of blindness
from your third eye.

Stop Making Sense! Make Dollars Instead!

Thinking Is Sideways
Knowing Is Up
Silence is Down
Rivers are Brown
Tulips are You
Money is Perfect
Mothers are Green
Children are Leaving
TV’s are Obscene
Growing is Livingroom
Leaving is Chance
The Baskets are Square
Unless you live in France

Many are Few
Sudden is Strange
Home is where Heat lives
Heart is out on the Range
Dinner is Dancing
Cocktails are Dressed
My life is my Sofa
My Cat is Depressed

Thinking is sideways
Knowing is Best
My socks are all folded
Inside my father’s chest
Weather’s impending
We think it will snow
Grampa’s buried on the farm
where lilies & apricots
Suddenly grow.

Now Then Here You Are

now then
here you are
dressed in blues
silent as salad dressing
examining the dull notes
your mother left in your
dry cleaning

have you no other sanctuary
than your fallen dreams
your artistic crumbling future
your dead relatives
and dying friends

life is rising to call
not the dead from graves
but the living from their caves
and the lying from their sleep
and the lions from the sheep
and the thirsty camels
who fell asleep
at the empty oasis

now then
here you are
awake at the wheels
of a brand new car
listening glistening
like a bright falling star
the journey of dreams
gives way to the
pathway of life
to cut free from illusion
you need the gleam,
the Knowledge,
the Knife.