Posts for June 11, 2017 (page 2)

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My transcendence is replenished.
Forgiveness does not diminish
The essence of a man,
Famished from the demand
Of guessing where it all began;
Something none of us will ever understand.

But as the sun comes up, we are all blessed.
Inhale good air, exhale bad stress from your chest.
If you’re depressed, it’s OK.
We’re all there someday,
But your time of life is running out,
Forever playing runaway.

I can say I’ve had those days, but these days,
Much better displays, got me feeling saved.
Recognized how I can help the world before the grave,
Ups and downs accumulate before the final crashing tidal wave.
Relax your face, create something great,
Do not hesitate to take a stake in the future’s fate. 

Go out on a nice date, engage in heated debate,
Quit that job that takes up all your time & hike in a different state. 
Yeah, yeah, I just want a way out,
A place to make a turnabout and call a fuckin’ time out.
Contemplate existence: wonder what it’s all about?
Life is a hole that I’m just trying to dig out. 

Just because I’m sitting behind my desk,
peeling aluminum wrappers off kisses,
savoring the chocolate as I would words
of a poem,
do not mistakenly think
I cannot write.

Just because we sat in a booth
at the Magic Wok,
having finished our buffet meal
& read our fortune cookies
& laughed like the fortunes were hilarious
& the other diners stared at us,

none of them seemed to have a clue
that we complete each fortune
with the words in bed.
I read mine aloud to you:
Your smile will tell you
what makes you feel good in bed.

You smiled & read your fortune aloud:
It could be better,
but it’s good enough in bed.
That cracked me up.
The waitress came to our table
& gave us two more cookies.

Even the kitchen staff came out
to hear us read. You read first:
Your fortune must be read aloud
to come true in bed.
We laughed like tickled kids.
I opened my cookie.

The waitress cautioned:
“The cookie must be eaten
for the fortune to come true.”
That reminded me that I always eat mine,
but you never do & neither of us ever
use the numbers to play the lottery.

I read:
Never give up unless defeat
arouses your companion in bed.
I whistled. You were silent
for a moment & then we laughed.
We got up. I paid the bill & you left the tip.

The dream starts with tornadoes,
dozens of them descending
at the same time, all around,
from a sky the color of a faded
black eye. It always begins
like this, a shifting landscape
of rage without refuge or
escape that doesn’t end
until I wake up.

Today was a good day.
Hope rode in on her shiny hunk of steel
with charcoal metallic paint
interior dark as night and almost-new smell
techno gadgets galore with fancy buttons
engine and wheels to take her anywhere
and
not a deathtrap with a steering wheel.

Today was a good day.
Dreaming for more
replanted
settling for anything and less
recanted
a chewy chunk of debt and responsibility loom
but the rich taste of encouragement explode
into a million tiny tickles
on the taste buds of confidence.

Today was a good day.
Hope rode in on her gleaming smile.

So for me, today was a good day.

Snaking down the Kentucky 
On a riverboat 
Rare moments 
Of feeling like we’re somebody 
Sunburn settling in
To already rosy cheeks 
Smiles as broad
As the river itself
Curious about stilted houses
Wondering why 
It has taken so long 
To do this

Later at the hotel,
Live goldfish glide under
The glass topped bar. 
Taylor is delighted 
At cookies as big as her head

Without love
words stumble
the day begins with a headache.
Hands grasp
but come up empty
and the heart is burdened
with the disquiet of unseen servitude.  

Without love
nights are numberless
and never enough
but with love
the day never ends.  

Voices taunt from the mountain top,
Not echoes, or Whip Poor Wills, 
Not ancient mysterious ghosts. 
Noises pound inside a mourning mind
Hammering the skull, dimming reality. 

Pain one cannot touch or stanch, 
Vacancy not visible or palpable. 
Empty kitchen drained of warmed air,
Broom gathering cobwebbed trash
Pans neglected on cold burners.

She was sick, alone, hungry for release.
I was jealous, greedy, holding a dream. 
Why was there no warning, no place to hide? 
Death’s sad secret held from the living. 
Would we give up too soon, ruin the balance? 

K. Bruce Florence

I fell asleep on the bus to
Mayden, two-hour ride on
cracking pleather seats that reeked of
cigarette ashes and stale perfume, 
my face pressed against the hot,
then cold, then hot window
that had fogged by my
unconscious breath,
little smudges where my eyelashes
accidentally flirted with the glass,

when I woke it was
damp outside,
bus window open wide like
begging dogs’ mouths,
the chortle and chug of
belching black smoke from
rusted exhaust pipes
had rocked me to close my eyes
and somehow relax,
and I did,

and when I was done
I kept my eyes open like the bus windows but
it was just as dark as if my eyes had shut,
only industrial lights on the
front of the bus
cutting through the black,

I was supposed to be home at
six,
but when I checked the time
it was nine past nine,

and I sighed like it would clean the
smoke and perfume and exhaust from my
lungs, 

and I closed my eyes,

and I let the bus ride. 

Expectations
Can feel like
Waiting for rain
In the middle of a drought

Some might pray
For a roaring storm
Whereas I pray
For a single drop

That way
There’s only one thing
That can disappoint me

And I’ll never have to tread water
Because I dont float
And I dont feel like drowning