I
choose
to read
books by those
whose ebullience
transfers from pen to page, whose prose
engages in a dance of wit and wisdom, challenge
and camaraderie. Not for me the moot, mournful,
mundane, the argument obtuse,
or worse, fallacious.
Find reason,
truth, joy
through
books!
No gas or spark
hard to swing my legs
from the covers
if I could say clog
as a mood I would
great knotted bundle
dark greasy matter
blocking the flow
of clear clean water or words
The sweltering sun succumbs to sudden storm,
I can read like Bukowski would have done.
I don’t have to put the bottle to my lips
or make cynical remarks about
getting paid to get drunk and read petty feelings—
You live any one place too long
and feel miserable enough, disconnected,
that in time the feeling eats at you,
hollows you out, and infests you with small pockets
of obligation like branching cysts as years accumulate.
I am just Bukowski again.
Everything I love is
just entrapment and in the thick of things,
I will be the one to do myself in
knowing no other can stop me
despite branching cysts accumulated
to bridge that gap between our
artificial distancing from
existential loneliness always lurking at the end.
I am sorry you will never
gain the prestiged needed to
be awarded my unwavering devotion—
So stop all of your emotional blathering.
The binding nature of familial love, attachments,
and all other modern caste-systems other civilians
feel they need for safety, identity, and stability
do not ascribe in the same ways to me.
Out of the early fog
things start shape by color
to discern themselves
the wood fence of a neighbor’s yard
mailbox, trees, a chipmunk
Birds begin to morph about
A white plume
of astilbe
At the end of morning’s sleeve
a hand
my hand
I try to purge you from my heart
by writing all these poems.
But your absence is an ache
that will last forever.
What we couod have had.
What we’ll never have now.
And you haunt my thoughts,
the long lost lover
who got away.
The one I should’ve been with.
My first kiss should have come from
your sweet lips.
I try to push your memory away,
but you’re still in my heart.
One more ghost.
One more special person
I let go of.
But I can’t let go of you.
You’re always going to be my dream lover,
loving me only in my dreams.
Would I trade this feeling
for the heartbreak of certainty?
I miss you,
even though I don’t know
who you are now.
I’m always going to wish for
impossible things
whose time has passed.
You’re never going to hold me
the way I want you to.
And there was a beautiful moment
when both our lives could have changed,
and I let it pass right on by.
It was a wonderful time
when I felt close to you,
but now it’s gone forever.
If you ever come back for me,
I’ll be yours in an instant.
But if not, I’ll just keep
dreaming of you.
You’ll wake in a sweat
Who will die
Who is dying
Who is dead?
Apply deodorant before bed.
Your jaw will be sore.
Massage each side.
Try an ice pack, some ibuprofen might help.
Most likely you’re grinding your teeth.
You could be clenching your entire body
To prepare for what is next.
Fat Farmer Floyd’s
Rickety Roadside Ramada
-plump prime parsnips
-crispy killer kale
-bountiful bunches broccoli
-ruby red radishes
-cool crunchy cucumbers
-tantilizing tangy tomatoes
-big broad beans
-colorful cleaned corn
-plentiful peeling potatoes
-strong superior squash
-organic opulent okra
-perfect pickled peppers
-exquisite edible eggplant
Please give peas a chance.
Sticky ziplock bags
dragged out of a cardboard
box-filled freezer
which sits beside
the half stocked shelves:
oreo crumbles, pre-whipped whip,
stale m&ms, and milk.
So. Much. Milk.
Lines of ball fans
growing exponentially; Machines
freezing quicker
than the ice cream;
Cherry juice flying
sprinkles glued to my neck
melted sweets groping
my arms—
inevitably coating
the pay pad—
all amounting to swollen
ankles, tired
wrists,
and globe sized eyeballs
belonging to
the littlest boy
underneath an
oversized aqua
blue bucket hat
as I place
a souvenir helmet
stacked way above
his lifted eyebrows
with a well earned
treat
into his tiny grasp.
