Mystical synchronous lightning bugs
on the top of my bucket list. 
Electrified excitement. 
I ran outside last night,
to sit in the dark,
holding by breath,
mesmirized,
by the
glow. 

my muse field 
                                  left unsewn 
a Sabbath for my muse
or turning off the poem machine
as Bukowski would say 

Hey, the muse like you (and me) must rest

maybe just for a night (I hope)
longer if I must
as my days  my news  my pain
minds-eye
camera-eye
dead-eye
mix together
conceptualize synthesize exercise  
what I wish to say

fertilizing the field

‘Til then
here’s to the muse
of an empty
poet

I stare out the window of my car. 
There’s glass there, 
But it’s so clear, 
That there’s nothing for the light to catch between me, 
And the things I stare out at, 
Which all blurr together into one thing as I drive past them,
And become one reflection in the window pane. 
When I stop, 
I like to look out at the still world, 
Look at how far I’ve come, 
Look at a world that isn’t blurred by motion, 
Or obscured by dirty glass. 
That’s why I clean the windows every day. 
There’s a gas station I stop at, 
Where I find suds and water. 
When I wipe them across the window, 
The glass turns into a water fall. 
It’s beautiful, 
But I prefer when I’ve just finished cleaning, 
And the windows are clear. 

Springsteen playing on the radio,

A hand out the window mimicking waves,

It’s dark out, but still so warm

A light sunburn on your nose,

Which only makes your blue eyes stand out more

We talk, and talk, and talk

It just comes naturally,

Our inside jokes never get old,

I find so much peace in being around you

I wish every night could be like this

Just you and me and summer

The summer days are warm and long
and punctuated with bird song

children frolick in the daylight
not wanting to give in to the night

the light barely holds on
as they try to prolong their fun

As the parents corral their offspring
nature is enjoying the quiet that the dark brings

without the squeals of play
the neighborhood closes out the day

the day succumbed to the dark
with only the stars and moon to mark

the stillness of night promotes rest
until the sun rises with summer zest

Religion is a prison for everyone.

It keeps you bound up inside,

repressed,

shame-filled.

It keeps others out,

those not like us.

We sit in judgment,

blind to our own sin.

Whatever it is

that we want

feels like

God’s will.

Everything

we disagree with

is of the devil.

The bars of our cells

are made of

sturdy Old Testament scripture.

Religion is a prison,

no matter what side

of the bars you’re on.

a quiet cigarette
against the beat of the party:
the portal to escape

misery is hidden, no one
knows the ways we hurt ourselves:
no one knows how we survive

sweet blackberry wine & a carton of reds
we sip up the night & no one knows:
that blanket, those stars, those drugs, you—-saved me from it all

The coffee table featured an array of magazines:
Life, Look, McCall’s, Redbook, Saturday Evening Post.
A decorative ash tray shared the space,
and there was a cigarette lighter that never worked.
Not that I tried it.  

The TV Guide had a special place on the end table by Dad’s big chair.
He chose the programs; I didn’t mind.
He liked funny shows and westerns.
He was careful about The Twilight Zone.
(I got scared by things like Martians.)  

In the closet I kept comic books in a cardboard box
next to the carpet sweeper.
I spread them out and pressed the pictures into Silly Putty.
I distorted them.  

I had to be very careful with orange drink and snacks
because my mom worked so hard keeping the den clean for us.
I needed to remember that  
always  
we had fun in the den.

Cold cutting blade made from steel
It’s made to tear the skin.

Didn’t you know
That your whole life rests
On the cold edge
Of a sharpened knife?

We live in one time, but think in another.
We put flowers down, beside the one cut stone.
My father called
outside, calling all night long, in his voice,
Are you there?
The feeling in the breeze, inside the trees, we were feeling
what you call
                a thing is seldom what it is.
This song and no other. Listen.
A whippoorwill, years distant
                                                    through the paneless glass
the last night of his mortal darkness.
                                                    It falls, as through blue breeze
of sea-wind-
warmed currents, loose galaxy,
the cool layers, the sifted light
and fell as stardust into his sleeping mouth
where he lay down and breathed
                                                        no more.
Good night, night bird—far off—through the high pines—
If it were so simple as getting up again.
This life and no other …