Poem for Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Hump Day Melody

A lonely musician perched

atop a stool (a lonely

                       wooden stool)

faced the Wednesday night

crowd

          (20 people; 13 sober)

His silhouette crept

above him in dim

incandescence, eaten and

regurgitated by others'

shadows when they

                           stood up to

                           go piss

"This next one,"

he mumbled, "reminds me

of my father; he's a great

man," he mumbled, "a

helluva man" and

he plucked his way

right into a James Taylor

song

       (they all sound the same)

played

some chords, aroused a response

from a man

He agreed

the song reminded him of

his father also, so the

two drank together through

closing time

All the chairs

stacked

to make room for dust

                                (beneath the tables)

Poem for Saturday, July 11, 2009

Four Walls

My childhood, I

came home to

discover, was

reduced to

four walls.

For eighteen

years, I slept,

played, laughed,

cried, read,

masturbated,

dreamt, and

grew in this room.

(Pale blue paint,

dirty carpet.)

All the holes

in the walls were

patched up, and

all my posters,

certificates, and

decorations were

in boxes.

(Popcorn ceiling,

smudged window.)

The dark oak

dresser, the desk,

and the bookshelf

were in transition;

the bed

temporarily neglected

in the garage.

I just stood,

examined the room

for ten minutes; I

looked everywhere

and saw myself

doing something

there years ago.

(Everything was gone.

Everything changed).

But not

anymore--the

room, the four

walls--were naked,

just as I had been 

many times within 

them before.

Poem for Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Spontaneous Haikus

I. The mural hanging

    spells death and rebirth in gray

    canvas and cosmos.

II. Old jazz plays softly

     from modern technology:

     antiquity gone.

III. When I was in Rome

       a gypsy begged me for change

       her cup was empty.

IV. I talk about life

      as if I died awhile back;

      then, I drink again.

V. The rocky train tracks

     that ran behind my old home

     led to nowhere fast.

VI. The muslim man said:

       Asalmalakim!

       he was not afraid.

      

      

Poem for Monday, July 6, 2009

Hello, Wooden Pot

sitting on my

meek window sill

d  u  s  t  y

casting shadows over

                                     books I've

                   yet to read

I love your symmetry

           your texture

I love your disposition (because

we are so alike!)

your simplicity is far more

attractive than 

jamming

flowers into you or

sticking

jewels all over you

(I know you want flowers;

 so do I.)

each day begins with the sun

tickling your back through

the window blinds and

           my morning breath

           gliding toward you

I am still tired but

I say, "Hello, wooden pot."

each day begins with the sun

telling you, wooden pot

that it's so lonely

          (up in the sky)

Poem for Saturday, July 4, 2009

America, Your Skies!

America, your skies

are

      roaring, clashing with

colors and chemistry

(the blackbird perched on the

 wire was terribly startled)

America, you're two hundred

thirty-three years old

today

        (what would your founding

          fathers say/think now?)

each of your own has

shed blood for you

wept for you

some died for you

we die

when you die, America

Poem for Thursday, July 2, 2009

Talking Over Tea About the Afterlife

I.

One man said, "He'll smite us."

Another man said, "He'll save us."

One man said, "He'll erase us."

Another man said, "He'll save us."

                           and they just kept

talking, drinking

tea in a cafe on the upper east side

coughing

as the pulverized leaves

swirled down their throats

One man said, "Pass the sugar."

Another man said, "Alright."

II.

He wore a trilby hat and

a navy-collared golf

shirt (a little man swung a 

club on his left breast), smiled

Said he, "The worms'll devour us."

Said another, "The spirit will revive us."

the other's face, much less grim

                   (even though it was striped

                    with thinly sliced shadows

              from the dusty window blinds) he

squirted more lemon juice in his 

tea

III.

One man said, "Say he comes."

Another man said, "He'll come."

One man said, "We all get golden capes."

Another man said, "Some get golden capes."

they looked outside

the window

here is what they saw/heard:

                                      traffic on 57th was excessively congested

                                      there was a clamor of horns and swearing

                                      a homeless man had a cardboard sign reading,

                                      "I may be an angel for all you know!"

IV.

One man said, "My first wife was an angel."

Another man said, "She sure was. Still is."

a waitress brought them the check;

the non-believer paid it, asking,

"Can good works get me there?"

the believer smiled, saying,

"Depends."

and then they split ways, agreeing 

next week's topic would be:

                                                baseball

Poem for Wednesday, July 1, 2009

In India, I

sold your soul

on the market streets of

New Dehli (you

                     must

                     forgive me)

a Brahman man

with two sacred heifers

paid me plenty of

rupees and a bottle of

dharma

            mumbled

something in Hindi

                     (or

                      was it

                      Punjabi?) and

I nodded in concurrence

I nodded and

I sold your soul again for

gracious karma

oozing out of a

lonely tree like sweet

melodies from Krishna's

flute

                     (even though

                      he's

                      Hindu)

Hindu

and me

and you