Sunday, November 29, 2009

Poem for Sunday, November 29, 2009


Pink Christmas

tree
with a phallus
on top:

2 shiny silver spheres
1 erect pseudo-star

decked with
tinseling garland
beneath
pink lights

(budding little phalli)


* * *

we played
strip trivia
preluding an

inevitable streak

I could've
outran
all the reindeer

(even Comet)


* * *

have a
very
sexy
Christmas

and to all
a good night

Friday, November 27, 2009

Poem for November 27, 2009


Eid al-Adha

We sat down on the ground like brothers and ate with
our hands. Lamb shanks gnashed between ivory
teeth. Rice from a single plate scooped
up, squeezed in brown, yellow, and white hands.
Fruit for understanding.

We saw the world in that small room.
Arabic, Kazakh, English, and other languages
reverberated above our makeshift tablecloth--
a thin sheet of plastic.

"You like?" Mansour asked, mid-meal.
"Oh, very good," I said, smiling.

We sat down like brothers and appreciated a
sacrifice. How God, Allah provided
for Abraham's hungry children:
pilgrims, Indians, and Arabs alike.

Memo and Hussain offered me a fork, but I
graciously placed it beside me.
I chose to not be an American

but simply a human.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Poem for Sunday, November 22, 2009


Business Meeting

After my second or third screwdriver, I sold Connecticut Avenue to
my friend for three hundred dollars.

It was a terrible investment to begin with; the snake-eyed dice told
everyone to pass it by. The car piece sped through. The train piece
choo-chooed away. It quickly became the ghost town of the board, unfit
for nothing save a tumbleweed.

So, I sold it. And as soon as I did, everyone bailed themselves out of
jail and started landing where? Connecticut Avenue. The thought of paying
twenty-eight dollars to rent a space I owned two minutes ago made
me want another drink.

I made another drink. I sat back down, and decided there was no way
for me to win the game. Feeling victimized, I went into a financial frenzy,
liquidating my ass(ets) like madman who wanted cash and wanted it
fast. But in the end, the bastards busted all of my trusts and left me
without a paper dollar to my name.

Our business meeting was finally adjourned, and I don't plan on
visiting Connecticut Avenue anytime soon.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Poem for Thursday, November 19, 2009

This one's for two special people whom I love.


Try Again

you could have had the little boy
sitting in the photo studio
curly red hair with eyes like a fawn
playing with a rollercoaster abacus
"whoosh!" he screamed and down
spun the blue bead on top
of the yellow
you could have had the little girl
who imagined she was part of the
picture she was coloring
so she'd be dancing with a green
elephant in front of a
blue-yellow-silver-pink carousel
deep in the jungle or
you could have had both
but what you got was the
realization
try again later
try again in the future
try again down the road and
again spin
round and round
like the little boy's abacus
the little girl's carousel
(don't you know it's
going to be
beautiful?)

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Poem for Sunday, November 15, 2009


Good news: all the files I thought were deleted (including my precious Word docs) are intact! I restarted my computer, and everything just appeared. Although I wasn't terribly heartbroken about losing them all, I was pleasantly surprised to have recovered them.


To Angus

Last month, my grandfather turned ninety-four years old
from his mahogany casket engulfed in the earth.
I was not there to wish him a happy birthday

but his neighbors, a war vet and a teenage boy with auburn
hair, told him for me through rearranged atoms and
eerie autumn breezes.

I loathe that cemetery
because it has swallowed my ancestors, washed them
down with rain and frost, regurgitated them as weeds

and it lingers close by to take more, even me.
I am more than chiseled limestone and marble.
I am more than artificial flowers on the fourth of July.

More than dirt and bones and the nearby tree
reeking of cat urine.
We are all more than death.

My grandfather--he a was jovial, beer-bellied fisherman
with Moby Dick tales that
I was never able to hear.

Friday, November 13, 2009

Poem for Friday, November 13, 2009

Before I share my poem, let me say that a virus deleted all of my pictures, iTunes library, and Word documents. This, of course, includes all of my poetry, fiction, and other writing projects. I have coped with this well, and I owe most of that to Tim Snediker for encouraging me to do this blog; most of the poetry that I'm the proudest of is on this blog. I didn't think I'd ever depend on work put in the public domain, but here I am.


Palpitations

a cigarette stained with pinkpearl lipstick
lays in the ashtray to my right
I can't help but think of love and
how gorgeous the world
is and you there--
the wind suddenly
picks up
I feel palpitations and for the first time
the sky
is my friend

Sunday, November 8, 2009

Poem for Sunday, November 8, 2009


Russkiy

is the only way we can communicate, it seems. You're sitting in a
cafe, tapping the tile floor with your pseudo-leather boots (I see
this in my Moscow dreams), and your coffee is cold. Watching
bundled-up pedestrians blurred by window frost--are you
begging for company? The barstools aren't swinging. The ash-
trays are clean because you can see your rosy cheeks in the glass,
and you notice you need a haircut and your earrings are too flashy
for this side of the
street.

Zhingshina, I whisper to you through the vent up above.
My presence is presently strong (I want to you to be warm); I can
see you through the window now, but you can't see me.

Friday, November 6, 2009

Poem for Friday, November 6, 2009


Warsaw

coasting southeast down I-40
        I was waking up from groggy backseat dreams
when I saw this 18-wheeled beast
        a tarnished white truck out of Warsaw, IL
I thought of the Poles first and how
        the driver could be hauling kielbasa
to some fried food Epicurians

picking up some speed to pass
        poetry books weighing down my lap
I clenched my fist and angled my elbow
        bobbed it up and down with force but
the driver stayed straight-sighted, no honk
        heeded to the trucker code
this wasn't an emergency, just a curious kid

thinking back, I never saw his face
       he rode open window with his left arm out
wind-kissed and faded fabric
        a regular Joe on a mission to
truck stops with apple pie and pay phones
       then on to deliver those tasty
Polish sausages to Bohemians and rednecks

       thinking back, I never saw his face
       but he wanted to escape        that town
       he'd had his taste of Warsaw and
       Warsaw was raW

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Poem for Tuesday, November 3, 2009


Bodhisattva

Harpies flyin' south too tired and cold
       to harass the immoral Greek warriors
       engulf a majestic oak, gold-yellow leaves
fallin'
        down, one by one
our ground's no longer green but
we still tread it

Look--

I've been sustaining on rice grains
fruit and a swig or two of
        dharma each day

can I fly with them
        yet?

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Poem for Sunday, November 1, 2009


         Slump

Old man watching from a wheelchair
in a church parking lot surrounded
by bronze foliage

November is a month of slow-motion and
quiet drives down residential streets

I drive, and my stomach churns
from gin mixes and a screwdriver
generously tabbed by M.S.
at last night's pagan party (I wore a
kilt but had no bagpipes)

my tires slump along at 30 mph
tumbleweeds with hissing axles and

you couldn't pay a man to
play a decent song on the radio today
fingerprints and static
the toxic sensation of greasy hair
armpit odor permeating my interior

slump slump slump
old man critiquing my existence

the leaves are pure salvation
crunchy shades of lipstick and fruit that
fall together
in a natural brotherhood guided
by breezily impatient time

time awarded me another hour
to squander and wonder

why the old man tames the leaves
what a lukewarm shower will feel like
trickling down my back