That is the Question

How often we are

and are not?

I’m not really a part of this,

but here I am being a part.

There may be an absence to recognize,

a detachment, a break.

I may be a fragment of this moment,

lost to the present it resonates,

like the pieces missing

to an imperfect memory.

To be or not to be / not to be and be?

I find myself confined to this world,

this universe,

this page

by beginnings and ends.

It’s as though

human beings

are genetically prone to see everything

in the light of life and death,

up and down,

push and pull

and so on as though

dichotomies are the only thing

we’ll manage

to attach to everything

we don’t understand

until we’ve evolved

intellectually enough to exceed

life and death

altogether,

well after we’re dead and gone.

If we could fly, we’d probably die

off sooner than later. If, in the past,

there was once a human species that could

fly, it would be no wonder

that it quickly died

off in the evolutionary process,

in that natural selection.

Knowing what I know now,

I may have rather lived

the shorter life of that flying man

than the one confined to

two-dimensional movement.

 We can only jump so high, after all.

To fly or not to fly?

Decisions are best made

when they answer themselves.

This often clashes

with the fast-paced

mind set of today,

which may explain why

I’m not a fan

of being put

on the spot.

It is a true testament to my gender

as well, knowing that I will try

to consider every possibility

as though diagnosing it a problem

and naturally attempting to fix it.

It may not explain anything at all.

There is gravity that differs

from the well known magnetic force

generated by the spinning earth.

It’s a horizontal thing associated with circumstance.

You might better know it as “luck”,

or better off as “bad luck”,

where everything you want

to get to in life

has formidable obstacles in the way.

An optimist plays

the romantic

and wants to keep alive

the possibility

that those obstacles will somehow

be gotten over; and all the optimist

call the realists pessimists

because reality often seems

depressing to people

who have their heads

stuck in the clouds.

               

Optimist or not optimist?

Realist or romantic?

Pessimist or not pessimist?

Is there anything in between?

Something different? May I change

the label into something more hybridist,

that better suits my mental disposition?

Will it make the history books?

Reality says “No, of course not.”

Romance says “…Maybe…”

Drift on

and see. Be a part,

not a part,

an is or not is.

I guess we’ll never see

until the end,

if

we get the chance.

Crimson Leaves

Did you notice the tree

with the crimson leaves

across the busy street

next to the bank that’s closed today,

tucked between that telephone pole

and storage trailer and all the filters

of perception verging with skylines

and sun rays and simple gusts of wind

stirring desire to connect

with surroundings trapped

in skies and gravity?

The bank will open tomorrow

and the leaves will change

to brown and crunchy colors,

gathered together by yard rakes

and simple gusts of wind.

Will you ask yourself

if you will change

like the crimson leaves,

notice them across the street

moving just outside,

trapping shadows

of your attention,

moving your to walk along

a little later

and hear the crowded crunching

sound beneath your toes?

Love Like Green and Grey

The doors were green, the sheets were grey,

watching people in a local Wal-Mart,

making cracks about red-necks

and folks from the south, even where were’re from,

and later turning over toe see you there

on top of the sheets, and feeling happy

as though it were something intangible next to me.

The walls were white, the curtains chestnut,

the chairs hideous and we never sat in them,

I jumped on the bed to make you laugh,

you did the same later, and our affection surfaced,

frustration released, we smiled at each other.

Your car was black, the night was blue,

and we’re not sure what love is, and one day

we’ll stop trying and remember this

as all we need to keep between us. 

Angel Day

My little brother’s death day

the anniversary of the day he died,

another moment set in time

reminding his living loved ones

that he’s gone – dead’s the word.

               

My father told the younger siblings

                that he had left,

                gone to heaven, I think,

                but they still cried because

                my father was crying, because

                heaven sounded like every other fairy tale,

                and they knew he was in the room

                and somehow went to heaven land

                without ever coming down the stairs

the same stairs my father didn’t notice

staining with his son’s crimson memory.

Both parents found ways to blame themselves,

to explain what happened,

to conquer the immovable Why

that often plagues us still.

I saw the note but never the gun,

except once years before in my father’s mini-van

as he was taking it out and placing it in a safe place.

               

The gun’s in an evidence locker somewhere now.

                My brother’s ashes are spread at the old farm in Oklahoma.

                I call my parents this day

                every year

                to say

I love you,

I miss him too. 

Unspoken

Man and woman

kind of cute

sitting together

at a long wooden table

facing each other

matching shoes with cotton socks

until they look

at other people

and they keep looking

at other people

matching cups of open cream cheese

and barely diverse looking bagels

ripped apart

by wrinkled fingers

pulling and eating

occasionally touching

and chewing

and looking around

at me

at him

at her

at this

at that

at each other

matching glances

and not a word

between. 

Mail Order?

Sunday morning coffee shop,

there, sitting in front of this bombshell blond -

skimpy shorts, skimpy shirt, flip-flops

with some sort of plastic shiny flower

between her toes, what some may consider

drop-dead gorgeous kind of woman -

face-to-face, an older man -

much older - white hair, wrinkly skin,

those funny liver marks on his forehead,

khaki trousers, button-up shirt, brown shoes,

typical older attire -

sitting at a small pine table

placed in the window where the sun shines through

on one of those occasions where the light

lights the dust flying all about us all the time

often unnoticed, noticing now

they’re holding hands, eye-locked

for what seems like forever, speaking softly, gently

to each other, where the only thought joining

the dust colonies floating in the shop

is that hope that that old man

is her father.

get up

this morning I awoke

drunk

after spilling my drink

all over the sheets

startling the cats

who slept soundly…

dreary, bleary,

rolling around in bed

rolling in and out

of sleep and the blur

between dreams

noting the cool side

of the pillow, turn right,

turn left, back again,

kicking sheets

squashing pillows

against the wall behind

my head

feeling insignificant

a little horny and blame

it on the booze,

or maybe myself,

the spinning won’t let

me decide

it’s hard to get yourself up

when you’re spinning like this

unsure of ups or sides

even waking in your own bed,

and the cats purr sometimes

when you’re this way

and maybe they want you to know

it’s hard for us to tell you

we don’t think you’re

insignificant

and we hope

that makes you feel better,

even though you’re spinning,

but if you could please

rub right here

behind the whiskers

and ahh i’ll turn my head

this way so you’ll rub

between the ears

and purr we love you

so turn my head again

and promise to purr

just rub my coat down my back

and turn again so you’ll know

we’ll miss you

when you walk behind

the bright door,

but we’ll wait your return

and probably sleep

dreaming of purring

and chasing things

that move fast and furry and bright

and rattle and roll

and fish and we’ll

be right here

so we hope it makes you feel

better when you’re here

it’s not their fault

when I’m this way

and spinning,

though I’ll take all day

getting up

to try and stop the motion,

try to stop the feeling

insignificant, maybe

managing to recall

older moments

of significance,

purpose,

belonging that is more

than just this drunk man

petting cats

who may want to tell him

how much they care,

they love him, they hunger,

and need him

to get up. 

sol & luna

met someone tonight –

imagine what that means -

because

nothing happened technically,

and how about she’s pretty

they called her red

so nothing remains

because

when has pretty ever stayed

for more than a few

condensed shimmering moments

in the moistened eye

lit by some bright morning sun in the cool

atmosphere of the left and leaving –

imagine what that means -

a sky full of bright blue

squinting eyes and burrowed brows

without a single cloud around

the sun is called sol

knowing him better

might excuse

a phone call, a telegram, a prayer

to dim for a moment

or switch shifts with his assistant

her name is luna

and never squinted near her,

but would for sure,

for a condensed shimmering moment –

imagine what that means –

because

she could light every step

stumbling down every cracked

sidewalk, the tunnel

of her light

leading somewhere

home

Bad Days and Breeding: An Angry Poem

It's like a sterile gauze 
on a fresh wound:
it sucks either way
for it does not take long to realize
that what good bleeds through a bad day
doesn’t make a bad day any more or less than that,
or a wound any more or less a wound.
Try to get the bad stuff
off chests
and allow good stuff
an access. 
Make lists
and shake fists
and ask

Why compartmentalize 
and criticize the lists and
fists of boxed-up bad days?
Why bother with the thing
much rather forgotten, ignored
and passively pissed away?
What is this thing that fuels
complaining and bitching
and moaning and dramatizing? 
What is it with all the questions
crying out 
like a bitch

in summer heat

getting her first naturally phallic gift

of pain?

We call it breeding 
to better objectify the act, 
for love and rape are too black and white
to justify the fact.

We’re in it, and we can’t

find the pen or anything

to write with,
pissed at personal ignorance

of earth and women

and life and man;
take any-given means to
escape it all - alcohol or drugs 

or hugs or love
or fundamentalism
or liberal sensibilities 
all trying to be and limited by right -
fighting, striving, writing with swords
shaped to the very perfection

of a penis. 

We’re in it and since we’re playing

with ourselves would

laugh at the joke,
the insanity of it all, 
constructing god,
the creator and the blame,
better off throwing it away.

The end of a day 
chopped into symmetrical durations,
pens shaped like a penis,
bitches whelping for busted hymens, 
angry poems cursing compartmentalization,
see it all in those crystal balls of glass
reflecting fish-eyed lives,

distorted selves collecting dust

on ancient shelves

of days past and living lies.

Easter Sunday

They say

the living-dead are zombies;

some say

Jesus Christ is a zombie

because he rose

 from the dead living.

Just one Sunday afternoon

like everyone else –

always sunny

with picturesque skies.

My father once owned a convertible

and on these sun days

would ask me and my siblings

if we’d like to take a ride.

I always went,

clamouring for the front seat

to stretch out my legs

next to my father,

to smell him light a fresh

cigarette in the wishing wind,

watch the white lines

dash by,

listen to the road scream

under rubber tires,

blinded by birds flying

into the blaring sun,

and wonder why

my father would drive

staring ahead, straight down the road

in silence

whenever not answering us kids

with discipline or fiction or fact,

since every word was a question.

What was it

that made my father,

want to drive with no purpose

in mind

than to drive, stare at grey

for longer than any of his children

could bare, bored at the passing

tress and passing cars

passing time.

They say

the stone rolled away

and the zombie stepped out in glory

three days festering in cloth

and perfume, like a mummy

dressed for the ball.

I heard

a soldier died,

maybe two.

As time passed,

my father

 lost the convertible

and we the dogwood trees

in the front yard,

the ones next to the driveway

that bloomed every spring.

We hid Easter eggs in those branches,

blooming limbs grasping yoke,

adorned in dye and anticipation,

would pass by them

on my father’s joy rides.

Just one Sunday afternoon,

like all the rest,

always skies and suns and winds,

maybe clouds, maybe rains,

maybe lost among the questions

become answers,

lost while driving, staring

at what’s left of the world ahead

with no purpose in mind.

Fatalistic Futons

Don’t be afraid,

no understanding will come of this,

like a ghost in the night,

like the one

visiting Hamlet in

certain moments

of uncertain insanity,

she won’t read this, and

if she does

she

won’t understand

it, nor be concerned,

not any bit - care simply

is – to  be -

un-present,

the “un” a great expression

to things

apathetic,

“an unwillingness definitive of prefix,”

no one is ever good at Scrabble,

cheat every chance

without shame or confession,

but I think she would care,

and I think she does care,

I think I think I want her to

care, dear Polonius,

but does it seem she cares

- would care per chance of caring –

for nothing?

because the business

model, the world,

tells me and itself

that it’s only motivation

to act

is based on individual

gain,

and it’s only fair to think

“there’s something in it for me,”

and it’s only honest

to think there’s nothing

here

for me,

and lo! I, we, miss you

and want to keep

all your pictures

pasted in scrap books,

un-charred by fatalism

and that haunting

regret eating

innocence

from the

inside out,

everyone dies in the end,

of pierce or poison,

and we’re all begging

to ask the question,

“to be or not…”

knowing the answer

will be like the fool

spying behind the curtain

meeting the dear sweet

death

of a dear sweet

friend

confined to

the availability of couch

and futon and spare

rooms in places named

first, old, former, previous,

and throw pillows, and pets

with funny names

like

Cannon, Swisher, Petrie,

Cat, Hamlet,

and I’m neither sure which

is more reliable but to

wish I could an escape

the couch

I chose

to sleep on.

Dear Brother

I am terrified of losing control,

insecure and selfish. Were you?

I am self-conscious

of what I do when I black out,

but I’ve never worried about

getting older. Would you? I have a shy bladder

even when pissing next to friends.

I wonder if you ever had that problem.

My little brother was once attacked

by a dog he was petting; kneeling

in the dirt next to a wooden pole where

the dog was tied, she jumped at him

without even a growl and bit a hole

in his eyelid, among other things.

Sometimes dogs can scare me

because I remember my brother

and the hole which let him cheat

at hide-n-go-seek;

as the adrenalin pumps through

my terrified veins, I yell at the top

of my lungs and run straight

at the thing. It always runs away.

I am getting older, but you died at fourteen -

Not from a dog attack, but

from a migraine and a broken heart -

I would often find myself

afraid of the dark inside your old room;

even though dad repainted the walls,

replaced the furniture, spread

the ashes at the family farm

in Oklahoma - the last in the house to go to bed,

up a set of stairs, a couple turns,

a squeaky hinge, and the light switch

teasing me, whispering the terrifying sight

in my ear of chrome-plated .357 with a black

handle, sticky with crimson fingers

reverberating a smothered echo

that shakes our family’s very foundation even over

a decade later - the switch mocking tragic dirge,

feeling the weight of the instant the silent night

breaks by the hammering switch

lighting the new scene of my dead brother’s

death room - painted walls,

new furniture - the same room

you never saw.

My little brother didn’t always do well in school,

and I didn’t always try.

I’m admittedly terrified of math because

I don’t understand it; I get nervous

when someone tells me something

I don’t understand, and when I hear

and still don’t understand, I get angry.

He would too, which is a sort of funny

brotherly trait that gave our parents hell.

And for the rest of our lives we’ll be forced

to try balancing the gaping hole

shot through our lives, loving him still,

forever lost in wonder at what he would

be like, even now he’s lost.

I’m horrified of being judged; that people

will stare at the bumps on my face. Were you too?

Would you still be? I’m scared of spiders,

bees, and wasps, but you would squash them all.

I’m mostly afraid of failure.

I’m not so scared of ghosts and you were,

but if I didn’t write this down,

I’d fail my brother,

I’d fail you.

Biker Sunrise

Early mornings - someone

said we’re not

used to this,

like we’re not used

to mosquito bites,

growing pains, facial hair -

riding long hours

at this time

of day. Still -

beautiful, still, cool,

and sometimes cold.

Fog slips through pine

covered hills, we wiped

it off our face shields,

held our breath, held

the morning sunlight

in our hands,

caught its glory,

as though falling

in love

for the first time.

Riding through

irrelevant hours,

excited for this day,

proud to be

a part of the moment,

knowing

we were alive,

exposed and vulnerable

to the waking world

passing by.

used tires

these blank pages are running out,

and i’m a little less than

worried. for more

dollars than exist to spare,

new tires are put on a car

that refuses to die when all hope

in its mechanical ability

was lost eight-hundred miles

ago, black cylindrical rubber

tread, now and again and for

one-more-maybe-last time able to pass

the penny test, refusing

in apparent weighty and eager

stubbornness to reveal president

lincoln’s copper hair line -

walk into a coffee

shop to escape this present

fortune with pen and pad,

the full coffee aroma engulfing,

blasting the face

though routinely passed by

like road side foliage

from here to there,

x-hundred miles

to step out stiff

with clumsy feet and back seat

full of loud and shiny food wrappers –

recognizing a high school teacher

and a chalky crush

in a dusty green chair

with the same nose and hair,

and a new divorce, and think

she remembers me too,

and wonder if she’s impressed

with me now, carrying

books, wearing beard, bearing

fleeting blank pages, perhaps

intrigued to see me on two

newer wheels instead

of four older ones, and this page

in this tiny backpack hauling

tiny words about tiny

things the rest of the world

is too big to see. these blank

ages are running

out, and i’m a little more

than worried about everything

else swallowing the birds

and trees and things

preserved and things heaved

in dumps and holes and  

burned in mesmerizing flames

where even the rising smoke swells

in these skies as i

unravel down

miles

and miles.

Ghosts and Kisses

A ghost appeared last night

sleeping in my sheets where a mountain

of clean clothes slept before.

I leaned in to kiss her goodnight on the cheek

when she turned and suddenly

a gasp and slip of the tongue,

just like before on the night we slept

in the same bed, the same morning

I sang a love song to her

not knowing all the words,

not sure how sure she was

of my existence, or I of her’s.

It died

shortly after due to blood loss

and exhaustion, the excruciating

pains of chasing memories and ghosts

buried, burned, lost in the present

making history, locked

in the rise and fall of blue moons

and purple sunsets with clouds

sipping rays and those shadows

of dust collected on the touch

of her lips, the shape of her hand,

the sound of her voice, the warmth

and the long reach of her tongue on mine,

long ago remembered and forgotten,

returning then for just a night

when regret is dismissed

for this phantom embrace

and ghostly kiss.

Beach-Side Vacation

Vacations always begin with “We’re here”

and ends with “Home.”

If it’s done right,

the drive home will be

as exhausting as saying “Goodbye.”

I wanted a black sea shell,

a bag of white sand scooped

right off the back dock

to put in a flower pot to plant

cigarette butts and pens,

and a t-shirt. I got a t-shirt,

a bag of sand, and a fistful

of beautiful memories

where no black sea shells

were to be found.

The initial departure,

down the drive made of crushed

shells mixed with something else

coloring them all grey,

pulling onto the asphalt

considering one last glance back

while pressing the accelerator

or pulling the throttle hard

and speeding away like there’s something

to escape from just behind us,

and I will have you know

I cherished the tear streak

on my cheek, even

to the moment I washed

it off my face and blamed

loving wind to the marrow.

Don’t forget to tell them,

these people whom you love,

that you love them all, that

I’ll gladly break a dictionary family

for this, redefine the bonds

that hold us all together -

it’s something more like

the sea shore. 

You Give and Take Away

Give me reason to drink this down,

take it in, soak it up, absorbent,

sponge-like, temporarily

retaining within, dripping,

drying alone without motion.

Take from me a memory, ghost,

specter, phantasmagorical ectoplasmic shard

embedded in the brain

fusing rough nostalgia

to this lobe and that synaptic pulse.

Give me something else to throw away,

discard in baskets at a distance,

waste it on indifferent envelopes

and well-wishing words

tossed in fountains

flowing or not.

Take away this reason holding me

tightly to this rock,

like an unwanting carbuncle

wanting to let go.

Pry me away,

and see me stubbornly and freely

sink, knowing then to just forget

and remember again

the things that suck

don’t always suck

so much.

Keep this very thing moving,

pen and finger and hand;

mark it, blot it,

live this life and page and memory;

this thing, the adhesive gluing it all

together now - all together now,

bow away, bow and out,

forever and ever,

for nevermore

for ever

Amen. 

Promise

I won’t lie

again

when the winds change

in the face of all

we see coming

rushing

collapsing

all control, suffocating,

promising only what we hope

we hope we hope

it won’t be, lying

in wake

of good luck

and lies,

the world telling lives

to live just abit

longer

just in case,

we’ll live

to lie

again. 

Awake

A face pressed through the window

closing blinds, cutting light,

to dancing lines along the wall,

and, when swinging shut,

legs slide under covers making comfortable,

static to still,

like how you want to say

I love you

to goodnight.

Ode to a Bar Napkin

Cell phones next to purses and drink rings,

high heels and those pointy shoes,

red and black stir straws laughing

at the light beer the pastel Polo shirts

wearing fans’ caps from prestigious campuses never seen,

broken tables and wobbly stools blocking thirsty drinkers

bottle-necked, ostrich-headed peering over hair lines.

Bar tenders frantically taking orders cash cash-cards shit

for tips tips tips thrown towards her low-cut t-shirt

showing just enough cleavage - just enough - that male

tenders may be slightly cautious-while-sober

for her safety, as stiff girls (white) without rhythm try,

just as hard as the DJ on stage mixing songs

to please the gargling greedy mob

brought together by common interests -

sex booze luck - and popular tunes.

The dance floor like the Nile

often floods and recedes

by topical seasons and music tracks -

breaking all those racial barriers while

all the king’s horses

and all the king’s men

put them back together again.

(This region breeds strong-shelled eggs.)

The night moves on as crossed-armed bouncers,

large by some means of chest bicep head

spring into action to stop a fight.

Bottles hearts names are made and broken,

numbers given and retained, handed out and denied,

some getting lucky for at least one night,

others left to drink loneliness down to the bottom

and another and again and

a pastiche of bottles glasses cups makes a beautiful

scene and a decent photo

telling a story as old as love alcohol mankind

itself. And a little too much perhaps,

so we don’t know we’re getting too loud or closed-minded,

while words are screamed midst the music sound tsunami

drowning laughs and understanding.

keys are mentioned wrestled taken,

cab riders ride since the taxi service is

stored in phones along

with a text unnoticed earlier of a friend

nailed with a DUI - again. Again? Damn.

It’s 2 or 3am, the bouncers bouncing around

yelling impolitely, brooms dustpans egos in hand

with brains left in the back seat of someone’s car

shere they may have gotten drunk-lucky once before.

A stumbler swims to his car and eventually drives away

making it safely home to lock the keys inside,

opening the apartment door after failed attempts

at breaking and entering via Visa card, four-digit pin,

and enough surprisingly lucid loud lucky profanity

to wake a barely sleeping roommate.

Chairs turned upside-down-on-tables now,

floors swept clean of flicked cigarette butts

ashes straws spilled beer liquor hopes

and the commonly unused wadded-up napkins sticking

rolling tumbling off-tables-onto-floor -

a few retain a now lost phone number dirty joke lipstick lips

and, perhaps, this.

Airplane

Although the stop red Fasten Seatbelts Sign still 

glows

like the orange tip of an anxious 

hand’s lit 

cigarette, 

I stand up to use the lavatory, 

warned by a flight attendant 

that captain feels

I’d be better-safe behind 

a seatbelt,

strapped firmly to a chair 

installed to cushion mild 

and/or unexpected turbulence.

“It’s your call,” he says;

and I trust captain 

as long as lift prevails.

But his throttle-wielding status

won't relieve me.

Up from the middle seat,

down the aisle - 

not for ritual, 

but something also 

human.

I pass the world by -

the man seated next to me

playing Klondike on his ipod nano,

head down in a 

do-not-disturb fasion;

the woman on my right 

who loves to laugh, 

the mother of 

at least two seated nearby 

reading New York Times bestsellers;

the pilot in First Class wearing sunglasses;

the man wearing a black fedora -

I pull the door closed and move 

the knob-latch to the left,

the soft go-green glow 

of Lavatory Occupied 

on the other side of me.

I hold a handle conveniently placed

to assist with 

mild and/or moderate

turbulence -

handles for the unexpected…

It wouldn’t be so bad 

to die by crash,

to fall thirty-thousand feet 

through winds and screams, 

curses and prayers,

Life and Death -

LifeDeath.

falling to Life on or off this plane

even as I stand on floors built 

to withstand severe and/or 

unexpected 

turbulence.

I return to my seat 

where two Russian generations in front of me 

are silent,

father resting,

leaning his head back against the top of the chair; 

noting his bald spot and proceed

to habitually memorize every hair,

son leaning forward uncomfortably 

on the back of the seat in front of him,

trying to sleep

while father rests a hand on his back,

and son wears headphones 

in a modern 

bored-and-weary 

fashion.

I could die here onoff this plane

and I think I could be happy 

here, streaming high forever,

falling to Life...

Curious upon landing,

following the world

down the isle to unboard,

can I manage to touch the ground

and live in a less-than living-dead

fashion, knowing 

there are no handles

to assist 

for the kind

of fully 

expected 

turbulence

waiting below the gate.

Boom Boy

On a lonely rainy day,

A lonely little boy
sings Boom Boom Boom

On the vinyl kitchen floor.

Cliffs of cabinets,

Pantry shelves

Of box-houses

Surround him and his

single-member Boom Boom

Booming band

As he imagines 

Tiny people living there,

Trembling in fear

At his booming booming voice

singing Boom Boom Boom.

The litter box and Clorox shake,

And the broom can’t stand the

Boom Boom Boom

And the dustpan lying

Near by trembles while holding all

The people swept away

Who look for god

In thunderous waves

of a Boom Boom Booming

Boy’s lonely rainy day.

All the Beautiful

I’m getting rid of all the beautiful,

Discarding in wastebasket

Wheelbarrows full of hopeful sands

Slipping through stubby fingers,

Fat suction cups grudgingly clinging

To bitter-sweet nostalgia,

A product of miscounting stones

On Sysphus’ Hill.

Once the dust clears, once

This rubble

Is stacked in piles

Weighing measured metric tons,

Heavy trucks will come

Marking ground with massive

Noisy tires where rain

Fills tracks left behind

Providing man-made lakes

For ants who care very little

For love or love lost

Or my brother’s ashes.

Dumpsters full, dump

Trucks guzzle waste

Down their backs to

Bury stuff beneath metal

Feet roving perpetual miles over earth

and wonder, life and death, things

that won’t burn but live in smoke,

things that fill the air.

With Me or Not With Me

I'm thinking soap and bubbles.

Not water, but there is running involved.

Sunshine and blue skies and 70 degree but not humid.

Spring and summer, on the other side of noon.

Grass to beach to sunset and alcohol drinking -

in a good way - like

Dusk and Summer - good album.

I drink every day.

I'll drink one for you.

It's 9pm here.

A windy sunset on a beach.

Perhaps a thunderstorm instead.

I'd love to see another tornado.

Will you drink beer, wine, or cocktail?

Red, Cabernet Sauvignon

for a beach-side thunderstorm. Cabernet is a good choice.

Straight from the bottle down the beach in the wind and rain.

Picture perfect for a water-proof camera.

Thunderstorm strikes 5pm.

White-crest inclement waves crushing

sand castles and pillars no longer causing worry.

On the beach enjoying

the 5pm thunderstorm

with my friend that needs cheering up.

We've a bottle of Cabernet and no glasses to be found.

Also not to be found: umbrellas, rain jackets, schedules.

Not idle, but walking, running, soaking

in the rain and the day as the sun sets behind

a dark grey horizon lit by lightening

frying fish a mile away.

It's you and whoever you want it to be,

be that me or not me,

not the deep contemplation of the worried,

but the relaxed intent of nothing

surrounding and swirling within.

The Cabernet is in a green bottle.

A big bottle with a black label

and a long leg wearing a red high-heel shoe

and a red felt glove on the side and a

really big hat with a long black brim.

It’s 8:22pm here and we feel

like pancakes or those cheating waffles.

You’re in Korea or Guam or Manchester

and I am on the sand, noting the footprints

left behind, forgotten and reinvented

in the minds of those who worship

Him, like He is the guy who says

He’ll be home by 9am but if

He’s not you’ll wait

until death and due you part

to waste life away like eroding grains

of sand or rock, and the lady with the red shoe

and leg on the label reminds us to feel

for a moment

as though we’re pictures

on green glass

to drink down.

I don’t care if He has much of a stove.

I don’t care if He makes it home.

I care about this label and the leg in it, the glove

that follows its curves

and the hat brim that invades

the frame. I don’t care

where this goes,

but I’m here for breakfast

around 7pm, and good morning

to you at 10:24am, I hope

it’s a better morning than the last.