Jan 2019

Parakeet in
a cage by the 
bowl of fruit next to a
pack of cigarettes on
the kitchen table.

There is something
sad and lonely 
about unplugging the
Christmas tree in early
January.
 
An hour or
so ago, the
earth cracked. It swallowed up
children playing on dirt
and coarse concrete.
 
Freight train snow,
crossing contends.
The rush to the next place
stops for a quick moment.
Do some yoga.
 
Degeneres,
Ellen, baby.
Please don't crucify me
for dated attitudes.
We are human.
 
With a red beak,
a black bird chirps,
"It's cold as hell out here,"
she warbles mournfully,
without a coat.
 
Sinking inside.
Universe lost.
Caves, cliffs, grasses, lagoons,
planets, marauders, moons.
Discover me.
 
Asymmetric
toothbrush feel.
Brush one side but not the
other. Balance. It is
overrated.
 
There's a window
to my inlight.
It's not always open,
but on days that it is -
Euphoria.
 
What if you let
go all the way? 
Could you hold together
the pieces of your soul?
Probably not.
 
Simplicity
is our nature.
Kill or be killed, my friend.
That's the lay of the land.
Deal with it. 
 
Constraints of truth.
It’s so boring.
Achingly alone, we
melt cheese and drink French wine.
Tell me a lie.
 
Telephone pole,
Steak 'N Shake red.
U.S. 41 lights
tell the story of fun -
and misfortune.
 
Blue sweatshirt on,
black pants, sneakers.
yellow light from his eyes.
Wife be gone, but alive. 
Still loves her soul.
 
Unbow your head,
your sweat, your dreams.
If you're scared of the dark,
take a breath, let it in.
Unbow your head.
 
Uncertain shtick,
hesitant smile,
she nods her head slightly.
It's more of a bow than a
smile. Eyes don't lie. 
 
Waking by you
is what I do
for 30 years or more.
Winter warmth. Morning makes.
Hard to believe.
 
You are to me
more beautiful
than when I felt you up
for the very first time.
Wake slowly, friend.
 
I miss Klyczek,
Chris was his name.
As kids, we were best friends.
As adults, we snorted.
Rescue for one.
 
Life's first scrimmage,
blank tabula.
At first, the good shall know.
Then all hell breaks loose. We 
will all get some.
 
The crunch of snow
beneath your boot
makes you feel good and,
at last, alone, with snow.
Peace to us all.
 
And if you die,
I will not care. 
You did it to yourself.
Pills for you, bucks for me.
Drug company.
 
I dream of this:
Living alone.
Sunday morning stillness.
Coffee. Newspaper. Rain.
Sounds like hell. Yuk.
 
Money worries.
Do the right thing.
Grab the rope before you
completely sell your soul
to the high bidder.
 
One twitch from death,
motorcycle. 
Flashing speeds, stoplight wow,
Muscle spasm chasm.
Traffic backup.
 
A game of loons
describing hell.
They sit around a fire
rolling dice for your soul.
Lucky seven.
 
I wish I were
the tennis ball
underneath her butt. Smashed, 
but close to the nectar
that makes me hum.
 
Envy seething
nonstop grieving.
The boy turns man to hate.
Old age will soothe, but wait -
His time will come.
 
Leaning on some planks, 
she stole my heart.
Not half expecting it,
I coughed it up for her.
Give me back, please.
 
Radio dream,
fame and fortune,
airwave requiem. Instead,
a broken transmitter
and a lawsuit.
 
Not gonna write
about flowers.
Fruit on a table farts,
portraits stifle always.
Move, goddamit.
 
It is not an
addiction yet.
But if I keep this up,
radio will be my
death and ruin.
 
Before you go, 
tell me a lie. 
Hesitate, look forlorn,
crush my soul with a glance.
Footsteps linger.
 
There's danger in 
taking shortcuts.
You might get there quicker
but lose stuff on the way.
You can do it.
 
I am in you.
You are in me.
Together, we are a
space traveler with no wings.
I forget why.
 
Looking at me
up in the sky
leaning my head on a
hot Mexican woman.
Pure symphony.
 
 
On the other
side of Advil,
there's an anvil crushing
both sides of my head.
Cut it out, please.
 
You soul waffles
on Cicero.
Snow brigade ice shuffle.
It's cold. It's cold. It's cold.
And traffic stops.
 
The chanticleer,
his chandelier,
three toads and an osprey
all say that you are queer.
Is that the truth?
 
Greenwich Village
white people salve.
Fear of black people fur
runs deep around Chablis.
Diversity.
 
Southwest Airlines
carries people fast.
Cramped in a packed tin can,
passengers wait for hope.
It's always late.
 
Farmland flatlands
bandied about.
From 30,000 feet,
it looks like white cardboard
laid end to end.
 
A crying child
on an airplane
beats a snoring old man
on a commuter train.
Or so I'm told.
 
Without you, me, 
I crave alone.
A wolf without a pack
prancing to hell and back.
Looking to kill.
 
Old house, grew up,
basketball pole.
Shovel driveway, play hoops
all night. Hot chocolate.
Snow, basketball.
 
Indiana,
a state of mine.
Mint fields, slag heaps, racing,
heroin and hardwood.
But not gays. Why?
 
The snow sure is
punctual, dear.
Here it's January
and everything's white, pure,
covered in cold.
 
Age threatens me.
It hints of death.
I'd like to know what gives,
how it all reconciles,
before I die.
 
Solitude with
somberness sucks.
But being alone by
rejecting the masses
brings quiet joy.
 
The mystery
propels us, fool.
The sun comes out, the moon,
butterflies, baboon.
What's it all mean?
 
Mr. Brankin
took a spankin'
from a pretty girl.
"Rush. Out. Go. Now. Before
my wife gets home."
 
It makes me sick,
too much, at least.
Lumbering across snow,
won't stop, this ugly beast,
Old Man Winter.
 
Falling, falling,
someone catch me.
There is a pit of snakes.
Darkness, alligators.
or just plain hell.
 
Mistakes, errors,
they follow me. 
Concrete gutter slumber,
a bouncing ball sideways.
We must all pay.
 
The center can't
hold tomorrow 
together. Divided, 
we fall like plastic toys
all over hell.