He wears a lime green sports coat
covered with wide white pin stripes,
and he don't give a damn
that his wild Irish rose blooms from his pocket
It's only a rose and it stinks
His sweetest desire is it's euphoric nectar;
it can stink and he can stink
and he don't give a shit!
Friday, March 24, 2006
A Kite over Potter Lake, November 14,1990
A kite flies among the cottonballs
It is black and wears a long tail
If one squints, it looks like the wicked witch of the west
flying over Kansas
getting ready to write:
SURRENDER DOROTHY!
with her broom.
It is black and wears a long tail
If one squints, it looks like the wicked witch of the west
flying over Kansas
getting ready to write:
SURRENDER DOROTHY!
with her broom.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
a Kyrielle Sonnet
I walked through aisles of blue green
Sea foam floating yet hardly seen
A quick pace in the blackened light
Sandy dunes that layered the night
My ears rang with horror unknown
A sub-sound of ocean wave drone
While winds blew the grains up tight
Sandy dunes that layered the night
The moon gave me a peaceful glance
But would fear approve its advance?
Or would terror rule my delight?
Sandy dunes that layered the night
I walked through aisles of blue-green
Sandy dunes that layered the night
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
In the vein of "a million little pieces"
(You’ve inherited grandma’s house. Grandma’s secret journal is discovered. What does her last entry say?)
All I could think of for this question was Grandma Tidwell as a little girl
A small, young Polish girl;
now old and dying in America,
her body decaying into the future
her words swelling into the past
uttering more vividly
the haunting melodies...
Perogies baking in the kitchen
Papa walking behind his vending cart
and soldiers dying by the back stoop.
Why such a memory for the last entry?
maybe the memory of death
was the painkiller of life
and the journal, a place
where both could walk hand in hand
All I could think of for this question was Grandma Tidwell as a little girl
A small, young Polish girl;
now old and dying in America,
her body decaying into the future
her words swelling into the past
uttering more vividly
the haunting melodies...
Perogies baking in the kitchen
Papa walking behind his vending cart
and soldiers dying by the back stoop.
Why such a memory for the last entry?
maybe the memory of death
was the painkiller of life
and the journal, a place
where both could walk hand in hand
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Laziness
The smell of Texaswood Cedar
and the sound of Norah Jones
give cause to my pen.
Poor Michael is sprawled out on the couch
with some sort of influenza, and
My house looks like a land-locked shipwreck.
The dishes are taking a bath, but
The laundry hangs around like bad conservation.
Outside the window, it’s a snowy March.
Winter still owns the bar
and today the drinks are on the house.
My writing ‘s already had a few too many
but still calls for another dark stout.
Michael pulls my attention
In the opposite direction
And we share some time together on the unmade bunks
Clanks from the buckles on my overalls
Churn quietly in the dryer
And we hold nothing as pressing
As together we doze.
and the sound of Norah Jones
give cause to my pen.
Poor Michael is sprawled out on the couch
with some sort of influenza, and
My house looks like a land-locked shipwreck.
The dishes are taking a bath, but
The laundry hangs around like bad conservation.
Outside the window, it’s a snowy March.
Winter still owns the bar
and today the drinks are on the house.
My writing ‘s already had a few too many
but still calls for another dark stout.
Michael pulls my attention
In the opposite direction
And we share some time together on the unmade bunks
Clanks from the buckles on my overalls
Churn quietly in the dryer
And we hold nothing as pressing
As together we doze.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
The Tech Center
At 4:15 p.m. the tech center in Denver is abuzz. It isn’t quite the same as it was at 7:30. Instead an insurance agent steadily walks from his office in his grey pin-striped suit. He has fifteen years under his belt; no wife, no kids, and no evening appointments anymore.
A legal secretary passes him on the sidewalk. She too is dressed high-brow; black suit, crisp white blouse, and heels begging to be kicked and strewn by her sofa. She has two kids yearning for their mother to replace their daylong surrogates at pre-K and St. Michael’s Montessori.
Her husband, who isn’t any longer, works as an architect on the other end of the Center. He quietly returns to his high-rise flat in Lodo. His neat, orderly life is peaceful and lonely less every other weekend. One of his five business partners, who is walking with him presently, swings by the apartment on occasion with his twenties-something girlfriend to see if he wants to take in the local jazz scene with them. Even though he hates his third-wheel status he usually agrees to go.
Both men pass a lady in a long, crumpled gown. The dress has no shape or form, and neither does she as she sits holding up a copper sculpture of a long-legged disproportioned man. This man at 4:15 p.m. has no influence on her journaling efforts. Instead her inspiration is mused and fused by everyday people passing by; the insurance agent, legal secretary, architect, financial planner and the like. They strike an esoteric pose in her conscience as they move to the next step, the next task of normality, giving no notice to her or her aim of observation.
A monsoonal rain shower invades the scene and all pop open their man-made mushrooms to protect their suits, their blouses, their hair, their writing pad. Just like the poet, their protection warrants no thought, no appreciation of source or function. Instead it’s just an added cog to the wheel; complacent and ever-so important in the corporate routine of the day.
A legal secretary passes him on the sidewalk. She too is dressed high-brow; black suit, crisp white blouse, and heels begging to be kicked and strewn by her sofa. She has two kids yearning for their mother to replace their daylong surrogates at pre-K and St. Michael’s Montessori.
Her husband, who isn’t any longer, works as an architect on the other end of the Center. He quietly returns to his high-rise flat in Lodo. His neat, orderly life is peaceful and lonely less every other weekend. One of his five business partners, who is walking with him presently, swings by the apartment on occasion with his twenties-something girlfriend to see if he wants to take in the local jazz scene with them. Even though he hates his third-wheel status he usually agrees to go.
Both men pass a lady in a long, crumpled gown. The dress has no shape or form, and neither does she as she sits holding up a copper sculpture of a long-legged disproportioned man. This man at 4:15 p.m. has no influence on her journaling efforts. Instead her inspiration is mused and fused by everyday people passing by; the insurance agent, legal secretary, architect, financial planner and the like. They strike an esoteric pose in her conscience as they move to the next step, the next task of normality, giving no notice to her or her aim of observation.
A monsoonal rain shower invades the scene and all pop open their man-made mushrooms to protect their suits, their blouses, their hair, their writing pad. Just like the poet, their protection warrants no thought, no appreciation of source or function. Instead it’s just an added cog to the wheel; complacent and ever-so important in the corporate routine of the day.
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