Poem - CD

Hey.

Here's a poem I wrote for Patreon about my oldest nephew (who turned five this month).
I think he's pretty darn cool.

CD

There's an allosaurus
Neck deep and ravenous
Inside a hapless stegosaurus
When he slams shut the book,
Wheels to face me,
and whispers:
I've just released a new song.
He wants to be
a gardener
a singer
and a paleontologist.
All three careers tasked
With the ministration
Of patience, digging deeper,
And solitude.
I clap my hands, gesture to the
Theatre of the living room.
He grins, a bit too tightly,
Spins in another dervish,
(as if shaking himself braver)
Ambles to the center.
A beat, he oversips a breath,
He sighs and with that exhalation
Every bone wresting him upright
Surrenders.
Puddle of nerves crawling towards me.
We tickle one another,
And as we play, I wish I could tell my nephew:
Fear does not weaken us; it simply
Develops a deeper appreciation
For song.
For, before I had a voice,
Before I trusted that what came forth in sound
Was useful,
I'd hold concerts in pillows.  I'd sing
Quietly to push tears back inside my sockets.
With breath finely tuned I'd attend each sore
And aching bone.
We sing to keep living.
There is no rhythm, no explicit coda, no familiar chord in
Our frightening seconds.
We sing for ourselves, a constant performance,
Pulsing like the veins
In a newborn's skull:
Here.

Here.
Here.
Here.

Here.

Orange County - First Draft of New Song

Hey.

In between all the worrying about hobo stuff and just making it through August in general, I ended up knocking out a draft of a song about my old stomping grounds.  I explained more about it to the Patreon folk.  Join for as little as a buck a month, and get all kinds of bits and baubles!

lyrics

first verse

in the year before i left
i lived alone
just on the border
letting dust collect
no self respect
an emotional hoarder
i was
calcified
drought from the
tears i
cried
good friends i
pushed
aside
when love is gone
and youre
three hundred pounds
and all is aching
you just hold tight
dream every night
the plans youre making
for if they
did not land
end up
upon this island
i would have died
by my
own hand

chorus
every weekday id drive into
orange county
the culture of the office park
a bounty
upon my head
the seasons a bleached white
bone
had my fill of the pleasant folk
orange county
germinates
firm handshakes
and a static grin
their keepsakes
its heaven if youve got yours
if you dont
get gone

second verse
in the year before i left
i sold or gave away possession
head down
working sixty hours a week
walling off all the wild depression
didnt self reflect
sever and disconnect
just made some money
to leave this town
when love is gone
and youre the serving class
who wrestles dishes
tends strangers daily
fakes a grin and grants their wishes
heeds
each couples call
brings counsel
feeds them all
meanwhile youre starving
your heart
you grind

chorus

bridge
just dont give
up
mark it all
down
youre older you
find
that the hell preaches
wisdom
just dont give
up
keep making
time
the works gonna
save you
deep breath
keep your
word true

chorus
every weekday id drive into
orange county
the culture of the office park
a bounty
upon my head
the seasons a bleached white
theyre a bleached white
bone
had my fill of the pleasant folk
orange county
germinates
firm handshakes
and a static grin
their keepsakes
its heaven if youve got yours
if you dont
get gone

if you dont 

get gone

guess i best 

get gone

New Poem - Family

Hey.

Here's another new (again - new for non-Patreon folk) poem.  You should really hop on this gravy train!  10 bucks a month gets you your own monthly poem, one buck a month gets you DAILY curated stuff I make...  GO!

This poem's a snapshot of my childhood.  Poor as we were, we had some great summers sometimes.
This was one of them.  I've written before about how games shaped our family.  Here's a brief window into that devotion.

FAMILY

Three children sleeping across a Monopoly set.

A note squats on Free Parking, impatiently scrawled with a magic marker:

Weenie's Turn. Dozing without blankets.

A thick sheen of sweat coating their syrupy cheeks.

Discarded Slurpee cups, a Little Caesar's

Pizza box, A radio (won in an costume contest), still lightly playing, set to

"Kara's Love Line". And, as these siblings dream,

A caller (Charlene) with a catch in her midnight speaking voice

Dedicates

A song to her husband

(Rafael) serving overseas in Japan.

Kara, the sensual DJ, hums to life. She soothes,

Each word caresses the evening air. A little pause, and Heatwave's

"Always and Forever" cradles the sleeping trio.

There, until morning, these children remain.

Stuffed with romance and sugar and paper money.

Poem - Now

Hey.

Here's a new (new to non-Patreon folk) poem.  If you sign up NOW and become a patron for as little as a buck a month, you get all kinds of daily stuff...and SOMETHING SECRET AND AWESOME will be announced August 1st to you first!

NOW

The web of flesh

between my thumb

and index finger

is a reset button. I pinch

and press it when overwhelmed by

the hazards of memory, the persistence

and manufacture of future time .

There's pain. Kind which slams shut the book of distant daydream.

A second passes. No poems are written.

No elegies of the past held.

Every fiber on my skin yearns for a signal.

Unprotected, eager, accepting each new force

without coveting.

New Poem - Reverie

Hey.

Here's a new poem (well, new to those who aren't patrons on Patreon - and if you aren't - DO IT! Super cheap.  Starts at a buck a month, and I send you personalized, curated things I make daily.

REVERIE

You. You are clad in a slip 

of storm-shadow. Afternoon 

daydreams on a spartan bed. 

Until the moment you rise

and feel the sudden weight upon your brow, 

You maintain that magic circle, 

Feed the mewling, frightened worms 

with stories of her, 

The love-that-is-to-be. 

A soft, time-worn hand cradles in the thin light 

an imagined waist. An unused pillow 

is simulacra for her nape. There is no face. 

No combination of sage syllables 

forming a clear name. 

No sign. You listen for a voice, and hear the low and present hum 

of the living city. 

Two clues keep the spell electric; 

She secrets the faint, gentle scent of chocolate, 

and bears a warm, crackling embrace. 

She presses you hard, and every hair, 

every scent, every mark on your skin 

is measured.

New Poem - Tenacity

Hey.

Here's a poem I wrote recently.  Patreon folk got to see it first.  (guys, it's sooooo cheap and easy to join, become a patron, and get all kinds of perks and curated stuff.  At this point, I just pity you for not being part of the cool kids club)


TENACITY

if 

there's blood, 

let me be 

manzanita, 

sanded slick and smooth by covert growth. 

Let it slake away. 

Keep my diet mean and temperate. 

Find me shining in an unswept grove 

like a crimson-orange bone, 

clutching the memory 

of three month's 

water sip. Breathe, 

I breathe in full, quiet 

comfort. And, should your feet betray you, 

lop me from the branch.  I'll support your wary, 

shuffling 

                gait 

til neither air nor water can further move us 

New Poem - Wine

Hey.

Here's a look at a new poem.  Patreon donors got to see it first.  For a chance to see daily, curated content that I make, and to be a part of an artistic, delightful community, click here to become a patron today!  You can do for as little as buck a month.  Ten bucks a month or more gets you a personalized monthly poem like this one!

WINE

 It was....twelve? 

Fourteen years ago? 

The past is microfiched, stretched into 

Quick, rolling sheets. 

First day of a new year. 

Circuit knocked out power in the boiler room. 

Lowest level of the ship. 

Elevator to breaker, just two hundred feet. 

Pitch with limpid decay. 

Flashlight, a useless prop. Crawling on my knees, 

And as I felt for the railing, heard the vessel gently moan as she rose and fell, 

I was stabbed. 

With no noise, I screamed. 

And, though this was a tomb of rust

and make-believe, though I had led thousands of strangers

to this altar of fear 

and cackled inwardly as they cried, 

For that moment, I was horribly, tenderly alone. Only I could flip the switch, 

A thimble of blood lapped out of my thumb, 

cast a shadow on the predator, 

Wine. Two glasses. Party guests from the night prior 

Went exploring without a map. As the old year sought its requiem, 

these two strangers spent the evening 

between the sprawling husks of rusted, slightly leaking plates. 

And now, no more. 

Hand throbbing, I pressed 

towards the bow. Foot by precarious foot, 

Testing the darkness. I had counted these steps, 

once,

fifty-four. Sighted, I'd been known to race them

and terrify a crowd in under six seconds. 

Not here. An hour lapsed 

until I finally stood up 

opened the box 

flipped the switch 

and roused the beast awake. 

I smiled, sadly. My hands reeked of dried 

merlot and iron. Another year 

with the same old ghosts.