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we are in love

Introspection.

When we're dancing
We are most alive,
Pushing through the ring
Of clapping folk
Willing to break the mold.

When we're dancing
We're laughing
Looking pretty
Breaking a spat of
Tasty groovin'.

It's toothsome and well,
Ephemerally
Gladhandingly

Nice.  We know how
To have fun
Earnestly and like strobes,
Imploringly.

We are thinkers
And we've come to
Grind
The heavy yolk
That holds them down.

Introspection is a plumb
Line.  Plumb tuckered
When we're dancing cheek to cheek
In my tux,
In your gown.

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lax

I'm asking permission
To take your hand
For a sip-slap conversation.

There,
The window seat is
An offering for view -
You'll see baggage passing
Calloused palms
Piled high on rusty bed
After bed.

Damaged goods transfer
At Grand Central
Where they're inspected for
Scratches and scuff
Marks and
Ownership.

They're snaking through the terminal.

They'll tumble down the chute
Onto an ogling line but
Some pass more hands than others.

They're blurred alike but only one is mine.
How many are yours.

Regardless and so,
We'll have a sip
Or I'll take over
Where they left it.

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How You See Things

You are in the dark corner of the world

Where cobwebs grow thick and memories

Grow thicker.

You are in a bowl where fish swim or

Rather float.

You are cracked in places, creeping like veins

Over your brain and even deeper places

Spilling kith and kin.

But life is more than you think.

For every hundredth break and misshapen hand,

A child is born in a manger.

For every lamentation, a song.

But people are caught in frozen moments of jocularity

Long seconds of hilarity -

Living moments of clarity. 

    It’s perpetual,

    If you let it be.

People are sincere if you’ll let them be.

Sometimes

Smiles are smiles

Laughter is laughter.

Catch it and cup it in your hands

Colors flying like the smile that broke

Across dry land or
Noah’s grizzled face.

.

rubbernecking or a fun story to tell

Life is simply a hard sprint

Through the traffic

Of swinging fists and

Pummeling profanity

Or pornography blatant

Like cars honking in

Gridlock.

People slam horns, whistle

And point digits

Driving slowly through

Bottlenecked boulevards where

Someone sits dying or

Weeping or

Wondering or

Sleeping ignorant

Slumped on a wheel.

That’s life.

Or is it more

Like an apple pie? 

  A slice of Americana

  And a vision in the sky:

  That sustains you

  And exhumes you

  Prophets raging and

  Telling you

  That your time was

  Wasted.

Turn up the radio and

Sing:  La-di-dah.

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the mark of hands

You’ve tumbled from womb
Hung by a cord
Floating above
A murky mess
Of paradigms.

And so you’ll cry
All your life,
Wondering why you left it.

A tiny fist
Clenched with vigor
Shaking frustrations
At a shiny, brave world.

Or maybe it’s celebration
(Albeit confused)
Like swinging a mug
For auld lang syne.             

.

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At the Frontal Lobes Cafe

Curtain flutters and you feel a draft.

Everything matters to you

But doesn’t matter at all

But you’re scrambling around

As if today is the day

It all happens.

But nothing is going to happen

Because that’s

How things work

Even though

Nothing works

So I’ve got a good feeling.

 The door was left open

 In came the cold.

 The iceman was frozen

 And he -

        He was old.

Curtain flutters and you feel adrift.

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Best Western Lobby

Sauntering through the Cabana

The party in fully rosy swing

Einstein and Hepburn are laughing

Gandhi, Mandela, they sing

Acquaintance is auld and forgotten

Oppenheimer juggles a bomb!

Alfred Nobel waiting patiently

His reward is a dance to this song.

Limelight on stage, Marilyn whispers

Sultry: a World is progressing

Thesis, antithesis, synthesis, new

Innovation and violence undressing

Atlas, he strains, globe shifting

Cubism blends our worldviews

Nouns in the bag, looking for light

We're boarding the Ark, two by two.

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Daisy Fay's Green Haze

We’re nothing but beasts of burden

Like Janos’ donkey*

He thinks.

Some go up

Some go down

The world is Escher

Tumbling every which way

On stairs.

But

It’s a happy time for

This jumpy speakeasy

Where we’ll drink giggle water

And watch the dancing flappers

Laugh on laps

Like they must’ve

For Gatsby.

We’ll be old and grey

Wearing our old and green

Laurels and garlands

  Pumping our fists

  Dropping our canes

  Watching the moon

      Wane over the sunset

      Three sixty and five.

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mazel tov

I would like to dance with you

A slow affectionate waltz

Played by a big band

Of angels

Cheered by our hope.

I would like to hold you

Near me

When I’m blue.

My first kiss was with

Hope

And a better tomorrow

Light refracting and twisting

Off gutter puddles.

A mole digging a hole

Climbing

A mound upside-down.

That’s where you wait.

'Til we swim with the fishes

And five loaves of bread.

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Well, What's Honest

He’s honest like fresh air but she’s taken aback.

He sees life in sweeping panoramas and

The sun is always shining someplace if not here.

He’ll stand like Moses on the mountaintop Nebo

But she’ll be sad because clouds are gathering

Somewhere.

How many see the Promised Land

For him, grand visions and she is there!

For her, seeds of doubt sprout

Stuck in the middle of

Nowhere.

Tuesday / Wednesday

I walked outside and breathed in the rain

Thinking of Meaning.

Breathing a sigh of something sweet

Yet bitter as all hell

Thinking of Meaning.

I stared at a City Sky

Clouded over with dark puffs

Of stuff waiting to happen,

Wanting to stand and rage where

Everyone is a bitter Old Man

Too tired of life as he cries for milk.

I stepped out the door and felt the morning damp

Thinking of Meaning

And a place to stand

Where everyone is buoyant, green

Trusting in Something

Rife with Meaning.

           The cynic is lifeless, broken in too

                        Many places where You

                        and I can still have Hope.

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Our Friend the Atom

.

We Dance on a Thin Edge

Hope is a dancer

Sultry as can be

You aren’t permitted a touch

But you can see

That she moves to a rhythm hidden.

Her name was Truth –

A horrible liar

Trapped in a yellow briar

And leaves us weeping.

Blow me a kiss of all time’s sand

I’ll soak it to spilling

And make some plans

For something worthwhile.

Destiny is pretty

She wears a cotton dress

Billowing simple

Like freckles.

Faith, you are a stopple

To a demijohn of foes

Poured out in ladling dregs

     Of woe.

Love is ever primping

The winking girl of Troy

But I’m ever thinking

      It’s a ploy.

          Feet above head

          Head above feet

                  And repeat.

   Moment's Freedom

            Falling, tumbling

                Twisting with

                Contortions

            Through the clouds

                Blind and Ferocious

                Thoughts Wild and Slow

            Into pools of feeling and the Rumbling

            Being the rat-tat-tat of guns and the Mean.

Tap Your Foot on a Crowded Place

Scooting my Vespa

A giggly Hepburn in tow.

Street urchin – searchin’

Little car – goin’ far

Have you ever squirmed yourself

Drenched in a dark pool of

Flip-flip sardines.

Oily muck – your briny

Luck

Drink a hot Mediterraneo day.

Your shirt sticks to your back so

        Peel it like an orange or a wet piece of

        Paper that lands on a tile

        Awhile

Waiting patiently for

Something to Change

Because clock fixation lasts

Only a few weeks or

A short season

Even.

.

Swashbuckler’s Dream

I walked the plank last week, sabers rattling behind.

I am Errol Flynn sans tights.

I still have dreams.

Wait

Before you cynically sneer

Show me yours

And even then

I know what you’re thinking because that’s who I’d be

But for every ounce of being

That won’t agree

That swings its fists and

Rages against those sullen faces

In happy places.

Ever the dreamer and thinker. 

Sullen faces in happy places

A polemic launched by angry races

All stymied by the graces

Of beautiful living.

.

My Apologia

What’s your take on the

State of Humanity

While we’re all grappling

With the terms of We

When we’re just beasts

Inside slumbering Snores

Who don’t really give much

Damn 

My apologies

.

.

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Ninevah

It’s a body in there, somewhere

Floating to, fro, over

The inward workings of

A Beating Heart

Beating a rhythm through

The belly of Three

Ready and waiting

To throw you out

Of your Grinding hole

Daily as you lay

There eaten away

By the brine and dark

Deep dark below

Your thoughts of purpose

The ebb and flow

It’s a body on there, somewhere

Touched by the lapping water

Of a rising cell there

Where you once slept

Hidden and punished

.

.

The Wise

Here’s a man ready to be glorified

For homespun, streetspun

Wisdom.

A gaunt face, lean with the Years

And eyes that stare deep

Scanning the restaurant

With knowing glances.

There is little to fidget, little to Grovel

Because I rest on weariness

And this steaming cup of Joe:

Steaming the Civil into my cracked hands

Drawing the Past into my nose

When I complained that it was bitter

But I drink this cup

.

          Obsequy

               They sang Balm of Gilead
               Not long after his passing

               At the behest of the Living

               Still enthralled by his

               Evanescent glow and

               Winsome smile that

               Only insisted on a

               Choral accompaniment.

               In waking days, he was

               Quick to smile and embrace

               His neighbor, a grown man

               Ever youthful somehow

               Drinking life in sudsy

               Draughts and laughter

               And perhaps he’d hear

               Their voices at Death’s dream

               High and pretty seem

               Like the seraphim

               That sustained him

                 Daily.

.

.

With Considerable Difficulty

These are the pews

Where I used to sit

When I was a little boy

Full of wide-eyed wonder

Over stories of

Moses smiting a rock

      And there was water for all.

But he was punished for

One moment of

Frustration and

Even as a kid

I thought I would’ve

Done the same

So I was

Afraid of

God.

This the song

I used to sing with

So much passion

Excitement and

Even euphoria.

Remember the story

Of Jonah and how

He once fled

Like an ant that

Scampers beneath your

Fat thumb and

Sings glory

Glory on high

In ant

Speak

    Eventually.

It seems strange that

We’d apologize for

Not being

You.

Nobody has bolts

In their neck

Holding their head

In place but

We all wonder in

Milton Secret:

Did I solicit

Thee to bring

Me out of

.

Empty Streets Closed      

About the size of us:

It’s full of pin-striped suits

And Headline news mixed

With the riff-raff smell

Of rags and axle grease

And beanies for the winter

And a shopping cart to

Push your wares.  Soaked

With the drunkenness of

A wobbly twilight of

Booze and vermouth and

Scotch if you’re lucky

Maybe the smell of Chanel.

.

.

Good Friday

The signal turned green some

Time ago

So the people started

Their move toward

Dreams of bigger homes

More love and laughter

Than they had at

The moment

We all face when we’re

Dealing with the

Fall.

Today

Comes silent -

Hoarse whispers

Of hallelujah

For what's to come.

.

  curse the bread

  keep this on the downlow

  because you never know

  who might surmise to

  drop eaves on the backward

  tickings of grey

  no-matter

  richard cory was seen with

  a red-spilling head trickle

  but the papers are tricky;

  i saw him dancing with all

  the pretty ladies just last night

  just

  right

  but that could be ghost

  perhaps-matter

  and as he dropped libations

  with his wizened hands

  his face caught reflection

  looking forlorn

  just

  worn

    with all the Lookers winking

    because they know

    the papers are tricky.

.  

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 Adam Smith and the Wineskins

Take one down and pass it around
Here’s an economy for everyone: 

    Life is a dream, a cup spilling over

    Foaming like everyone’s lager

      You drink it for mirth

      You slurp it for worth

      You order a round for good measure.

    Send me a barrel

    I’ll roll down the aisle

    Wed to your sorrows of morrow;

    Roll me a ciggie

    I’ll puff til I’m dizzy

    Your gods and your pleasures to borrow.

    So pass it around and don’t be so greedy,

    The economy of life is so bullish!

    Push ever onward

    To climb ever higher

    There’s Icarus caught in the moment.

Perhaps I’m a beggar, Saunder Simpcoxe

Sporting a sign ever ready,

Ignoring the Maker

Digging for Change

Looking for hope to recycle.

Will work for a miracle

Bum a roam to Siloam.

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