Random Ramblings

Maybaleen, a song

2011-09-29T08:40:00.000-07:00

Dear Maybaleen my Queen
If I give you a magic bean
Will you make your money selling flower stems
Or joke with a giant till the big man grins

Dear Maybaleen my Queen
I know that you are not too keen
On laying claim to a ramblers face
But I've built my bed in the negative space

I tried to end my restlessness
went to the Pope but couldn't confess
So I sold it off for a real good deal
Price of a unicycle with a missing weal.

Then I played the part of a grateful man
Avoiding all things with a government band
Finding direction in the lies of eyes:
A lukewarm corps will be just fine
And there's no life lost while standing in line

Dear Maybaleen my Queen
This party ground is not your seen
Trains don't ever come this far
And on these streets your shoes will mar.

Dear Maybaleen my Queen
I know that you are not too keen
On laying claim to a ramblers face
But I've built my bed in the negative space

I met your body on a dried up creek
Best sort of water, cant spring a leak
Bought your love for a real good deal
Price of a lost letter with a broken seal

Living in a castle made of desert cacti
Clueless to the cause of my bleeding and my sighs
Expected I'd be set if I could feel something wet
Cheated on you with a boat I met
Long lost the manual for regret

Dear Maybaleen my Queen
If I give you a magic bean
Will you make your money selling flower stems
Or joke with a giant till the big man grins

Dear Maybaleen my Queen
You shouldn't be where rats are mean
There are deep hols at the world's end
You could fall in and never mend

Would like to tell you where I am
But now I'm lost all over again
Bought back my soul for a real good deal
The price of a breeze nobody can feel

Send your love to a giant's layer
His big hands may keep you there.

Dear Maybaleen my Queen
I know that you are not too keen
On laying claim to a ramblers face
But I've built my bed in the negative space

Memoirs Of A Dirty Dish

2010-09-07T08:40:00.000-07:00

(Reader of poem clears throat, takeing dramatic pause)

I am a dirty dish
Not a worthless dish
Have been used, then forgotten

All I need is soap and love
Wont someone wash me?
Be gentle, try not to break me.

I AM A DIRTY DISH

But I am not a worthless dish.

Please don't make me a worthless dish.

(Reader of poem weeps gently, openly, exposed)

Curated Show

2010-09-06T08:40:00.000-07:00

If my life were a curated show,
Your art would set on a wall of its own.

If my life were the length of a crane,
You'd climb up that crane, people'd call you insane.

If my life were held inside a fence,
You would stay in my fence, though it'd make little since.

If my life was just one grain of sand,
I would be the one that stuck to your hand.

My life is my life, is the real truth, though.
And you don't bother with non-curated shows.

Vagabonds Wife

2010-08-25T08:40:00.000-07:00

great granny was a vagabonds wife,
and grandmother was the same.
mother tried real hard to be,
but it didn't work out in the end.

i'm speaking now to women about,
who think they are ready to try.
a life that makes no since to the head,
a life with a vagabond in your bed.

first there are the logistical things;
how to live out of a sack,
with perpetual lack,
and not looking back.

then there are the practical things;
making makeshift door mats,
where to hang your hats,
how to keep away rats.

for a decade or so,
you will be bothered with where you go.
though as time slips by,
you will learn to follow without a sigh.

days start to seem shorter,
though cold not much colder.
an end can seem far
when you don't know how happy you are.

i can't imagine a life other then this,
though i never thought much of eternal bliss.
you might think you can change him, or find compromise.
let me just stop you, let me advise:

do not be a vagabond's wife
less you love the vagabond's life.
you may well love him more then you dare,
but i promise you'll soon rather have a reclining chair.

The Bridges

2010-08-21T08:40:00.000-07:00

Send your shadow out to coffee for an hour
The man has secrets that only you may hear

He can tell you how to climb the strongest bridge in all this city
And show you how to love atop the great arch of the Brooklyn

Send your shadow out to coffee for an hour
Be alone with the man who has the keys

To service doors that keep the Queensboro out of reach
And rif-raf off the the Williamsburg's steep

Send your shadow out to coffee for an hour
So you can see what it will take to claim this city as your own

The man waits inside the spheres of the Manhattan
He will give you what you never knew you'd need

That shadow that you carry holds its homeland
If you won't send it out to coffee for an hour,
I doubt that you will ever see escape.

I'm Late To An Appointment

2010-08-18T08:40:00.000-07:00

I'm late to an appointment,
An interview of sorts.
With a fellow you may know of,
Known as "Time" to most of us.

A Craigeslist post that caught my eye,
"Time's assistant, needed sourly!"
Stranger yet was typed in bold:
"Only serious candidates implore me."

I tried sending my interest with hast,
Had it written up nice, proof read it twice.
Yet, Time responded before it was sent.
"Come interview in an hour, I'll be at Trump Tower."

So I've scurried and scampered to catch the train,
Resume in hand, and my shirt without stains.
Despite having heard stories that Time was insane,
I'm excited to meet him on Trump Tower Lane.

In the gold plated lobby, a man asks me my folly.
In my hurry I ignore his inquiry, asking:
"For the price of a dime, would you send me to Time?"
He looks away wisely, refusing to guide me.

From a woman with a cane, I ask direction to Trump Tower Lane
She points to the ceiling and states, rather unfeeling:
"Vertically walk, horizontally talk, and try not to follow the side walk chalk."
This woman is crazy, I quickly surmise, deciding she's telling all sorts of lies.

So I exit the lobby to search for a sign, an arrow, or the end of a line.
Outside all that I find is a youth, drawing chalk pictures on a shoe shines booth.
"Has Time been through?" I ask, not knowing what else to do. Responds the youth:
"Yes, of course, a moment ago. Though now he's off to a matinee show."

O, dear, I think I need a drink.

(to be continued)

late to dinner

2010-07-12T08:40:00.000-07:00

everything is off

the birds should not be flying that way
the water runs old and decrepit
the grass and the clover are at odds with each other
and the fruit has got rot overnight

everything is off

my friend reads a book on the roof in the rain
as his lover rides away on a europe bound train
somebody sleeps in a hotel tonight
though fate wanted them in the gutter

everything is off

the phone wont stop its ringing
my apple pies burning
this kitchen is empty
while the artist search elsewhere for jesus

everything is off

I should be at a meeting
but i've given up thinking
of what need be done, where i ought to go,
and why you are three days late to dinner.

A Song: "To be, To be"

2010-03-23T08:40:00.000-07:00

They are playing proper folks
Playing all these proper folks
To be, To be

Jack is hanging by a rope
Jill is telling silly jokes
To be, To be
Ben has lost his old guitar
Derick's selling motor cars
To be, To be

Stop this scene, I've seen enough
Why can't the world be keen enough
For me, For me

Rachel got a weeding ring
Tyler fount the old porch swing
To be, To be
Andrew lost his voice one day
His bitch still tells him what to say
To be , To be

They are playing proper folks
Playing all these proper folks
For me, For me

Debby lost a couple kids
Eddy never found his shit
To be, To be
Nicky's gone as far as mars
Mimi makes love to metal bars
To be, to be

Stop this scene, I've seen enough
Why can't the world be keen enough
To see, To see.

The End

2010-03-22T08:40:00.000-07:00

Then the smoke will drift into the sky.
Then the blood will soak into the dirt.
If someone where still alive, they would ask:
"How did this happen?"
And the dead will all answer the fool:
"It was love."

a wish

2009-11-02T08:40:00.000-08:00

wish it was unberably cold
or painfuly hot. scorching.
wish people hated me, swore,
spat, bid me a grotesque death.

i plea for anything but indifference.
can't live in neutrality.
give me suffering or grant me
joy, but please kill me quick before

the restlessness takes hold.
this tortured heart has never left.
my one companion. -i'd rather be alone.
in cold or heat or death. -

porclain doll

2009-09-18T08:40:00.000-07:00

he let me sleep
turned down his music, even.
wants to kiss me, but wont.
stands close enough
to brush his arm against me.
dark eyes are cold till i run
my fingers through his hair.

if i were a porcelain doll
would it hurt any less?
to watch one man ride away,
and another man stay away.

if it were cold stone
that fills the shape of my face,
would that face be able to show
how much i want one to kiss me
and the other to marry me.

would a ring make me want
one man less and one man more?
would a chest be able to hurt
if it were no more then a hollow space.

some questions cant be answered.
so we must take our chances and see.
dear god please make me a porcelain doll.
grant me one last salvation.

Ripple, Do

2009-07-05T08:40:00.000-07:00

wish I knew who you
wrote poetry to. wish
it were me, if we are
being honest, and i
do think honesty's

best. well, perhaps
not in all situations.
if i were a bank robber
hiding out in a chicken
coop I would not want

the farmer to confess
my location to the cops.
or if i were a wore and
my grandmother asked
what my new job was, i'd

probably rather my brother
say something like
"secretary", "waitress",
"soy bean farmer" or
something conventional

like that. as you are
not a cop, however, or
my grandmother, i prefer
to be honest. this may
not be best. i'm told a

lady should be coy. course,
this instruction - like the
bulk of the advise i am
offered concerning matters
of the heart - comes from

either old woman who have
not been laid in a very
long time, or gay men who
have also not been laid in
a very long time. so i really

don't know who you are
writing poetry two. though i
think that even if it is not
me you should go for it,
ripple the waters, tell her

whatever you've been wanting
to say. and - for gods sake -
don't be coy about it. don't
write a poem about wanting to
fuck someone, and never identify

who it is that you want to fuck.
- that's just frustrating, if
were being honest now. - because
if your going to ripple waters
do it with a shoe or a boulder.
your worth more then the ripple

of a pebble..

Jelly Fish and Sharks

2009-06-29T08:40:00.000-07:00

We're going to be pirates.
It's true! Any day now.

Well, you should probably come home first.
And we'll need to make a plan.

It's really just a matter of time.
Only two months left.

You'll be home by Christmas, I hope.
And we'll be to sea by New Year.

Sure, we haven't got a boat.
That's the smallest of my worries.

I've never seen a Jelly Fish.
You've made friends with a few, I hear.

Sharks tend to worry me.
Or, rather you being around them is a concern.

I'm told there is not really much fighting.
I'm also told that "Cheerios" and "Toasted O's" are the same.

But, that's not true.
"Cheerios" are "Cheerios" and "Toasted O's" are "Toasted O's".

War and piece are not the same thing either.
The news calls it a "delicate balance", that does not make any since.

They say you aren't fighting.
You say you're swiming every day with Jelly Fish.

They say there is still a war.
You say the sharks are friendly.

I don't really know what to believe.
Except that "Cheerios" are not "Toasted O's"

And when you come home, and we become pirates
I don't want you to hang out with the sharks anymore.

Proper Placement

2009-06-28T08:40:00.000-07:00

The land lord was knocking on the door. There were people waiting to move in. There were people waiting to move him out. Family was calling, friends had flower arrangements pre-ordered, everyone sat waiting impatiently for Harald Jinks to die. He did not die, however, to much inconvenience Harald was still alive months beyond the doctors expectations. He could not die yet, he was not prepared, there was no plan, no course of action.

Harald was a man of proper planning and organization. He was born on a grid - literally - midtown Manhattan. Never once had Harald roamed beyond 10th avenue to the west, and 4th avenue to the east. The apartment he had always lived in sat at the corner of 8th avenue and 18th street. Occasionally he went down to Strands Book Store at Broadway and 13th street, though saw no reason to go any further. He ventured as far north as 59th street only once, and vowed never again. Harald knew this pocket of the world very well, and was utterly content to remain in a place that held no surprises.

Now, to say that Manhattan holds no surprises is like saying that the Midwest has absolutely no agriculture. Though, as Harald had no reference to anything else, he had no way of knowing that he was in fact living in a stream of extremes. For fifty seven years Harald worked as a tailor at the suit shop 4 floors directly below his apartment. His eyes eventually started to fade, and his fingers could no longer hold a needle, let alone maneuver it with delicate precision.

Five days a week Harold walked to Holly Apostles Soup kitchen on 28th street and 9th avenue. Really, he could more then afford to purchase food, but he like watching the young volunteers in plastic aprons and paper hats wander around the dinning room. They were like Piranha’s, leaping at every crumb left on a table or chair. Some of the regular volunteers knew him by name. They were the only people not waiting for him to die, because they were the only people who didn't know.

Harald could not be sure how everyone else found out about the bump on his lung, but they had. Harald called it a bump, doctors called is a name with several syllables, family called it a reason to list the apartment before the housing market took another dive, and friends called is "Not such a bad way to go, could be worse. Could be plain crash or something messy".

Being who he was, Harald naturally began planning the funeral arrangements. The wake was divided into time slots. The order of these slots was determined after hours of deliberation. Harold pre-ordered the food for after the funeral, so all anyone had to do was call the cater company with a specific date - Harald said he would try to make this call just before the last breath, but wasn't sure what to be prepared for in the last minutes, so someone else should have the number, just in case. - The menu was set, and meals were specifically portioned to insure that no one would go home hungry. The timing of each course was more carefully planed then the transit authorities dispatch schedule, and the seating chart was more intricate and specific then an air traffic controllers sky monitor at Kennedy air port. The volunteers from the soup kitchen were at the head table. Harald wanted them to be served at his funeral the way they had served him every week day for years. "You must circle like Piranha’s - like hunting fish" he tried to explain to the wait staff. Most of them just stared blankly at him, so he repeated himself a few times till they appeared to understand.

Harald sat at his kitchen table with a large three ring binder in front of him. All of his plans were within this binder, everything appeared to be set. Now there was just to wait. The phone sat beside him on the table, the cater company's number was speed dial number one. Harald looked down at the binder. It was almost sixty years old, he remembered, he was only twenty years old at the time, and madly in love with a waitress at a dinner on 21st street.

The waitress was probably dead by now, being twenty years his senior, though Harald did not now remember her in terms of age. He remembered the way she pulled her hair back so tightly, it appeared to stretch the winkles out of her forehead. Her thin figure, full of sharp angles. And the way she walked, so direct, almost military. It was as though she were conserving energy within herself, holding it in reserve. This woman somehow held the essence of New York in Haralds eyes.

There is an energy completely specific to New York. It is the energy of a battle field, everyone fighting everyday for whatever it is that they need. To for-fit is to give up hope of winning, but the fighting will continue regardless. Everyone in New York city is a soldier of their own struggle, and Ms. Debra Beam shown this through every motion of her body and expression of her face. At twenty years old Harald did not sit and ponder why this woman felt so familiar to him. It’s just as well that he didn’t, for there would be sixty two years for reflection and regret.

Harald first met Debra in passing the dinner one day. She was smoking a cigarette on the corner, Harald was on a walk around the block. He was not paying attention to where he was going and accidentally stepped on her shoe. She shrugged in response to his profuse apologies, Harald thought it was the most beautiful shrug he had ever heard. He wanted to start up a conversation, though before he could think of a starting question she'd finished the cigarette and returned to work.

Harald was quite shy, and the notion of following her was completely out of the question. Instead he soured home to make a plan, stopping at a stationary shop to buy a three ring binder. The intention with this binder was to organize a plan of wooing the Debra Beam, though upon reaching his home Harald could only think of the wedding they would someday have and began planning that instead.

Harald started eating lunch at the dinner on Tuesday's and every other Thursday. He figured it would be too much if her went every Tuesday and every Thursday, but could just stand the thought of only seeing Debra once a week. At first he waited, letting others be seating before him, until a table opened up in her serving area. Eventually the hostess caught on and held a seat for him. Nobody could quite understand why he wanted Debra as his waitress, she was by far the least pleasant of them all. Her redeeming quality was her speed and efficiency, though Haward never appeared to be in a hurry. He'd have questions prepared, short questions that could be asked within the seconds of refilling a coffee, or bringing a check. At first the questions were basic, even fun, like: "what's your favorite color" or "have you seen that new motion picture?" Her responses were generally short and to the point, occasionally accompanied by a crooked smile. The first time she responded with a full smile was to Haralds very lat question ever: "what are you doing after work today?"

Harald had been dinning there every week for a year and a half by that point. Everyone knew him, though being half her age no one assumed his intentions, except for Debra herself. She'd suspected from the beginning and had just been waiting for a more obvious question or statement. Part of her was impressed that it took him so long, part of her found it pathetic. Subconsciously she wanted him to make a bolder move, and was glad when he finally did. "I am going to watch my sun play baseball in Central Park". She responded nonchalantly. Then something terribly unexpected flowed through her lips, "would you like to join me?" This was an accident, she did not know where it came from, and would have take it back if she could, but as she could not the words lingered in the air a moment. "Yes.' Haward blurted out. "I'd love to."

Debra turned stiffly round and walked away. The hostess, having overheard the transaction looked at each of them confused. Harald pulled the binder out of his bag and made a note that Debra's son needed to be included in the wedding party. The addition would throw off the seating chart, but that could be dealt with later. Harald sat in the corner till the end of Debra's shift and they walked out together. Everyone from the kitchen came out to watch them. Nobody knew what to think, except for Haward, who was still reconfiguring the wedding party in his head.

They walked together to the corner, turned, and began down the steps leading into the subway. Harald hesitated on the top step. "Perhaps I'll just meet you there", he yelled down to her. Debra was already at the bottom of the steeps. "Why?" she asked plainly, a bit confused. "I've just got an errand is all. Be there soon after you." Harald waited to see if she would take the lie. A nod and a shrug indicated that she did believe him, then she disappeared around the corner.

Harald had spent hours watching people go down into the bowls of the underground. There were constantly people going down, and different people coming up those steeps. Countless faces disappearing and appearing. The logical side of Harald's mind knew that the subway was a system, nothing more, a means of mass transportation, a soulless, empty, organized plan. The less then logical side of Harald's mind thought of the underground areas as a city all it's own, a place where no one belongs, but everyone goes in their need to get home, or their need to leave home. A city below a city, is what Harald perceived it to be, and being quite content to remain in the city he knew, Harald chose to stay above ground, he would walk to Central Park.

He’d only heard of Central Park, never having been so far uptown before. The walk up 8th avenue was slightly disconcerting. The buildings were about the same size, and set in the same orientation, though the details were varied. Harald knew every door and window of his immediate area, and the trim that dressed them. He recognized when a new flower was planted in a flower box or if a railing had been recently painted. In his walk, however, there were places without flower boxed at all, and railings and window trim painted colors that Harald had never scene before. Harald found these places strange but not scary, they were still part of the same city, a city he knew.

It was a long walk, taking Harald almost an hour to reach Columbus Circle . He saw the edge of the park across the way, it seemed so threatening, taunting him, like a dare to enter. People were going into it excitedly. Filtering between the trees. “They do not belong there“, Harald thought. “Why are they going so happily into a place they have no business being. The people going into the subway don’t ever look excited about it. They go for necessity. There is no reason these people should be going in there.” Harald saw the children playing in grass and began to worry about them. He was confused and disoriented standing on the outside rim of Columbus circle where 8th avenue runs into the circle and the grid that should be New York becomes a cluster of disordered madness. “What sort of city is built on circular roads? Life is not unidirectional. There is up and down, right and left. People belong on firm ground, concrete, not grass, why are those children running in the grass. They have no business on the grass, they should go home to hardwood floors if they want to walk on nature, or carpet it they need something soft. Something is living in that grass, something that is meant to live there, human children should not be there. Get them off. For Gods sake, save them….” Harald became historical, then began to gasp for air.

He wanted to go back to his box, where the air came in gusts through the wind tunnels created by high buildings, not in swirls from all directions. He wanted to be on the side of the sidewalk where the sun was not hitting, but here the sun was everywhere, there was nothing to stop it. Passerby’s tried to ignore him, keeping a distance away. Everyone in New York seems to see things a little differently, some see in extremes, we call them eccentrics and let them be as they wish. Harald was simply thought an eccentric, perhaps rightfully so, and left alone.

He had to get away, stumbled to his feet and began to run. Harald thought he was running home, really he was running away from anything that was not his home. It’s a subtle difference, but important to this story. For if Harald were simply running home he would not have spent the next sixty two years of his life in fear. If a person runs toward something rather then away from something they will eventually stop running.

Harald reached his home, locked his door, and preceded with a life geographically between 4th avenue and 10th avenue, from 13th street to 20th street. His trips to the dinner ended, he never saw Debra again, and the three ring binder was stowed in a cabinet with other random items never to be used or thought of again. It was though of, though, almost every day for sixty two years. When the doctors told Howard he had only a few weeks to live he did not want to waist time going out and buying a new binder, he simply retrieved the old one, emptied it’s former contents, re-labeled the divider tabs, and organized his funeral - an event that is more guaranteed then a wedding. -

KO

2009-06-26T08:40:00.000-07:00

There is a string attached to
a little corner of my heart.

You may not remember the little
wardrobe girl from years ago.

You played the part of an angle
and the part of a married man.

I watched you from backstage,
praying you'd rip your costume.

"Wow." Is what you said the first
time you walked in and saw me.

I know you didn't mean to say it,
but you did, and I'll never forget it.

There is a string attached to my heart
and the memory of you with blue hair.

The Common Gazelle

2009-06-10T08:40:00.000-07:00

Some women dance at every street corner.

Some don't, for fear of what other might think.

Some dance and make others want to join them.

Some women prance more then dance

Some with gazelle like strides, others resemble frogs.

Some gazelles don't know they are gazelles.

She was a gazelle, though
thought herself a frog. Jumping
around the city as though it
were a series of lily pods.

Never looking back to see the
results caused. Never saw what
other could never miss. She
said things like "I love you",
without knowing how it rippled
his heart.

A gazelle can't be told what

they are. He tried writing
her poetry. She saw the words
like a subway rat reading the
"stay off the tracks" posters.

She complimented the poetry,
tried to write a bit of her own,
then leapt off to a new lily-pod.
Still, "I love you" was said. And
still, ripples were cause.

Now, what can be done with
a misdirected gazelle? Nobody
really knows. So, we all lie,
call her a "Common Gazelle"
and ignorantly ruin the title
for those who do belong to it.

Illusion

2009-06-04T08:40:00.000-07:00

Don't loose the illusion,
for it's all that I've got.

Don't forget the sleepless
midday afternoon naps.

Don't hate the hatred
when that's all we had

for so long, and perhaps
still do. Never forgive

me for leaving. Or be the
bigger person when I

call to say that I'd move
back. Lastly, don't run

if you suddenly have an
available Monday afternoon

to picnic the way we did
in my illusions of you.

an old friend

2009-06-01T08:40:00.000-07:00

the last time i saw him
he drove me home from work
emotion is a weakness,
i used to always say,
and i will have no part of that.
my friend just shook his head in disagreement
your going to cry when you leave me

that's what he said
and i did not believe him
for i had not cried in a very long time
then he drove away
and my body did not know what to do
all the pain i had known growing up
was suddenly trumped

i moved, the way strong people do
and grew, the way weeds do
apparently so did he
for now he's getting married
and i have not been invited
wish i could cry, but i cant, not again
did once, and almost drowned

its a safety concern, really
memories are a danger to ones health
particularly when sitting alone
writing poetry regarding a fellow
about to take a vow
that would keep him
destined to remain in my past

Powerless

2009-05-30T08:40:00.000-07:00

Wish I could make it better, darling
Wish I could send the pain away
If it could be done, I'd do it
If I had the power to make you well, I would.

Won't insult your struggle
Won't say "it's not really not problem, just an inconvenience"
It's a problem I would fight
It's just a problem that I cant.

I remember my great struggles
I now see they've gone away
Now new struggles are upon me
Now your struggle is the same.

It might be a lot of bother
It is a bother I would bare
But my bothers are much different
But your bothers can't be shared.

So you think that I can't help you
So I'll say I can't do much
Here I am to stand beside you
Here I am no matter what.

A Gypsy Revolution

2009-05-29T08:40:00.000-07:00

An awful lot of bother
So little cause
For such and awful lot of bother

Was only water
A small stream
Well, technically a river

I was only curious
Not a crime to wonder
Why they are called "Flood Gates"

Diana was acting strange
Hadn't eaten in three days
And not getting any thinner

Diana lost her job
Her boss was unreasonable
Had poor business practices

I was only curious
Why Prostitutes don't get maternity leave
Never meant to start a revolution

Max seemed sad
The city took away his bed
In re-landscaping central park

Max had no friends
Is the real shame
A lot of homeless people don't

I was only curious
What’s the problem with a little unity
Never meant to induce a vagabond rebellion

Jeff only wanted company
A little conversation
About anything other then Aids

Jeff had a foot in the door of death
Only a foot
Still, company was hard to find

I was only curious
If people could save each other
Never meant to cause a stir

Never meant to open "Flood Gates"
I was only curious
And caused an awful lot of bother

Billy

2009-05-19T08:40:00.000-07:00

We used to throw stones
Off the roof at passing cars
I found the rocks that Billy threw
Till the city ran out of them
Not a goddamn pebble anywhere
That was the day
Billy threw himself at passing cars
Thus, I lost my one true love
8
Mommy and Daddy were selfish
All they cared was saving face
Said their only daughter had no business
With a boy like Billy anyway
No one knw him the way that I did
That’s why nobody came
Or perhaps they both had to work
On my true loves funeral day
16
I was too young to know grief
It’s etiquette or it’s relief
Did not use a month to morn
Rather, a lifetime collecting stones
Through the years the collection grew
Perhaps that’s why at age eighteen
I thought how practical it’d be
To wed a man with a quarry
24
The workmen at the quarry asked Greg
“Who’s the most beautiful woman
You’ve have ever scene?”
“My wife on our wedding day” is the answer Greg gave
Now, this I doubt, and have the right
He was quite drunk on our wedding day
Likely doesn’t remember a thing
It’s a charming line all the same
32
Greg was quite a bit older then me
Been many places, scene many things
Married occasionally
Said I’d be his last, as a mater of fact
For he’d given up society
Spent days in a query among lifeless stone
At night getting drunk before reaching the bar
Where hours were spent wishing the living were rocks
40
“They can’t be unkind” is what Billy would say
“Not on their own anyway”
Cold, smooth and forever anew
For what’s never lived can’t be aging or dead
So thank god for each pebble he gave
I could not judge Greg’s obsession
Understanding being my burden
So five years were spent alone in a house by a quarry
48
Twas a clever trick of time
Ended the marriage of Greg and I
For I willingly wed a 49 year old fellow
Never a 54 year old man
“Play all the numbers” Billy would say
But Billy wasn’t present on my wedding day
Apparently age can’t be got through osmosis
Being married to Greg made me no wiser for ware
56
Packed all my things, preparing to leave
When in the closet I found Billy’s chair
The fucking chair that made strangers stair
As I’d push Billy around everywhere
“Let them stare” he’d say
“Nothing wrong with a little attention”
Wish it were him they were starring at
It’s the one wish I’ve had all along
64
To become a politicians wife
Is to play a broken slot machine
As gambling was never my scene
Became a politicians mistress instead
David said he like the way that I was
How a proper woman should be
High heals, red fingernails
And dumb till something important needs done
72
“Your pretty enough” David encouraged me
“To accomplish most anything
But know you don’t have to, my dear
For fighting is messy
Worse, now with prohibition
I’m just glad to have you to get drunk on”
God, he was gently, simple, kind
And with someone else legally
88
Rumors began
David was a good man
Wife got liquor banned
Then he found a young blond with a soul
The stories were grand
Storied that never ran
For given a chance
The reporters would all do the same
96
Five years went by
Then the women got hold of a kind, gentle man
A decision now had to be made
Billy used to make choices by the role his dice
Never said what the numbers meant
So the rules could be made gradually
David chose to keep his “better half”
That’s what he called his wife
104
Pain, fear, and dirty politics makes the world go round
The philosophy of my better half
He saw everything so simply
We saw everything the same
Is it any wonder then
That I often don’t know where I am
Naturally, the world becomes a cluster-fuck
When the better half of anything goes off a roof
112
The next man I met was not gently, but simple
Had the sort of physique I just had to explore
Never thought of sex as recreation before
But goodness, what fun we had
We were being unfair
For in truth didn’t care for the other properly
Something’s in life mustn’t be thought about twice
Just lay back and enjoy what you’ve got
120
Adrian could be quite kind
Though that wasn’t his natural side
The strength of his physique
Could be used in less pleasant ways
Two years I was battered and bruised
Unable to outweigh the good
An old book store down the block
The one place I’d let myself go
128
Hidden between bookshelves
Happened upon “The Portrait Of Dorian Gray”
Remember quite, was Billy’s favorite book
Perhaps because he looked like Dorian himself
Kept it quite close to my heart
For another three years battered and bruised
I suppose the porn for a woman scorned
Is a book about Dorian Gray
136
One day in the book shop
Scene by a cop
Who looked at me questioningly
Asked where I’d been
Answered “love isn’t a sin”
Though, really sometimes it can be
Not sure how my face looked by then
He said my eyes were lovely, bought me a coffee
Haven’t seen Adrian since
144
Guess some cops can be nice
Like the one used to stand on the corner
He wouldn’t react as though anything were abnormal
While other would ask
“What’s she about, pushing round an empty chair”
Nobody saw that Billy was there.
Just a chair, pare of dice, some rocks
And “The Portrait Of Dorian Gray”
152
I held onto him as long as I could
Five years in the end, that’s all
I shouldn’t have listened, and wish that I didn’t
But it’s too late to save Billy now
I let him go, fall away, leave me
The best man I’ve ever known
I was told to grow up
And now that I am
I wish Billy could still be my friend.

Our Requests

2008-11-27T08:40:00.000-08:00

We all asked him to go. Then we wanted him back. But by that point…

We were teenaged at the time, rash to make decisions and quick to change our minds.
A large group of us would hang out at the train station.
We never actually boarded a train, the station was just where everyone wanted to be,
because that’s where Danny was.

Danny was well liked and respected. He was fearless, clever, and protective of us all.
If a little kid was being teased, all it took was a warning from Danny
and the bully’s would back off. He didn’t only protect us from others,
but sometimes also from ourselves. If he caught one of his friend doing,
or even thinking of doing something destructive, he intervene weather invited to or not.

One day some punks from a few train stops down the line came to our station.
They started to tear apart the station, kicking down the hand rails, spray-painting the walls, knocking down the support beams with a baseball bat.
Before anyone knew what was happening the thugs started throwing kids down long staircases and in front of moving trains. Then they left before anyone knew what to think.
Danny was the first to react. He made sure all the injured were treated, and all the dead buried. Then he met the rest of us at the train station.

I’ve never scene anyone so angry. He was mad that it had happened at all,
that he couldn’t have stopped them. Now he wanted to fight, and the rest of us
encouraged him to. “It will happen again if you don’t go.” We told him.
“There will only be more mass destruction!” Danny boarded a train going
to a place none of us knew anything about, and somehow we felt good about this.

Time started to pass. We heard a little of him at first, it didn’t sound good.
Nothing seemed positive, it became hard to listen to, so we stopped listening.
Our lives carried on, making Danny an ever distancing memory for most.
Occasionally someone would remember that he was still over there,
and try to remind the rest of us. Sometimes my eye would be caught by one of the
“Support our Danny!” signs we mad when he first left. Now the sign was faded,
dirty, and sitting at a nearly abandoned train station.

One day we got word that Danny was coming back to us.
I tried to get a large group to meet him at the station, but as everyone else was busy.
I ended up being the only person there when he stepped off the train.
“Where is everyone?” He asked me. “Well…” I explained hesitantly.
“The kids from Student Counsel are in a meeting, disusing ways to
take little kids lunch money without loosing their vote.
The Academics Club is in the chemistry lab, developing new narcotics,
that haven’t yet been declared illegal by the government.
And the Cheerleaders are throwing a rally to support the legalization of murder.”
He looked at me a moment. “This is what I’m fighting for?”
He said getting back on the train.

I asked why he was going back, what he was accomplishing over there,
and when he would return for good. Danny never answered my questions.
Perhaps he thought I wouldn’t understand. Maybe I seemed ignorant to him.
It was an awful place, just a few short stops away, and I knew nothing about it, none of us did.

I sat at the train stop every afternoon, just waiting for Danny to come back.
Six years had passed since we had been vandalized.
When Danny left people stopped hanging out at the train stations, but this changed one day.
I was sitting alone, like always, when a fellow with big ears came and sat beside me.
"It’s time for Danny to come back.” Said this fellow. I agreed, but nobody else seemed to care. “We will make it an issue.” The strangely optimistic fellow explained.
“People listen and make a big fuss about things declared “issues”.
We’ll say that bringing Danny back is an important issue, then people will listen.”
This was a crazy concept, but surrounded by enough truth to seem plausible.

In no time the platform’s of the train station were flooded with people
insisting that Danny come home, and finally, his feet stepped off the train and into the crowd. Danny’s eyes searched the unfamiliar faces around him. His hands were prepared to fight,
but there was nobody here to fight. His legs were ready to run,
though he would never again need to run from anything.
He was not one of us, or one of them. Nobody knew who this was,
and thus we didn’t know how to treat him. Danny never really came back to us.

Something’s can’t be reversed. Some train’s don’t return.
Instead, they’re track is taken over be a different train altogether.

We all asked him to go.
Then we wanted him back.
But by that point Danny didn’t really exist anymore.
I’m not inclined to say if sending him was a good or bad decision,
I just hope next time we will be more carfull with our requests.

Blameless And Unexplainable

2008-09-25T08:40:00.000-07:00

Someone should have told them, warned them
that the family home was in jeopardy.
It was the house of Mr. Thomas Dream and family.
Thomas thought himself head of the house,
though to keep peace with his wife, Amanda,
he pretended that the house-hold operations
were shared responsibilities. I feel it’s reasonable
to wonder if Thomas knew the severity
of the threat against his home?

Could the possibility of eviction
be one of the many secrets he kept from the rest of the family?
Is he to blame, and if not, who?

Thomas and Amanda have three children.
William, Grace, and Joy now stand at the curb
with suitcases in hand but no place to go.
A homeless fellow passes, ringing a shine bell.
Little Joy reaches out to grab the bell,
but the homeless fellow pulls away,
making the children confused.
Their parents told them they could do or have anything.
William had surrounded his life around this concept,
Grace found liberty in it, and Joy could only be made happy
with material possessions. Now they had nothing.

On one prior occasion, a long time ago, the family budget
had collided with the family motto, but the children’s father
fixed that situation. He noticed one day
that the neighbor’s roof was in need of repair,
and offered to help fix it. The price he quoted
for his services was extremely exasperated
for the amount of work he would actually provide,
but he assured them that he would pay most of it back soon.

He promised them “If I don’t pay back the money in a few years,
you can start taking pieces of my own roof.”
Thomas Dream never though that he would not be able to pay,
though the neighbors had their doubts.
The neighbors saw how the Dream family lived,
constantly wanting more, never satisfied.
So they lent Thomas the money, while measuring his roof
for sections that fit their own homes.

What the family never knew, because Thomas
failed to mention it, was that this was not the only time
he went the neighbors for money.
In the years that he meant to pay them back,
he instead asked for more, until most of his home
was promised to the neighbors.

On one occasion Amanda became suspicious.
She was about to re-paint her kitchen when Mrs. Jones,
the neighbor lady from across the street, intervened.
“You can only paint the walls green.” Said Mrs. Jones.
“That’s my favorite color, and really those walls do belong to me.”
Amanda was infuriated by this and demanded
explanation from her husband. “That’s silly.”
He assured her. “Of course the kitchen belongs to us,
well most of it anyway, but perhaps we should
paint the walls green, if only to keep peace with the neighbors.”

Is was strange for the Dream family to be at odds with their neighbors.
Until recently they had been known for their hospitality.
Amanda had often invited neighbors to dinner parties,
and was the first to welcome newcomers to the block.
Perhaps this is why the neighbors did not begin collecting
pieces of her house. Something changed in Amanda, however,
when Thomas acted suspicious of those around them.
So Amanda stopped inviting the neighbors to dinner.
She built a fence around the front lawn and had the phone line
disconnected. Feeling snubbed by the Dream family,
the folks next door appeared on their front stoop one morning,
expecting to collect the bedroom furniture.

Desperately, Thomas and Amanda scraped together
enough money to pay them, and send them away.
Next the family from across the street came for the kitchen appliances.
Again, the money was collected, and paid.

Grandfather Dream was the next person to appear on Thomas’s stoop.
He was much more welcomed at first. He sat in an old
rocking chair to rest his tired old legs.
Amanda was feeling safe in her home.
She thought that there was only one neighbor that they still
owed money to, and she already had this money saved up,
until Grandfather Dream made an unexpected request over brunch.
“I came for my money” He said nonchalantly.
“I’ve been giving you a little bit of money for the last fifty years,
and now in my old age I can’t work anymore, and need to
collect all the money I’ve give you to hold.”
Thomas had not held this money, he’d spent it all.
On frivolous thing’s, on house hold need’s, and on
paying back the family’s debts.

Thomas though at first that he would simply not pay the old man,
but Amanda insisted. Grandfather Dream took all they she had saved,
just before the neighbors came for the roof.
Then more neighbors came for the floors,
the walls, kitchen cabinets, everything.

The parents got old and one at a time began to die
as the house was taken apart, but the children never grew up.
They kept their youthful ignorance, spent money that
wasn’t theirs to spend, until they found themselves on
the curb without a home. Somehow their life, liberty,
and happiness had been taken away, but they couldn’t figure out how.

Now you know how this storey goes,
from beginning to bitter end.
I hope someone can decide who is to blame.
The silent head of a falling house?
Children always wanting more?
Fearing friends and closing doors?
Or a sick old man in a rocking chair?
It is such a shame to lose the home of dreams,
and worse still if it all end’s up being blameless and unexplainable.

Forgo Regret

1994-10-11T08:40:00.000-07:00

This is the first poem I ever wrote, at the overdue age of nine, and
probably still my most honest piece of work.

I must leave this place not mine
I must go where its memory can not come upon my mind
I once thought that I could press through further
Then time gave way for me to suffer
I know there is a road ahead
One I can see no sign yet of
And the question comes upon my soul
Can I make the turn ahead
And if I do, what will be seen
Or will it be there greeting me
A chance to spread my winds and fly
And if my wing is to be broke
I will pursue, forgo regret
For there is no greater pain that can be felt
Nor could there be
Then that of a tortured heart.