A Secret, Shhh…
Shhhhh, I have a secret the whole world doesn’t know about….
I love everyone.
Yes, you! The man on the subway, the perpetrator of my lungs
and you, the recurring beast in my dreams
and you! You just hugged and kissed me!
oh you… you flicked me off tall fingered at the intersection!
Nonetheless, I am im-pressed by your subtlety
just you being you, in your very mission to live, in your essence,
when I think back on my day, and you swoop into frame,
gliding across my eyeball,
I am so grateful you have included me in your passing.
And why has fortune favored me so
to deserve not one, but a multitude of slaps
across the face?
and fiery burns and charred cavities so deep that
the marrow cracks and years get spent
in therapy because of you, yes you.
How can I sincerely thank you without sounding
like a dazed hippie, or a phony baloney?
How can I make you truly know how much of a treasure you are to my being?
Oh well, you’ll never know
& that’s my secret.
But then again, how can I hold it together with you everywhere, all around me
as it slips out everyday in a smile?
Fire Light, a poem for my father.
The winter’s wind wraps around 5105 Yuma street.
The friends have left, but the living room lives with fire light.
You are asleep upstairs, and I’m alone down here.
Staring at the embers pulsing with red shades.
Faint crackles from the ashy wood.
I want you to close your eyes, and just feel family.
Feel the party on your fingertips, smell the turkey—
remember the smiles, the head nods, the laughter, the joy.
Hold it in tight, and breath out with fire light..
What smoke is clogging my veins
Eyes to crippled to see
The lungs are but a stomping place for such incendiary flames
A northern heart growing grey and dead in the weight
Yellow chalk smearing the lids
Cramped in, then, blockaded by fiendish particulates
Hold a minute, Excuse me please. I forgot what to do…
When to go to that place…
or when to go to that other place
What does time even mean right here?
Chhhhhhhhhhhhh…Chum, Chummy, chummy sort, chummiest of the chumps, living in lumps made of sour patch kids and rewind tapes found on VCR cassettes tapes, tape back my date sack, liquidating wall street stock without proper
click-clock from your stop watch.
Yea, we be makin the machines function trifecta try fixin’ the situation you have us in, lilly pad, roses and petals all day, some way a delay gets in the stove top oven if such things could be bought from the depot, my afternoon address, a confession of white leather with lipstick, hot smoke and canabliss cloaks, foggy minds behind the time without reservation to which way you drinking’ yo wine, its divine, or shrimpy dewine as she would have said, but that dog got infested, gone away from the nested, I confessed it, blessed it, successed it, and rest it.
That ship has sailed onto new 8th wonders of your never benevolent sleep cycles, my mind recycles plastic bags and pickup artists under name tags like dogs in the wild, it’s wild that these creatures ever smiled under such conditions, my apparition feels sallow and meek amongst heavenly creatures, the greeks, the freaks, get out and get beauty and the beast, it’s Disney on ice, slicing the dice back in Vegas were I take out mice from their traps so they can find some sort of meaning through the twisted, the afflicted, the convicted, the predicted.
all my hearts go to you little boys, all my hearts go to you little men, trapped in a cell block, cage 350 without mentioning jail time, these rhymes might take you off your code and demote you to lower management where you thought you could have made a difference alas you were too young in the cockpit, I spit the licks from the sky fan whirling above our heads almost dead but still beating, and kicking, the disks keep spinning and I’m still trying to understand why I’m leaning on bean stalks and totem poles with ancient smoke miracles and blind folds, inter-coursing, in the back alley where I lost my V card only to find that Noor denied me the whole time I couldn’t fathom the thought and so I went back to where I came from and cried and she said why don’t you pluck anymore I realized this conversation was closed and shut before it opened and birthed.
A mother who doesn’t understand the wave of the wand, the grip of a hand, the silence of a message, the text without the e x t . She can’t fathom that apparition has whispered from her ear now I must go and retreat back in my silo in Nova Sibersk where Putin and Stalin co exist and mingle with trump as Kavanaugh goes down deep dirty into the abyss of the undergarments of yesterday’s years focused, shot up and confirmed to him or her self what matters is your gender SILLY, not your liver or you spleen, but your name and phone number so they can DM you on the daily if they wish because they may have those sorts of prerogatives in times passing you know, the days and years go quickly so you must remember the times that are made of, but most especially made for you to remember them and think hard back to when you were a sperm swimming around reminding yourself of how this all works, what the mechanisms are and why your mind clocks in certain zig zag ways to future tense when those kids are grown and grey hair takes over the house. you shake your head and gloat I did it, I did it, all by myself, because the wife has died but the kids remain deep in a treasure chest on the south of Maine with red lobster and Forrest Whitaker. These kids never bicker because they know the repercussions of talking smack to their parents, dove soap bars and paddle boards on their asses, hit those things so hard until therein lies molasses, squeeze it all out kiddies, feel those bones, grind those thighs and grit those teeth, it’s photo time for the calendar yearbook and everyone needs a shoe shine for only $4.99 you can have your nails, face, hair, and paint all done at the low cost that I had just mentioned, what are you waiting for? please answer me this? I only have one question because I’m in sales and these opportunities are luscious and juicy like a vacation in the Caribbean or better yet in bali or better yet in bora bora or better yet in the Galapagos where the penguins flutter in hopes for new life and new birth when all the other sharks have eaten their offspring they sing and wail both happy and sad, but they know no difference not because never not knowing why knotted their wings clung down on the ground and feeling heavy and attached they know they cannot last the circumstance brought on by you, the Elizabethan war lord, the cruel, cumming to south beach feeling the Miami heat shore line at 10 degrees Fahrenheit this zeitgeist has be me pushing bubbles out of tuba tubes encircling a choir of small children singing their hearts darting through mystical memories or dreams forgotten, dreams having to be yet dreamt amidst a crowd of listening indulgent and salivary glands LOOSED upon the inside of their cheeks, they know not… what the storm has in mind of the little ones and those adults sequestering the opposition, the fierce opposition glistening bright in the hallway where salvation can come and save us all, well maybe on another day, for now let’s beckon back to our ancestors and forefathers for missed time and unveil the nitty gritty left in grandpas grail where the ghosts in the closet have more stories to tell, like “are you listening? are you listening?” Don’t forget me, these events did happen and one thing at a time BUCKO try to understand wisdom and poetry, slip, dip, and flick these words unending into your amorphous ear for the bending.