you can't hide

you can’t hide coming to grips
with wrestling boy
in a world that always wins
stark dark dog eyes
sometimes growl
sometimes whine
then close in dreams of lunch

horror tells
whore to hurry
watch raggedy run
time’s always short
go ahead roll the dice

the dog is hungry
there’s lye to cure the lice

55 word poem

The Phoenix in Tucson

It is that my life
Grew strong this seedling.
Residue down when
Winter limbs knurling,
Naked claws the brash
Winter sky slow, soft
Scratches on itchy
Dusk’s knobby spine clouds.

But I in my fell
Passion scorched the dark
Night close, day wide bright
And set to this tree
Fire that consuming
Left blackened stump.

55 word poem

Serial Sad

Unquiet day when my
Restlessness startled my sleeping me,
When chambered horrors broke free,
When a pale, white, full moon bag of me
Drained and shuffled down a sad and lightless hall
And said this is it, that’s all.

Last night’s shining smile won’t set me free
And why should I be, this criminal of the heart.
My love’s no joke (like a bad punch line
Told over and over, until everyone starts to laugh).
But I ain’t laughing because it hurts,
Just like dad did me

And my heart broke with a twang,
A tossed out, spring tight clock.

Submerged Science

Apple apologies in a basket,
Rain stained sheets on the line,
Call waiting and voice messages,
Corner foreigner’s the milk man now.

And I’m the foreigner now,
Waiting to know if the
Milk man has a story to hear,
Is it our song, all the kids are humming?

If the ice man cometh
Is global Miami
And Miami is a good dive
(Drove the levee over the Chevy and the levee wasn’t dry),

The country of the Condoleezza Rice
Floating over soppy Atlantis’s dreams.

Sweeping the Dawn Sky

Sweeping the dawn sky
with large, black wings,
crow lands at
very top.

Tree, celebrating,
throws yellow confetti.

Old man clinking
glass bodies
dead of last nights laughter.

Trash being tidied
on faded asphalt
scruffy piles.

Black cat
watches below the trees.

Time stands still

but will start
with children to fro'
in iron chairs.


55 word poem

Halloween was our best season

Howl as an aching moon
goes groaning low and wide
in the west. Howl as time
passes boundary between happy
and sad. Howl because you don’t
know what else to do.

Growl at slowness of dawning,
longness of frowning,
shortness of the breath of fall,
with its amber haired smile

and days of retreat
in memory’s eclipse.

Whimper recalling once was
in grown up child’s busy.

Jilly’s Celebration

Wild haired in the dawn;
It’s not about me.
Saw mill bandits
Still cutting logs.
Cat dance near the sleeping dog,
Growls chasing dreams away.

Do they run, do da!
Horse hair dawn streaks,
Brilliant fur on the horizon of day.

Night grows in anticipation;
Night grows on a cake from the store,
Puffs of steam from sizzling stones.

The gig is done, midnight is noon;
Happy birthday, Happy Anniversary!

oil workers sestina

cause the weight to be lifted
but not before one human moment
sharing the commonality of conversation
touching simple soul to soul
for when the burden is taken away
all is done and in the hole

create something even on the brink of the hole
we cannot escape that weight being lifted
make that connection which does not pass away
have kindness because in some next moment
the coil will unwind from around that soul
touch it with gentle caring in conversation

how many times a day in conversation
do we treat others darkly in ways not whole
in how many ways do we tread face with leather sole
how often we seek that anothers wallet may be lifted
considering only ourselves for that sad moment
looting time and friendship for things carried away

or jealously protecting our pitiful own being carried away
taking the taste of bitter in the words of conversation
carrying the weight of emptiness to burden the moment
like the heavy impossibility of picking up a hole
like wanting first place finding it translates to alone lifted
hungering throughout life without knowing its to touch another soul

the doctor looking down at that last moment of the soul
the pipe fitter asks when they will take the pipe away
not knowing as the doctor does what will be really lifted
while they wait the little things of life are conversation
don’t juggle the tons of pipe let him have his consciousness whole
do you smoke, he asks for a moment

trying to quit says he the doctor offers you can quit in a moment
while they share a smoke they quietly touch each others souls
hes worried will i ever again be whole
theyre still not ready to lift the big pipe away
do everything we can is the gist of conversation
lets enjoy talking til its lifted

smoke dissipates leaving the smell whole as they flick the buts away
rest easy your honest soul and thanks for the conversation
and hes immediately dead the moment the pipe is lifted

Soap Sonnet

What are the real qualities of a clean shirt?
Who could teach it to know that?
Warm, soapy socks in your hands
Are slippery, sensuous.

Dials and knobs tell it all
But tell it nothing else.
If there is joy on laundry day
Its because it works by itself.

Complete with ugly and dumb,
Only as smart as a drowned flea circus,
It can’t be denied it knows what its work is;
Results are good but you wonder why?

While you whistle and sing filling this thing,
The magic goes in with the clothes.

Darkness and Shadow

Day does not begin with sunlight,
It begins with waking.
Dreams go through day and night
And never ask: am I awake?
Dreams sometimes sleep
And then there is true shadow.

I went to sleep in jail
And woke up having killed.
The room where you find the door
Was made of black satin.
The robe of the judge
rustled in darkness I found waiting.

No evil can be done at night,
No good during the day.

Rounding the corner from mind to flesh

In silent dreams we pilot the seams between life and death. The ground is so sure when none is there. Nor does sleep buffer flaws, fears or foes. What we see, unfettered, is clean, pure essence of thought. Whether pain or pleasure, this weighty lumber is dragged to new vista in passive will. What waits there is the thing, the play. Hamlet’s power is that he dreads it so to go there with no return. I, too, long for the foolishness that is waking. I, too, long for the relief when flesh is logic.

Sailor

Fire start nights, the mystery of not
Being somewhere you know –
Water creatures on the shore of wet
Banking into a turn at the speed of air.

Flashing silver rain,
Moonlight in the fountain,
Pale yellow eyes with black dots,
Stretched along the skin of the water,

Watching, waiting, serene
As pomegranates fall from the sky
filling pools of red juice around cobbles
making the night urgent.

Making stone beat feet hard and fast.
Making the woman of the dry ask “What’s your hurry?”

Sad friends senyru

tears reflect
this strangely rounded moment
in a wet eye

dirge for bob denver

what makes the silence as he turns
or laughter we bought in cans
that cannibals and the assortment
of others who kalfka walk
in and out like it was
help you couldnt be
self obsessed enough to escape from
a giant country not a tiny
island and the lost were
there in blank pratfalls of
useless humanity
doing duality with
singleness of purpose and
double entandre until we
finally stop looking and
he walks shakily over the water
sick and tired to stay
very far from any beach

came together

blankness waits again
rolls off the tongue
like a word

ive made it up
just before it
became me

found it out
found out how
right i was wrong

incredible sensation
dark cannot hide
nor pain ease

tears for friends
that you would give up
feeling to end pain