Broadway Mike’s headed south
for the winter
hoping for a more temperate
climb
& Little Charlie Manson,
he saw something
he insists on calling
“The Light,”
invited Medusa to
return
from her exile.

one man’s Springer moment
is another man’s
everyday,
life on the
north side of
Motor Bike City.

the Mayor,
he’s aware of
all of these
events
but issues no kind
of warning,
simply mourns the death of
the spiders.
there are days,& some be worth
the remembering.
what that this
could be one.

poetry

it’s half past
seven
& the fog,
it’s beginning to
not lift
but maybe just thin
a little bit
& I’m left here
wondering
where the hell has
Tonto gone?

on Tuesday,
there will be
answers,
the mayor will return from
sabbatical.
the sun will break through
whatever it is that
needs breaking
& the priestess may even
ascend
to her throne.

at the very least
we’ll have just cause
to change these
dirty shirts.

yesterday,
we had less than no
idea
what the current rotation
might bring.
an hour or so ago
it occurred to us that
we may just have been
right.

it’s been weeks
now
since we accepted the
compromise
& I’m left here
wondering
just where the hell has
Tonto gone?

poetry

it was my favorite shirt
for something like six weeks
back in the summer of
ninety-six.
it’s reign lasted
four days longer
than the one of the girl
who thought it made
a nice gift.
sixteen years now
& I still have the shirt.
I still remember the way
her hair tangled around
the arm of her sunglasses
too
but that doesn’t fold
as nicely
on a shelf.

poetry

i’d like to point out
that the war’s been over
going on seventeen days,
& that wasps have built on
the underside of
the mailbox.
i’d like to report
that the dope bill
is due.

i’d really like to know
if anybody gives a good damn
about anything other than
the angle of
the drip.

i had an idea
once
but the rest of us
didn’t like it.
come to think of it
we weren’t too thrilled about
me not having it
either.

the drone of the highway,
it’s got them blind,
blind as well as dumb.
got them,
maybe got you
too.

if there’s a
lesson
to be learned
in all of this,
i’d like to play the part
of teacher.
chalk dust & apples
aren’t exactly
up my alley
but they damn sure run
up & down the side street
my alley empties
into.

poetry

meanwhile,
the orphans have finally stopped
singing
the songs of their forgotten mothers.
finding no solace in
the sirens or the night,
they resign,
six more sleepers
for the battle to ignore.

these cuts & bruises,
these flesh wounds & scars.
these days we’d be happy with a postcard,
a snapshot of the
execution.
a scatter gun to keep
the buzzards at bay.

a brick in the
cobblestone street,
a seedless vine that bears
no fruit.
a shadow in the hallway
where no shadow
should be.

there are answers,
& questions to surely follow.
there are a hundred & four
days
until Constable returns from
the gap.
there are six of them now,
wretched by moonlight,
beneath the sill,
still not singing
& their silence is becoming
hard to ignore.

poetry

two nights ago,
we made love,
the dolphin &
i,
swimming together
along the carrier wave.

later,
there were cocktails.
cocktails & harmony
beneath the shade of
the fourth branch
from the bottom.

all of which
raises the question:
what is left
for saturday night?

there are pressures,
both internal &
otherwise.
most of them i’m at a loss
to explain.

it’s not been decided
if their numbers
have become too
significant
or it the grass
just isn’t growing as tall
but the snakes,
they’re having a hard time
keeping hid.

poetry

i linger for a moment
on the pegs,
consider their respective holes,
& pass on reconciliation.
the angles are all
contorted
& geometry in general
has been functioning
rather strange
since the morning
the lesser of us
left

that night,
on the mountain,
i considered leaving,
weighed my absence against
the lightning & the wind.
it should have been
the most automatic
of reactions
but i’ve already admitted to
not presently knowing
the difference between
an angle
& an arc,
so here i am

they lifted the curfew
day before yesterday
& there’s been no sleep
going on seven days.
on the dresser,
car keys
& a half loaded
thiry-eight.
we’ve got ‘til morning
to make it thirty miles past
Wichita
‘til sunset to make things
square

poetry

I think of the
failure
as a simple function
of your absence.
without their north star
the helper monkeys are in
full revolt.

there were times,
we’ll not bother
burdening them
with labels,
simply acknowledge them
as times.

time,
yet another function
your absence
throws wrenches in.
the monkeys,
yeah,
they’re still off
the clock.

I can feel a sadness
on the wind today,
a need for
lesser grip.
I can hear the
fracture,
catch the splinters
as they fall.
I can taste the air
in the places you used to
stand.

I can see you
& know
you’re not there.

poetry

on my right hand,
a dui stamp
from Saturday night at
the Canoe.
i hid it in the
pocket
of the jeans i’ve worn since friday
when i saw her
late monday night.
contrary to popular opinion
things haven’t been all
peaches & cream
as of late.

in another part of
the city,
the Rag Man annoints his
trailer-trash Princess
with the elixer of
understanding,
an act of rebellion
not unnoticed by
the pariahs & the priests
but then what chance does
family stand
against a kiss & a hug &
a good blow job?

these are the
accidentals,
unanticipated sharps &
flats,
thorns in the side of
our late-summer rhapsody,
non harmonic improvisations
a step & a half from
brilliance

poetry

pretty blue
eyes
& a forty degree
drop,
six inches out
& down.
tequila & fruit mix
don’t count for
much
before dark

there’s a place nearby,
on the outskirts of
Motorbike City,
it’s a nexus of sorts,
the hip-joint of
uncool,
a place where things
that didn’t happen
reside,
a place where the
ducks
squawk & squeal
on command

yesterday,
we learned lessons,
parables of tinted glass
& tarnished
silver spoons.
tomorrow is for
gravity,
gravity & the arc
of a lie

poetry

broken glass &
holes punched through
sheetrock walls,
graven idols of
stitches & bone.
these be the scars
happiness left.

i could have sworn
it was all wrapped up
tight.
i could have sworn it
was all going
according to plan,
i could have sworn
the alibi would hold.
i could have sworn to you
a hundred and forty-seven times
that the coal would last
‘til mid-march at least,
i could have sworn
the wolves
would never come that close.
i could have sworn,
but i would have been
all wrong.

break out the iodine,
baby,
& a bottle of something
brown,
it’s tuesday night &
they’re not taking
no
for an answer.

poetry