He Said, She Said

Life is a shit-filled twinkie.
So stop eating junk food

You have to put yourself first
Sometimes that means putting others before you

You have to look out for #1.
Not at the exclusion of others

The only person you can control is yourself.
Control has nothing to do with anything

The glass is half-empty.
That's only because you drank it

I hate it here.
This place is what you make it

I've always hated it here.
It won't be the same without you

I can't stay.
You're going

But I can't say it's over.
It isn't over

We'll see.
I'll try

I love
Me too.

I feel alone
Who doesn't?

Don't forget
I can't remember.

Everything
Anything.

You said
I said?

That day.

The Image

Shudder, then clicking. Zero time and
nothing moves. Planes hold their chinks in
the sky. The automobiles are unmobile.
You cannot step where you're going.
Can touch nothing you're holding.

The slow sound stops; there isn't.

If you were here, we could
share it. I could place my
gaze looking up to your face.
You wouldn't blink.
Your eyelashes would hold
the wind, but

it's only a camera. There's
no one here
to make the picture.

heavy thoughts

sitting with a glass of merlot,
heavy, thick tasting stuff,

listening to music
& the tap of computer keys

trying to sort out
my life figuring the

narrative curve
hoping against hope that

the story hasn't climaxed
somewhat afraid it has

(i fear the existential
b-money shot)

i'm contemplative
as i listen to the

soft guitar music
& watch my cat bat

things around on my desk

grab the wine bottle
by the neck uncork

pour another glass
drink deep

i'll forgo the glass soon
& drink from the bottle

better to get at the vino
easier that way

i promise i'm not a drunk
not even close

i tried to be one time
long ago, but it didn't take

i was a wimp couldn't
handle the aftereffects

that's why i don't
read bukowski

have it told you
that i have warts

on my hands
i do: 3 on my left hand

7 on my right all
are palmsidedown

dispel a myth here:

you get warts
not hairy palms

i'm kidding
i think

DWC

Bicycle (or) Too Tired

she sits on the front porch
watching grass perform a sexy dance
colors shift with the demise of today's sun
behind slippery wax paper clouds
she is tired, weary
she is thinking of burrowing six feet, maybe more
it's not the first time, she knows, but. . . she thinks about it anyway
rest, deep sanctioned rest beneath cool breezes and damp
Jolted by electric prophets and well meaning friends
"what are you drinking?'
Pure evil Buddy-Row, Pure evil
bottomless wine glass overflows
forget about Mary's place Joe
she's too tired

Numbers Adding

He's drank a lot of that tea. I bet I've made him
six of those today. It's good. He likes it with
lots of ice to cool him down. He's so hot.
He sweat right through his
clothes last night. Is the window
open? Here, take off
his socks. I was rubbing his feet
earlier. He seemed to like it. Is
the window open? He wants you to do
it. He asked about you the other day - asked
when you were coming to see him. He
remembered your first and last name.
Is the window open?
Everything is over there in that machine now. That's
all the medicine he takes. They took
him off everything else. She showed
me what to hit when he needs more. Is the window open?
We brought in that TV so he
can watch it. He hears
everything. If you say his name
he'll open his eyes. Is
the window open? Let me go
get my sister. This is her house. She
knows how to open these
windows. I tried earlier but I can't get
the locks undone.

This is Ken and he died. I was here in this room. I heard everything and tried to remember it all from the last time I saw him. It was last week but it's in my head all the time now. I thought I would try to write it, but it didn't sound like this. I can hear the voices but I can't put them down. The room was hot and it smelled like a dying man. Now the windows are open. They always were. Curtains pulled. Wind coming and going. I carry you. He looked like a pharaoh at the funeral.

Living

so right on many counts, ds,
except for this:

these poems aren't for those
who don't live together
any more

but for those

who never did

The Terms

I think

within about two lines and without
scrolling down
you can
tell who

wrote what you're reading
on this blog.
Surprise - it's ds.

These styles made of words.
Words made of man.
Monk writes from the self of feeling.
The galaxy tells about sad
people who don't live
together anymore.
The mother-maker writes
what sees and is. A citizen stares
out from the windows.

This is the earth; ground and dirt.
The furrows stretch to the edge. I can see
the shoots
on your side crawling
towards up - the clouds moving
the busy sky.

the o'malleys

(this one is for 3rdworst's brother)

i saw two soldiers today
in the bookstore

one of them couldn't of
been any older than nineteen

maybe twenty (on a good day)
if he was lucky he shaved twice a month

they walked through the bookstore
in their computer graphiced cammies

brown boots &
high & tights

as i watched them
walk silently

i was reminded of a
scene from good morning vietnam

the one where robin williams
sees a caravan of soldiers

going in country,
headed for the shit

williams cracks wise & does
his schtick & suddenly

gets somber & asks them
their names

they yell out things like
smith, johnson, and jones

but there's one guy
who shouts

o'malley

williams gets teary
eyed & tells o'malley

& his fellow boots "to be
careful out there"

i watched these two soldiers
& i thought the same thing

take care o'malley
keep your head down

come home
safe

DWC

Yesterday and Today

You
want these words when there's
no words

that I should say to turn

something into something else like
turning roses
into wine
or whatever

hey I have no
words to do any of this.

We live in place.
This is where we live.
Then you go I go.


I wake up in two hundred years.
Everything is made of dust. Everything we
said is rain two hundred years ago.
These are the only words only words.
I have been trying to scribble it everywhere if
you saw what I said.

swallow

when i was a kid--
living in the mountains
of MD--

everyspring a barn swallow
would build a nest of
mud & straw on the top of
the porch light--

i would watch the
swallow toil back &
forth slap mud atop
mud mixed with
straw & grass from our
yard

i would watch the swallow
swoop up & down its tail
spread in a V as it
sailed about

by that time
the farmers would be
plowing fields & the
smell of freshly
turned dirt mixed with
manure would fill the air

& i knew in six months
those fields would be full
of fat corn & green beans &
the swallow would be gone
& i'd climb a ladder to
take the nest down

knowing that it would
reappear next spring

DWC 2008

Where'd Everybody Go?

Waiting for the sun
lonely, dust and dry hot room
damselfly enters

Dolar Store- hollar

offended by her scent
i stand a few steps back
and note the items in her basket
maxi pads; of course
a roll of toilet paper
three lemon pies and a box of kitchen matches
heavy woman without any teeth
makes me grateful
to be me

Steering Wheel Scribe

If I could read the last line
i'd have a post
but i may be too intimidated by the level of greatness which i perceive precedes me
driving home, Springtime pores thick with pollen
rosebuds and thorns shoot from the edges of my eyelids as i grab my pen
and scribe as i drive
thoughts on old suntanned free city paper
progeny on paper
dragged up from the floor board
thorns sting and salty tears drop from my chin
to touch down on
jonquils blond fade
and dead butterfly wings
fallen from young lovers lips
float on smoke filled air with
cinders from Falls burning leaves

(i think that's what it says)

Jessica

Fuck you. You shake down a kid
from your gut then tell me
how I look. Tell me about
holes and worn clothes. Tell me about
food stamps and day care.
Tell me about mom's boyfriends.
And what are you doing in my underwear?

Choices don't make me. I didn't make
most of these choices. I rode the
same bus as everyone else.

You let me get away.
You opened your fingers and
let me slip out.
You left the latches open.
You came up behind me with
a banging sound and
forced me out.

Now come around with your eyes.
Come around with your eyes and
see this: I am not alone with you.
More eyes see you than
you see out.
Don't shake behind me.
You are inside me.
When I blink I feel
your breath.

Jessica

She had several small holes in her panties.
Her skirt,
so punk and school girl
four years earlier, was
frayed at the edges.
All quietly betraying
a wife used hard, a young mother
who has chosen poorly
more than once;
so much like her mom.

Arena Decisions

I have to think about the future
as something worth experiencing.

I decide to live this life,
every day.

I must feel like today,
(the suffering
the frustration
the waste)
is building,
contributing.
to a life worth living,
to a series of days worth risking
for another.

Each day its thumbs up
or down, like an emperor
at the finish of
combat, a decision must be made
I put down the wine glass
and decide.

The mob has not always supported my decision
but mostly the throng cheers.
I remember those responses
and vote again,
thumbs up
spare him,
thumbs up
let him have another shot
at glory.

Sometimes I Wish but Don't Mean It, Not Really

Sometimes
I wish I was less experienced,
maybe even oblivious,
aware of the obvious
aware of only enough
to navigate the room
to the fridge,
bathroom,
and bed.

Then, I think
Then I could just
kick back and ride it out.
I could ease in and watch days pass
like a child
looking out a school bus window,
occasionally wiping the fog in a circle
so I could get a better look
but detached enough
to just watch
and think
about lunch
and the cute
girl across the isle.

The Neverywhere

The attraction of self-pity
The reason some people get addicted
is that they can forget about everyone but themselves
It makes them the center of the universe

The center is pleasantly purposeful,
direction is easily defined,
and there are no awkward in-betweens:
The center is always a destination
and a beginning. Always both.

Self-pity is a surrogate center
a placebo of purpose
a negative nest
nestled in the center
of neverything.

Its killing you
but at least you know where you are.
You're neverywhere.

lament

i found myself twirling a
pen over a blank page

just twirling
waiting for inspiration

the second coming is
more likely

i looked out the window to
the great asphalt plain

i saw stunted trees & heavy
machinery & cars

lots of cars

i looked back at my paper
& my pen-- so much for might

DWC 2008

5-7-5

The whole day off work
watching sunlight cross the floor.
I've done nothing, no.

the plaything

i feel like an extra
in my own play

i think i'm watiting for godot
whoever he is--

eating leftover chickenbones
& flipping coins

i blank stare my way through
each act-- hoping i won't miss
my cue

i invariably do, though
its the stage lights--
they blind me, throw me
off-- i hate when i
forget my lines-- i said
that once, on stage, in clown
makeup-- everyone thought
it genius-- i
didn't break character

i try & hide in the shadows of
the stage

avoiding the spotlight
avoiding the audence's eye
avoiding the play-- really

scrounging through my leather bag
looking for my script--
dogeared & underlined

DWC 2008

Odd way to find morning

The mind
is odd, and made of
berries. Rasp and straw hold
it together. Huckle lines the
inside. The past is made of
blue, and the coming sits
outside the elder.
Anything you can think
fits inside
a mul. The rest
is the back of a boysen.

Among Friends.

That's memory:
when slipping away creeps under
the floorboards to here.
When forgetting stomps through the
kitchen barefoot.
It takes a pillow by me, and
rolls over all night. It
keeps me awake most.

Day slops in the window and
I remember nothing.
All the parts
break.
The wallpaper of my chest splits and
cracks under the paint.

Voices from outside. Sisters walk down an alley
to school with their singsong -

'Night comes an-d n-ight go-es
Day slips be-tween
Thin shee-ts of li-ght
Co-ver the earth so shortl-y

Now w-e go aw-ay
Off for the re-st of our l-ives
Little shee-ts of li-ght be-tween
The coming and go-ing of n-ight.'

This is only how I know things.
Truth has no similar tale.