memories through typing

i'd like to go
back twenty years
& type this poem
on an eye-bee-emm
selectric typewriter

i have fond memories
of that heavy, blue,
metallic goliath

my mom worked
that thing over
like a pickpocket
in time square--
deft, subtle

she owned that machine

the staccato
rat-tat-tat
machine gunfire
would echo through
the house as she banged
out that week's bulletin

the silver ping pong
sized ball looked like
a hammer smacking the ribbon

my father, in
the other room,
would finger-peck
his sermon into
existence &
then practice it
over & over again

(rehearsing
rehearsing)

out loud until he
had it mostly memorized
so he could
speak salvation
to his little country
flock

next sunday

Making Weight

He sat across from nobody and
peeled the sandwich apart to
scrape off the peanut butter.
Except for the hint of peanut butter.
Then he ate the lonely bread
and drank four glasses
of water.

"The bread will expand in my
stomach, and I'll feel like I
ate more," he said white-faced.
Thin. Sick looking. Eyes dark.

A hooded sweatshirt running endless
laps in the gymnasium. Sweating out
evenings.

He did not die that year. Or his junior or
senior year, even if his body
wanted him to. Even if it was
telling him to, he did not.
He spent the hot and cold months
throwing his body against the walls of
youth and succeeding and failing.
Endless running in a sweatshirt.

These things sent him
into college, where he studied and
learned.
After graduating he
designed a lever that goes in the air conditioning
of your car.
All cars have them now. All cars have
them now.

He became wealthy. He could afford all
things. A wife. Children.
He found the way to excess.
The years spread out before him with
colors and reasons and the
vagueness of eternity made its whispers.

Now he lives alone in northern Michigan,
With everyone else.

bukowskiesque

i stared at
myself in the
mirror the other
day:

unshaven

so fat i had
faint purple
stretch marks
by my navel

my red birthmark
that covers my
belly & dips between
my legs looked
like a red flesh balloon

my hair greasy
& uncombed

i looked like a bum:
something a dog
would nose once
turn & bury

i looked like i'd just
come down from a
three day drunk

my eyes were
somewhat bloodshot
& rimmed
in dark shadow

teeth filmy
mouth sour

a mess
unclean

filthy

perhaps these are not poetic times at all

i watch the
news:
disgusts me

watch tv:
nauseates me

read:
bores me

maybe mom is right
maybe i am depressed
i don't feel it, though

its just this whatever
it is-- i must sound so

i dunno

metaphysical
or
heaven forbid

emo

maybe it really is
like giovanni

said--

maybe these aren't
poetic

times

at all

What did I learn?

I don't really know.

I could make something up.

I'm clever enough

to make it sound good

but not too good,

still believable.

Truthfully, I don't know

if I learned anything at all.

skeleton horses pull treasure chests
on rickety wooden wheeled carts
in the damp dank basement
beat the dead horse
one
more
time

The years are clicking in the rocks
in my shoes
your voice
your voice is a limb
scaping the window
while the wind blows the
snow across
my eyes. I do not see.
There is
the points in my feet
and the sound while
the minus
is everything else.

Ashamed

I'm not all of America

not even a good representation

of normal. Just one person

maybe a little strange, and

certainly not that important,

but i still feel responsible

for what we do.

If
is a pretty big word
close calls near misses
new momma nearly bleeds to death
on your watch
boy falls 3 stories from rooftop
lands on broken feet
broken axle, switchback roads
back then forth
toddler wanders off in a foreign land
crowded marketplace
if
you were
if
you could
if
you knew better
if
is a very big word

image

looking
outside through a(rain
soaked)
window on the

4th
floor

grey sky
grey rain

down below
someone walks
under

an orange
& white

umbrella breaking
the grey tableau

Cruising

Do you ever feel like a solid old car

with rust damage along the bottom;

with corrosion caused by salt;

caused by solutions?

There really is no hurry.

It feels like it, yes,

But feelings are often wrong,

And trust is easily misplaced

In warm colors and 

confident hands.

Hello (echo)

I really miss reading your posts.  

Undisturbed

- Pot pies heat longer at altitude, 

same bright chicken though, same warm gravy.

- Amped up on home made coffee, 

feeling dark roasted,  feeling quite shiny.

- Lunching early today with easy thoughts,  

the work goes down smooth, undisturbed.

- Coffee steaming next to laptop, 

daily news rattles like city traffic .

- Tired eyes and aching body hold

a mind, not on fire, but smoldering.

- Kindling carefully applied and a soft 

exhale, seeking to breathe flame back in.

In My World

he had green eyes
like a cat with white fur
sunny
i followed him across a field
meadow grass, wildflowers
linen shirt, arms- castle wall strong
he saw me watching
as he
moved the ground
beneath me
and opened his mouth to speak
yellow butterflies
fell from his lips
and then they flew away

Inspired by DWC's Poem

I too am a cliche:
programmer by profession
intellectual by habit
anti-social by nature,
contrasted with a desire
to be accepted.

I am also not a cliche,
but to an unkind eye
with little patience
to gather understanding
I would certainly appear
well defined.

untitled: a study

i
realized today

that i am
the cliche

a librarian:

single
two cats
who has a

penchant for
cardigan

sweaters
(today's

blue) the brown
one

unceremoniously

balled up
& cast

on the
floor

of

my car

everything is aging
wearing down
and patiently
breaking

Now What?

Its temporary;
silent space since you have gone
empty room,clock sound

I'm lying again-
it's beautiful, beautiful
the tropics on fire.

the winds recover
between the alleys and blow
all hell in the streets.

haiku

wind blows hard tonight

sounds like a train goes by here 

door hinges rattle