Time-table-fitness

In the bus-drivers world
more people
are worried
about their health.
From his seat
far more people
are jogging.

Lensed

This morning was foggy;
dense, heavy
and laying
in layers.
It functioned
like a lens
and broke the rising sun
in two parts:
one
the explosive light
of the sun
and the other
the simple image
of the sun as a disc,
like one sees
during an eclipse.
It was odd.
The raging of the sun
and the simple beauty
separated
from each other.
Sometimes I can see
myself in this way:
two halves.
The unfocused chaos
of a life
in progress
and the simple visage
of the man himself
riding that chaotic wave.
I too
am raging.

Alone together

I had decided
that what I wanted
was some sort
of regular social
interaction:
some group
that needed me.
The thought died,
however,
on the doorstep
of my commitment
to never needing people
or desiring
anything too social.
I don’t want
to be needed,
it seems.

Blood in the streets

I found myself
listening
to Morrison’s
An American Prayer
the other day
and I recalled
how much I once wanted
to have my work
sound as well
when read
aloud.
His poetry has been
vastly underrated,
his narrative style
misunderstood.
The cadence
is addictive,
the balance of syllables
perfect.
I will humor myself
and read
(with soft intonation)
one of my longer pieces
and pretend,
for just a minute,
that I am holding court
(and a pint)
on a dark backroom
of a bookstore,
or some venue,
while people listen
with rapt affections.
Then I break my trance
and step away
from this hollow
ego
dream.

Termination

The writing
is on the wall
and
a reckoning
is near.
I will be
destroyed,
of that
there is no doubt.
Let it be so.
I will welcome it.
It is far past due….
Really
it is a favor,
I will receive
closure.
Do it,
just fucking do it.

Return call

The doctors office called
they asked me
to call back…
cryptic.
Good or bad news?
It’s it wrong to hope for bad?
It would explain
a lot.

It’s called a fucking SIDEWALK!

If you prefer
the roadway
to the sidewalk
for your pedestrian needs
please take this
in the spirit
in which I present it…
Fuck you.
It’s a fucking sidewalk.
Its intended purpose
is built
into
Its name.
Your anger
upon being corrected
is almost worse
than the offense
Itself.
But,
again,
fuck you.

Spoken/Unspoken

Why are we so eager
to wound
or insult
those for whom
we are said to have
the deepest
affections?
What you said
can only be
cruel and barbed
and if said by a stranger
would require a response
of intense vitriol.
But you said it.
You.
I felt a shadow pass
between our orbits
and I cannot stand
the chill therein.
I have no way
to tell you this
so I will leave it
to fester here…
unspoken.

Suits you, though

Flashes of brilliance
from the past
(auditory echoes
from a youth)
now fading
and forgotten…
or worse,
only recognized
for their former glory
or significance.
Now we have gotten old
and the sounds of our past
return to remind us
how much had changed.
It’s not wearing
well.

Bus-trip

I know I do the thing

where I talk about the banal

like it only happens to me,

like I’m the only fucker

seeing this passage of time,

or complaining about the triviality

of the day-to-day.

But god-damn it,

we each only get

the one-fucking-seat

on this bus-trip from hell

that we call “our-lives”

and fuck it,

I’m gonna’ look out my window

at the same fields and farms,

the same dreary landscapes,

and make the same tired observations

as everyone else

who came before.

It’s my birthright.

I get to be the first person

who read Kerouac,

Ginsberg

and Bukowski…

the first person who discovered

that the simple day-to-day

was tiresome

and soul-destroying…

and I’m going to bore you with it….

so fucking belt-in…

it’s a long ride.