Transition – A Poem

 

Transition

Lost in a meaning
transition
to a park bench
a man borrowing space
time
A pond reflecting leaves
gathered
goldening along the shore.

His mind coiled
hesitating
content
birds talons scratch into
the silver branches
Suspend

ten years
prior movie theater newsreels
of World War 3 4
(numerologists parsing the sums
publicly airing
their differences)
Bring the Boys Home Uncle!
Bring the Boys
and Girls
Home!

Late night
a quiet one
no longer anything to say or too much
to
A walk over snow-covered
streets
crystalline
hand in hand to a bright café
a table
serve
spliced memories captured
in a photographical jumble

Fire in the basement
furnace
crimson indigo dance
the house creeks and wakens
and the cold dissipates
briefly retreating
to the attic
Man asks for a light
in the dark
and locks the door

“Someone at the office told me then news,”
he says
“Can’t be too careful.
Outlaws
are everywhere these days.”

Time passes with grilled cheese
green beans
and vodka
unnoticed announcements invitations
left
unanswered.

Transition
a bench
a pond
leaves and birds
branches
his furrowed face captivated in
the evolution of
ages begetting meaninglessness.

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An Orange Coat – A Poem

 

An Orange Coat

Orange coat in the morning
chasing
spiraling
pockets of air.
Trouble smothered in a letter
opened on
the
staircase
misunderstanding references.

We reveled as
the
mundane
was contaminated
peaceful monotony
decayed.

In a darkened room you laid
naked
covers draped
over your head
feet propped by pillows
seams of
golden
thread.

My right leg callowed
between your
thighs.
In the closet
an orange
coat
hung the lusts
of our youth.

Our laughter
fragilely collided against
each
other.
Pierced by nails
into the floorboards
our blood
mingled and seeped.

We partitioned our hours
attempting
to cling onto
paradise.

Glaring your eyes
held me.
Images swept up
from the letter
fell
through
the railing and
broke discourse.

The belt
of an orange coat
swathed
your waist.
The
morning
bloomed effortlessly
under a sun
reddened
by the clouds.

The Age of Reason – A Poem

 

The Age of Reason

It is seven and I am eating a meal
of fish
(salmon for those who
are curious)
and rice
(white with a touch
of soy sauce
so as to not appear
pretentious)
for breakfast
with my son next to me
at the table
eating a big bowl of sugary
chocolate
cereal.

My morning cup of coffee is too bitter.

There is an unpeeled
banana
beside his bowl.

“Make sure you eat your banana too,” I say.

He nods.
He tells me his favorite breakfast is
pancakes.

“That’s a good one.”

“Mom makes the best.”

“She does make
one hell
of a pancake.”

I feel a certain liberty
to cuss
select words
in his presence
as he has just turned ten.

The age of reason.

A time when his inventive imaginings
begin to fade.

“Are you going to work today?”

“Nope. You going to school?”

“Yeah.” He drains the milk
from the bottom of
his bowl
and takes the dishes to the sink.

“Come on Bryan. We’re running late,” his
mom calls out.

I go and grab his backpack
and handing it to him
he slings it over his shoulders.
I walk him to the door.
Opening it I ask

“You want to watch a movie
when you get home
or play a game? Or something?”

“I dunno.”

“Okay.”

He walks out and I say bye.
My wife hurries past
me
a professionally dressed blur
whizzing through
the door
saying

“Have a nice day”

as she reaches the car.
A red Honda
that will take
three and a half more years to pay off.
About.
Give or take a few months.

I watch them as they back out
and drive
down the street
into the busy-ness of school and career
and I go inside
to start cleaning up the morning dishes.

The banana is on the counter.
Peeled but forgotten
in the mad dash
out the door.
I pick it up, break off a piece
and chew it
while looking out the backyard
where a dozen
sparrows
skitter along the grass
thinking

about the bitter coffee.
Better reduce
the number of scoops
tomorrow.

Jacob’s Ladder – A Poem

 

Jacob’s Ladder

You see, I am the grandson of Jacob’s
second cousin,
and whatever else that may mean,
it affords me certain
visionary privileges.
So when I was on my way
to the ladder
his niece now maintains
out of a sense of
traditional sentimentality,
I sliced my foot on a shard
of your heart
that lay in frozen splinters
over the ground.

We memorized the steps down to
the banks of the river,
remember?
where the ring was tossed
into the streaming
light
of the gathering clouds.
I memorized the feel of your ribs
through the thin fabric
of your t-shirt
as you slept.

I see an open umbrella
on a hot day,
still white foam conjured in
swirling waters where
two currents meet,
magpies and a woodpecker
in the canopy.

You beg me
for a match
and lighting your smoke ask
if I ever
felt the need
to scream.

Sometimes I answer.

What makes you need to scream?

Thoughts about the grave.

I like to scream in the rain.
Once I screamed
on the sidewalk
outside of a Barnes and Nobel
for so long
that my voice become hoarse
and they called the police.
I was arrested
for creating
a public disturbance.
I spent the night in jail
with a lady
named Judy.
Jailbird Judy.
She was a heroin addict.

There is a gentleness in the way
you strummed
the ripples of my heart
that reverberates
in me
still
like notes played
by a solo flute
in an empty hall.

I know in the morning you
are gone.
The cold north wind has been stirred
blowing across the river
shifting the currents,
and crows have come
to pick at the bones I left.

So that here at the last leg of my journey
I wait
with a bandaged foot
for the Sun Driver
to take me up to the top of the mesa
where Jacob’s niece lives.
I never told you of her, did I?
She is old
now
and living in a mansion
that smells
of Euphrates Lavender,
but still keeps the ladder in
impeccable condition.

For what good it does
she told me once.
Heaven collapsed years ago
due to outside forces
and being internally
unable
to adapt to changing global
market conditions.
All the angles now
live off of the trust fund
they inherited.

She is a solitary creature
by nature
but always has room
to accommodate me.
In her residence I will be able
to ascend the ladder,
to bend my vision
to see beyond the gates, the fiery
chariots and
the crashing walls,
the descending doves,
past military and economic
institutions and
inquisitions,
through those splendorous media
productions and
programs
about serialized consumption.
Visions so distant as
to pull me away,
far from the world,
and far
from my memories of
you.

A Bus Ride with Grasshopper Eyes – A Poem

 

A Bus Ride with Grasshopper Eyes

He turns around
in his seat
to glare at me
with grasshopper eyes
shining in a translucent ooze
under a steel-gray forehead
and I
want to fly
out of my skin.

But I look out the window
instead
where the air is foamy
and volatile.
A cat
nauseating Latin
mediates
between
libertine conceptions
of modern
art forms
while sitting atop a brick wall
by a garden
of impatiens.

My mind drifts
as I remember the dream
I had
the previous night
where my wife
was kneeling on our bed
among the
littered
long blades
of grass
seeded and pregnant.
She was in a button
down dress
with those damn buttons
only half-way
unfastened
so that her bra
peeked out like
a tempting blue fire
and I was kissing
her neck
as my hand traveling down the small
of her back
searching for
mysteries.
Places
begging to be explored.
Yet she rebuked
my advances
pushing me away
saying

“We’ve been over that.”

Waking up I grabbed hold of
her hand
and watched
the darkness gather
about
as it
seeped
from her mouth in
web-like shadows
clouding her lips to
flood the room
with each exhale
of breath
she took.

I wonder now
when it was
that I could still
distinguish
my
dreams
from reality.

The sun is hot
on my face
even through the tinted glass
and the air conditioning
vent
overhead.
I see
a mailbox post without a
mailbox.

Shops pass by
selling
polluted ecstasy.
International fantasy
that’s produced
and marketed
by corporations seeking
atonement
with the devil.

The rain starts when
I get up to leave.
It isn’t my stop
but I need
desperation.
I pass
Grasshopper Eyes
who has turned his attention back
to his pornographic
cell phone
judging me
an illegitimate
substitute.

Heaven shows
its apparent displeasure
at my exit
by letting loose
a summer
torrent
as I step off.

But waiting outside
in the downpour
Hope is wearing
spongy shoes.
She is smiling
apparently
satisfied to be able
to walk
on water.
Joy
though
is plastered
on the side of
a church
and doesn’t seem to be
too
thrilled
at her current
state of affairs.

Accordion Dance – A Poem

 

Accordion Dance

Greeting Saturn
with a bandaged smile
your composition
on the outrages
of an orange flavored love
flustered
his simple
sensitivity
in politically charged matters
and I was breathlessly watching
you
two
performing an accordion
dance
recalling its complicated steps
that
Mars had taught me
before
he
changed houses.