The Family

They traded in history for the colors
The colors for the rare books
The fishing trips were memorable
The creek beds dry, from the accident
They were the kings of the subdivision
That hadn't been subdivided
Yet, though it was scheduled to

They built a border around the woods
Turned it into a ridge and a valley
The vacation days piled up slow
They went to Arizona in winter
Switzerland in summer, the city never
The city was for government services
And that part of life was over

Today they each sit near umbrellas
Thirty feet away, twenty-five if you're tall
The umbrellas cover the darkness
On the longest Saturday of the year
Sunny like someone declared it and dared it
The umbrellas are different, one is in the suburbs
The other two in a magic city

They boarded a plane in the ancient world
Got off near where the seagulls ate garbage
The seagulls looked like tiny people
Flapping and surging, ignoring the jet fuel
The family lived in a room in New Jersey
Then two rooms, then three, and finally six
Suddenly it ended, black sheep strewn

June 16, 2007

Zero Comments

Zero comments
I get zero comments
On my poetry
Why do I continue to post?
Even haphazardly
Intermittently
Is it all worth it?
Or is (are) my reader(s) shy?

You'd think Dirty Brea would get some attention
Or the Leonard Cohen poem, or the one about the Cities Of America
But all I hear are heartbeats
And all I feel is fleeting
As modern poetry
Falls on deaf ears
Or no ears

Zero comments

July 18, 2007

The 3

I'm 3 weeks behind... so here are 3 poems from the first two days of July 1998:

Plural

by making the singular thing
plural
I increase its value
I make it seem
that some things happen twice
when really
something only happened once
the “s” at the end
is a very good friend
to me

July 1, 1998

You Like

I can’t help but
eke out a
day or two
all about you
dreaming who
you look like
you smell like
you feel like
you like

but all in all
fantastical songs
make me winged
and dreamlike
dreaming who
you love like
you look like
you smell like
you like

July 1, 1998

Four Colors

brand new pair of blue black sandals
hair of red and gold and missionaries
this is the thought that I hold
as I wait for the better shoe
to drop, all along, I’ve waited
and true, you only have to die
once
but you have to live in fear of it
every day of your fucking life
so raise a hand
to more easily understand
the cryptic message waves
as your slick hibiscus fades
from view

July 2, 1998