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Monthly Archives: August 2021

Disaster’s Second Nature

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Each time I think it’s over

It seems I’ve just begun

A chorus full of clover

Was banished in the sun

For means of which to bury

The damage I had done

The answer’s in the soil

From roots I’d given up

A breeze of dandelion

Spread seed in which to till

Much better men than me

Have offered up their will

I fear in faith my effort

Is nothing to be bought

Sometimes it’s rough to read

Sandpaper written thought

So if and when it’s over

I promise not to pry

Disaster’s second nature

I’m not that kind of guy

Moving Day

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We felt almost alive

On the off chance we were dying

If I said I never loved you

We both know I’d be lying

We always looked unclear

On days we lived together

While actors played our parts

They saw each dirty pleasure

With no time left to move

We sauntered in the sun

Two statues out of place

Stone faced we turned to dust

50/50 split

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Some days it’s a blessing

Others it’s a curse

Today’s a bit of both

I’ll only make it worse—

Perhaps this awful feeling’s

A 50/50 split

We balance our emotions

Like Humpty Dumpty did

But come on little Lucy

Fairies don’t exist

The sky ain’t full of diamonds

Your LSD is shit

If proof deserves a reason

I’m aimless as a kid

The message in the pavement

It’s cold covered in spit—

On days that it’s a blessing

Send someone for the hearse

When truth sounds like confession

On those days it’s a curse

Limits On Pain. And Suffering

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At some point we learn

to limit the pain we allow.

Since no one forces us to feel,

we must choose what

and how to suffer.

Brilliantly we will,

whether we like it or not,

allow a chosen few

behind our walls and beyond.

In a way, aren’t we our own vault?

Much less private than we dare to admit

and much more private than we offer to share.

Each his own archive—

Each his own judge—

We can only tolerate so much.

So that if and when these walls are forced,

pried open like steel bars, we’ll know.

And it’s there you’ve got to choose.

Do I sit and suffer knowingly, or

stand up and face my keeper.

All those Long Island years ago…

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It was like

When I stopped wanting to forget

I started to remember

Every minute

Every second

Lost—

And everyone I gave way to that bitter beast

Now empty, yet able

To proceed where I left him

All those Long Island years ago

While she watched The Great Gatsby

And I painted her in watercolors

Poorly, but good enough

For a young drunk in his prime

Matchbook Memories

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I kept everything you gave me

In a small plastic container

In a bankers box

In storage

Where I visit you sometimes

Behind a steel shutter door

Padlocked and

Secure

Sometimes you’re there

Others you’re just stuff

Relics of the past

Which I’ll never destroy

Because life is very long

And even though you’ll never know

I still need you some days

On days like yesterday

To bring me back from

these Matchbook Memories

Stray Dogs

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What breaks me doesn’t make me

stronger have you heard

How opposites attract me

without a single word

But feeling without feeling

it’s not a look I’d choose

Now stripped from sole to clavicle

the fear of being used

Presents me with a question mark

no matter what I do

Repeating like a replica

like I’m some form of you

Reaching in my pocket for

a reason to be saved

What breaks me doesn’t make me but

I’ll learn some other way

Like how the cacti flowers from

the desert dry as bone

Or how the chrysalis consumes

itself then finds a home

Or how the wolf does stray

to die a lone cub in the dark

It’s there I lie on grass stained sheets

like stray dogs in the park

ice chips

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Golden hour

Chewing on ice chips

Not much to say

If There’s Blue Sky In My Future

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If there’s blue sky in my future

Give it to me soon

These days have been a meathook

Mourning until noon

Seems things will never change

So don’t blame me if I do

If there’s blue sky in my future

I owe it all to you

GAP Dream

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This is all very blah—

Picking apart the day

like grey hairs uninvited.

The people wait in line

for frappe’s and creamsicles

dripping wet from leaky faucet

mouths of children half asleep.

And mom’s mother Mary Annette

dangling her strings from crooked joints

to anyone who will listen,

even the kids tune her out.

And boredom spread like smiles

over reluctant father’s faces

who’d kill to keep their family safe,

and at the same time be anywhere but.

What a time to be alive, says the old man

generic in his enthusiasm,

talking nowhere, you know back in my day—

Nickels. Dimes. And War.

It’s no wonder there’s limits on parking

and aspects of life we don’t bring up,

and crystal balls and metaphysical shops

selling peace of mind for change.

This is all very blah—I know,

it’s just someone’s wearing GAP Dream,

the same perfume she used

to remove me from her skin

on car rides home

before either of us could drive.