the clock and sun
read 5:51
like an infant I stare
where breathing is none
combing my beard
for wisdom or some
alternate side
of 5:51, where now
it’s 5:52
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magic eight balls
I know I couldn’t have seen what I saw,
but I know I saw it anyway.
An old man, waving, his hair as gray as ash,
his beard trimmed short, a weathered Yankee cap,
his eyes like magic eight balls, googling my senses
causing me to stop and turn, knowing
I’d imagined what couldn’t be. But the mind
doesn’t have to play by any rules
that aren’t of its own creator,
like those magic eight balls whose advice
never really did make much sense,
whose questions we never truly sought to answer.
peaches
An idea
fosters questions.
And questions
raise ideas.
Picked like peaches,
pickled and peppered,
in sealed mason jars,
upon dusty wood shelf
buried in a garage that smells
of gasoline, and summer.
Where as kids playing nerf
we never raised such questions
not having any idea
of the hungry beast out there
waiting, sharpening its claws
using our parents as dental floss,
grooming its teeth, and ready
for the day
it too, could devour our peaches.
gods walk among us
the living
make the dead
immortal
gods
are born
this way
where in
life, they
were men
in death
their spirit, like
shadow puppets
used
by many hands
to spread the word,
grave men and grave women
only hear in death
because they can’t
listen in life
unable to fathom, that
gods walk among us
all the time.
fears of men
The fears of men
are as trivial as
children, picking children in gym,
they never change
they just get bigger.
Good Friday
I take off my shoes
to walk in the rain
through thunder & lightening
it’s a damn Good Friday.
This guy at the bar ain’t half bad!
This guy at the bar the other night
tells me my poetry aren’t poems
but rather songs
as he takes my phone
and begins singing them to himself.
These are great man, he says
really good stuff here,
as he sings, flipping back his hair.
And I don’t stop him, because why
would I stop someone
who’s turned my pain into pleasure
when I’ve tried so hard to do just that.
Hell! This guy’s voice ain’t half bad!
My bad.
Confusion
with a thirst
of stale bitterness
is no reason
to poison someone’s
happiness.
My bad.
an open coffin.
There will always be poverty
and powerless men, who feel nothing
towards people just trying to exist.
Believe it or not it was a club to join,
Till 1955,
all it took, was a .45 colt, a river, a fan.
But it (is) not that world anymore, is it?
I want to say no, but Jackson’s slaying of elderly men?
Born of the same bullet that lay Evers dead.
It’s enough to make you want to blind your eyes, it’s enough to know better than to blind your soul.
So as there will always be poverty and powerless men,
there must never be closed,
an open coffin.
Another night, Bohemian
Strange! Bohemian’s more like it,
how it’s all so curious
but there isn’t a cat in sight.
I think I’ll stick around a little longer—
just for kicks, another Scott…Another.
Good nights with decent people, that’s all.
Words Of An Average White Male 