Thursday
May282015

the last train engineer

a few miles east,
over the Broadway Extension,
the 3AM train would barrel down.

 it was always on time and
unlike the 7AM,
the 3AM
never
stopped.

its thick whistle blew the duration
of its passing

 and i listened to it every night.

i suppose the engineer,
knew his time was limited
for his responsibilities had been diminishing
with the rise of automation.

 and so, sitting in a dark engine,
a lone passenger watching the world smear,
there was probably no sweeter thing
than to crack that hard cable
and stain the night with sound.

 a last desperate cry for the ghost trains. 

another heavy steel toast to the failed spirits
of John Henry and Casey Jones.

 

 

Thursday
May282015

The Middle Ground

some poets... well...

they write way over here,
on the right side of the page.
you know, for dramatic effect.
because English text ain't supposed to be
way over on the right side,
all by itself.

it's supposed to be over HERE.
on this side, where
it has room to run across the entire page if it really wants to.

 

but sometimes it isn't sure what to say or where to be.
so it just sits in the middle,
and pouts.

Monday
Mar032014

Too Much Neutral

a beige pot for a brown plant
filled with sand
being carried by a tan man
in a camel shirt
and some khaki pants.

just too much neutral to stand.


 

Friday
Feb212014

Oath of the Free

Adrift my mind, daily steals
the line, the rod, the fish, the reel
though fortune blessed my spirit free
I'm chained to passion drowning me

No salvage for a listless soul,
costly comes life's aging toll
a worthy memory, marked to be
strong as the ship that charges me. 

I'll file my nails to the hilt
saw the shackles hitched to guilt
fight hordes of voices, unresigned
to live a life that's undefined.
To live a life that's undefined. 

Tuesday
Jan072014

One Night's Motel Sleep

 

One Night's Motel Sleep

Everything hurts tonight.
Even the fan has an unfamiliar hum

as if it's been spinning for far too long.

There's so much dust that even
the dried streams of spilled paint
that have dribbled down
these motel walls
from a thousand prior paint jobs,
leaving veins of hard, white tears
crusted to the drywall,
carry dust.

They are like little, old rivers.
I sometimes push them with my fingertips.
They are dried and yet they still
give under pressure a bit.
They still feel soft.

I briefly close my eyes and
colorful static flutters about inside my eyelids.
I cannot escape this visual noise.
It is not black with my eyes closed.
It's as if my eyes are
attempting to receive a broadcast
but have no idea that the connection has been cut.
I am off the air.

I open my eyes, get up from my chair
and look over at the bed.
I see you lying there, asleep.

I light the room with my phone
and stumble quietly forward.
I slide into the bed slowly as not to wake you.
And then I kick the night stand and
EVERYTHING falls off.

I am suddenly a tambourine player.
Or a blacksmith.
Or a bell choir.

I check to see what damage has been done.
Nothing.
Everything is fine.

I lie down,
and just before I attempt to close my eyes once again,
I think of how grateful I am
that you are not something else,
like a bag of dirty laundry or a sack full of groceries.

I think of how grateful I am that the sheets
are moving with your breath and that
you are alive and not dead like
most people that have walked on this Earth.

I then slowly lie my arm over your shoulder.
And I close my eyes.
And the static inside subsides.
And the fan's noise turns to music.
And the paint seals us in.

And I sink with you
into another
wonderful
night.