Back the Rain Falls Mist

Back the rain falls mist

Pooling drops down the roof

Trucks down the road

Needles back and forth

Writing your mother lazy

What is a Poem?

A poem is a short, well considered piece of writing

Not written as if it is set down on the page

A poem mustn’t necessarily be written

But written as if a change of any one word

Would irrevocably alter its meaning

A poem has rhythm

When it has rhythm

A poem has meter

When it has meter

A poem has rhyme

When it has rhyme

In short, a poem is whatever you want your poem to be

And… If you recite it in a douchey tone

That tends to help too

October Poem 31: Of Weddings and Friends

Cops that he stopped from parading through the

Happy night. Dressed in white with green trim

Riding his neck as a bowtie. He

Is the leprechaun giving away his

Sister. The wedding of Memphis barbeque and blues.

The drinking in the night while walking

Over broken down hotel lobby floors. Two six

Packs of competing Octoberfest brews

Hanging open the doors for

Every snippet of Willie Nelson song

Ringing out tone deaf titty complements.

 

 

 

Ascend

September Poem 31: His Artistic Eye

The camera, to his eye,

Was a creator of enlightenment.

A long black Cadillac.

The front doors:

Breath.

August Poem 40: Dinner in the House of Ghosts

The red faced gagging. Calm, you grab him. He

Has chocked before. The crook of your left arm

Between his legs, your palm across his chest.

You lift him tilting his head toward the floor

Resting your arm on your knee. You clap him

On the back with your strong hand. Ears still red.

The side of his cheek turning purple. You

Clap him harder. But you don’t want him hurt.

You ask, “Are you breathing? Are you breathing?”

He turns his head, red faced. He turns his head

And looks you in the eye. His watery

Red eyes. Pleading. But he can’t speak. He just

Reflects back your same fear. You hit him on

The back harder.  He still isn’t breathing.

 

You hit him harder afraid you might break

His ribs. Then you hit even harder. You

Put your ear next to his mouth and listen.

No breath. Why isn’t it working? His cheeks

Are full. There is something in his mouth. You

Forgot a step. Finger sweep. You reach toward

His mouth and extend a finger. But he

Sees your hand. Thank God. He is still conscious.

He turns his head and spits a wad of chewed

Sausage into your palm. Looks at you and

Smiles, red faced and watery eyed. And

Croaks one ragged breath. Much too short. But breath.

You say, “Are you breathing?” His face purple.

And he says nothing. You turn to listen.

 

His breath. Nothing. What else? What do you do?

You call out for his mother. You don’t know

Why. You cry out for her. He isn’t able.

You scream for her. Crying because he can’t.

What are you doing? You can’t stop trying.

You have to pick up the phone. Call nine-

one-one. But you can’t leave him. You can’t move.

You cry. Where is his mother? Where is yours?

Death lingers just outside your vision. He’s

Waiting to lend his cold hands. Whispers. And

He’ll call your son’s name. You’ll feel Death’s breath and

You’ll wonder: what kind of devil is Death

To leave a man helpless and on his knees

With a warm wad of chewed meat in his hand?

August Poem 16: Weekend with Dad

What is it to be a son? To be a

Tool to make the ladies swoon. To make them

Gather in the hospital hallway. To

Have them pinch your cheeks. To blush when they call

You handsome. To be confused when they call

You, a child, sexy. To be fodder

as your father takes in your praises. As

He lets the ladies know that he has you

For the weekend. That he is virile. That

He is eligible. That he has good

Strong genes. That he can father a handsome

Child. That he is dutiful. That he is

Loving. That he would bring his son to work

So he could flirt with the younger ladies.

July Poem 20

Is the governess a prologue?

James’s discursive field of letter.

The governess said after and then repeated governess.

This phrase could be sign that he had himself.

The reappearance of a story to tell his story

Creates an area of discourse.

I saw he was not hand.

 

James following this, I took for an argument.

Yes, the competition, the went.

This nothing two more times,

James Douglas.

 

Elsewhere, Francesco and Miles

Repeat the word. Up until page 6.

Before Miles admits to having

Opened the story to the group.

 

Before the fact, the manuscript arrives.

And how the author’s hand postpones his telling

Should be referred to as the hand of agree.

July Poem 19: It’s Probably Both

Is it because you are retarded,

Or are you just too fucking lazy?

 

Oh, hell… Is it both?

July Poem 18: Religion

It was just a collection of platitudes.

The silken fabric that clung

To the fortune cookies

That my father insisted would open,

That he used to open

So many women’s blouses.

July Poem 17: God Stands Confused

Even with the best passages memorized,

He could not

Understand the stand

Taken to take him

As your God before me.