Limber it up Some, Son

When it comes to rhyme like many a thought

If it were a crime, we’d all get caught.

The problem with it like we often see

Our thoughts like to quit where rhymes would be.

It is the conceit that sticks in your head

And your rhyme receipt is only bread

Instead of the crunch of lettuce right here

A prisoner’s lunch, bread and water.

Now you could have beer if this were a brunch

And then cause a stir also a punch.

But you had to stick with a silly word

Now your rhyme’s a slick meaningless turd.

But I mean, goddamn, look how bad this sounds.

You’d think that you could loosen up, right?

It was all in the Past

Wait till you hear what just happened to me.

Something I never expected to do.

I went to the future only to be

Dismissed by the past. He said, “Were closed. Shoo!”

Happy? Not me. He could tell by my face.

I countered him and said, “We don’t include

Your kind here. You’re nothing but a disgrace.”

But he fancied himself a scrappy dude

And threatened me that he might call in the cops.

I said, “You’re old. They won’t listen to you.”

I raised my hand and he begged me to stop.

I said, “I won’t do what you tell me to.”

It pissed me off. I mean… What could I say?

Then, I slapped the shit out of yesterday.

Our Old Climbing Tree

The ladder of planks had time to begin

To grow their way loose. And when the boy yanked,

The board pulled away. The question, of course,

Not if he would fall, but why wouldn’t they.

The boy stood perplexed smirk, smile, and all

Dropped plank to the ground and reached for the next.

Grabbing the board, can you guess what he found?

This board just stayed stuck with only one hand.

He grabbed it with two and yanked and then luck.

A board in his hands. A centipede, too.

Wedged against the tree where the water ran

A rotted hole for the creature to be.

He screamed and ran looking ever so bold.

My brave little boy at just eight years old.

Window Blank Eyes

I hear her through the window when she walks

Away from me. I follow her to ask

The question. Does she love me anymore?

The window blank eyes and vacant face.

She wants me gone. I can clearly see that

Conversation’s for everyone but me.

I hear her through the window when she walks

Away from me. Propped against the front deck

Railing lighting up a smoke. She rushes outside phone

To her ear. I’d heard her talking loudly

Until she had noticed me standing there.

To whom was she talking with so much love?

I hear her lie when she says she loves me.

I hear me lie and say I love her too.

Under the Waring Skies

The sky opens with a volley of rain

That comes down like stones shot into the air

On an old battlefield looping through sky

And back down on the grass pelting it down

Like a bloody soldier into the ground.

And the wind blows like a legion of men

Who hold spears in hand with helmeted head

Race through the field to the lone standing place

Crash into the house like an opposing force

Who’s windows shake like an old shivered shield.

The lightning strikes like a flash in the head

From a strike on the helm glancing away

And thunder starts like a unison shout

From still fighting men with blood on their brows.

Maintaining Enough Shades of Green to Keep

The clouds drift slowly lit by the falling

Light of the evening sun. The green of

The trees fading toward silhouette while

Maintaining enough shades of green to keep

The eye working like a painter blending

In the cool part of day when bugs come out,

And children come in. At least when children

Were still allowed to go outside to play

Before times of mass-communication

When we didn’t know what we didn’t know.

When we didn’t have a constant window

Showing the red-faced people with their signs

And their people behind the podiums

Baiting us with the words they want to say.

But You Have Heard Other Ghost Stories, Too

There is a man standing behind you dressed

All in black with short sleeves and long black gloves

That go halfway to his elbows. He has

A blade in each hand, and he wears goggles

Just in case your blood sprays him in the face.

And your buddies? Don’t expect them to help.

They can hear your screams. They will be running

Wildly in the dark. You can see them

Jumping at every sound, afraid of their

Shadows. They feel it, too. The skin crawling.

The hair standing up. You shouldn’t be here.

But you have heard other ghost stories, too.

You didn’t believe them. But you didn’t

Feel their breath on the back of your neck then.

Frigidaire, Gallery Glass Cooktop Oven

How would you like a spanking new cooktop?

Slick black surface impossible to clean?

Thirty-seven different function buttons

With independent, indecipherable

Logic specifically designed to make

You hate every minute of time you spend

Monkeying with the infernal device?

Is that a scratch or is it something cooked

On to the surface? The recommended

Cleaning solution will not get it off

And don’t even think about using a

Blade on it. Not unless you want to void

The warranty you spent so much more on

Than you ever thought you wanted to pay.

Murder City Stories

If you visit Murder City in the

Waning days of Fall, mind your Ps and Qs.

He stalks the darkened city streets, between

Buildings, through alleyways unseen. He waits

Behind you should you break the law. He lives

In the back of your mind and the corner

Of your eyes. Dressed all in black with a red “M”

Across his chest. His blades glint in the dark

Before the villain is disemboweled.

Murder Man. The hero the city has.

Your mother told you never tell a lie,

Never break the rules, never break the law,

Be good, and always cross at the crosswalk.

Take heed, or the Murder Man will get you.

My Love is like the Southern Summer Breeze

My love is like the southern summer breeze,

Slow, sticky, and smells like a chicken farm

Gleaming read and dirty in the distance.

Her hair is like a garden of vegetables

Bald except for a few struggling plants

Fighting off beetles and worms and root rot.

Her mouth like a sprawling field of bluegrass

Ringed with a fence of teeth, a few weathered

Planks still standing after the others fell.

Her body a sturdy line holding clothes

Of fading unmatched colors hanging off

Like all of a homeless man’s belongings.

And her mind is like poetry written

Ringing of the men who don’t understand.