Category: Book o’ Verse

Harmonize those ages into a blur from
5-year-olds to 17-year-old
giants
with smooth tones
taller than people
louder than people
vibrating
and our little folks singing
next to them
us all shaking
in our seats.

I will eat pizza and oversized subs and drink soda.
We'll tear stretch rubber masks off
cranky senior delinquents.

    They have their complaints.
I have complaints too.
You don't see me acting out.

Snoopy and Scoob will tug and growl
over a torn blanket.

The girls will help me fold my
zig-zag t-shirt at night.
Read me stories as I
lay my large round head
down to rest.

Release me from this dustbowl, Fred. From this house.
This baseball field. These shrill harpies.

Let me ride along
in your stinky van.

The coffeeshop is fluttering today.
Six or seven denim-coated guy-legs
shock the tiled floor.
Silent soft bouncing.
They shake the air. Crinkle your vision.
There’s a lot of energy under these tables.

I write espresso poems now
the way I used to write about cigarettes.
My old fumbled word love to white ash
the hard-dented tan filter.
The clouds! Oh those sainted particles!
The courage of my glass ashtray!
All swapped for
a slight-stained saucer
a cup
a cat-like crema.
How long till they turn you against me?
What will I smoke when you’re gone?

the majority opinion that aims to
thick coat
my emulsified flavor.
Froth my cup
dunk its hue.
75 cents is my strong statement.
I will tip you 75 cents
if you’ll just
leave me
some bean
slop me
some foam
and let me slide bitten
into
my
bitter oasis.

How many times must I not
watch you before you get the point?
If I must not watch you a million times.
If I must not watch you till the solar core
inside my TV cools and its silver casing cracks
until my many remotes retreat into open palms
rush back toward some lost part of my
insides
until my eyelashes gray and wilt
and spiral off
that
will be
my pleasure.

When I was small you could
get a paper cut from just about everything.
From a computer display.
While petting a puppy.
You could get several paper cuts pressing down hard on
a pinkening snow ball.
We wore gloves in the summer.
Heavy mittens in the pool.

They date underground
they do.
And they skip by the mushrooms
they dance with the dwarves
They sleep under waterfalls
lightless with dark sparkle and foam.
They leave the sun and the wind and banana peels
to the squirrels.

Were they birds or were they bats?
Does it matter?
When they drop down in darkness.
When they brush up against the back of your head and nudge you along.
When they flap in your hair.
You want to know.
Feathers or fur? Beaks or black noses.
Were they bats?

Looking into your warehouse it’s clear that
someone’s really good at stacking boxes.
I know they use machines
but it’s still a skill
to form
a lattice like that
three stories high
to hold against
the pull top boxes feel
their natural urge to tumble
and tip
to splay and splash
to show the floor their glory.