Blessed Union.

I watched the marching -
oh the incessant marching -
happiest day of their lives.

"oh isn't this all so lovely
and are you here for the bride
or groom?"

A stray beagle kept somehow breaking in
to the pavilion
and men in their suits
and women in their dresses
chased after the beagle,
being outsmarted at every turn by
an animal one quarter of their size.

I decided right there that I liked that
beagle and if I were him
I would be running as far away as my
legs could take me from this
whole
depressing
thing.

Well the beagle must have found better things to do
because he eventually was no more and
I was still there.
Always there.
The rock.
Hard.
Ignorant.
Rock.

The groom was permitted to kiss his bride
the first kiss of a new union
and everyone silently wondered
'chicken or fish'.

Later while in the hall, the bride and I met eyes
and she saw that I was there.
Beautiful child.
The white seemed appropriate
for someone so innocent in this world.
No one has ever been so nice to me.
She cradled me in conversation, deed,
and little arms, so strong, but so
little.

I turned her away too.

I crave a woman.
Someone to rip me apart
chew me up like food
and then expel me in the manner
that food is generally
expelled.

Anyway
I watched the bride flit about the hall
like a joyous little hummingbird,
all alight with the day's revelry.

I was hungover.

Feeling sick and
furiously drinking the free water
begging my intestines to stop
twisting.

Finally they cut the cake
and everyone stood to begin
the lonely road home.

I felt that day like I had the loneliest road of all because
this is not the first time that
a possible future has become an irrevocable past
and I feel regret not for the person
but for the happier life that I somehow once again
chose not to accept.

She'll always be there for him.

In his sickness and his health
and his inevitable infirmary.
Cooing gently as she wipes him clean.

I'm just afraid that I will die
wallowing in my own filth
with only the vultures
cooing gently and
mercilessly pecking out
my eyes.

A Whole Lot of Nothing

A friend told me that
"all you have in this world
is what other people think of you."
Well, I thought, then I guess I don't
have anything.

On second thought,
I guess I do have some things.
I have:
One bed I sleep alone in,
One phone I never answer,
and a computer where I write
bad poetry that no one will ever
read.

That is enough for me.

I don't lie to myself and imagine
people lined around the block
waiting in line to get a good last
look at my carcass.
If some show up it will probably just be
to make sure
I'm dead.

Even if there are no tears
at the end of my life,
At least I can say
that I stood up to people
when they put me down,
followed my path even when I got thrown off,
and acted when others just
died.

If all a man has is what other people think of him,
then I am ok with having nothing at all.

Levity

And I'm still laughing
while you twist in the wind.

While you fold up your limbs like a
sidewalk confection.

You are a kartman's delicacy
all limb and twist.

The world outside is beating against the window
in torrents and in rage
and
I'm still laughing.

The dead in their graves
and the poor in the streets.

The war in the hills
and the drunkard and his wife
flailing fists
and
I'm still laughing.

Maybe they should come for me.

Maybe they will come for me.

I sleep with an arsenal
knives in the sheets.
Maybe they should come for me.
Let them come.
I'll still be laughing.

Firestarter

The kid had a pretty good life.

It wasn't folk
but it sure wasn't jazz.

He worked a modest job, made modest money,
kept a clean appearance and even had the girls
give him a wink every once in awhile.

But the kid was a firestarter
and he ran from bridge to bridge
setting a blaze here and setting a blaze
there.

The last one wasn't timed right -

caught himself with the torch
and ran from bridge to bridge
setting a blaze here
and setting a blaze
there.

Me, I'm on my fourth defecation of the day
from a stress induced incontinence of modest
proportions.

It hasn't been easy trying to douse all those
flames.

I am giving up,
can't hold the hose anymore.

I'm out of water,
out of time,
and tired.

Tonight
even with all those bridges burning
away the midnight oil -



he'll have to sleep in
the cold.

All The World is

Everyone is an actor
proclaiming and spitting
and farting in the grandest
gestures.

I wish that for one day
I could wonder about a person's
individual beliefs or emotions.

Every day I am assaulted
by complaints and stances
and gripes.
By bumper stickers
and news reports
and Op-Ed
and opt out
horns blaring
and flags waved.

A civilization with one desire
to always be
right.

Everyday the ocean churns
and the mountains hum
and the trees give oxygen
and the air sustains
and all the important
and necessary mechanics work
to ensure mankind's survival-

without making a single sound.

I Am Compromised

I didn't cover all the bases
thought clever - wasn't clever enough
no fox am I.

Pseudonym Pseudonym
turtle in a shell.
Doubleblind deception
I stare at the sky.

I didn't cover all the bases
I am sure that I am exposed.

Sightlines Sightlines
surrounded by the enemy
oh truth oh truth.

I close my eyes
because in here
you can't touch me.

No one speak my name.

The Day I Realized I Was Art

With an unsteady hand and a shorter breath
I picked up the pieces of broken word
and choked back the curses and sobs
for another brother lost at sea.

The taillights don't lie as they wink
into the distance of another southern night
and the old familiar ghost is given up
for a greener grass.

Ink pressed flesh will live on
and the choirs will still sing
even after I am buried and forgotten.

It was then that I thought
of all of the souls that I cannot forgive
for this offense or that offense
or sin of my own omission.

We were brothers on the day
that he lost his own
and I hugged him at the funeral as he sobbed
for the lifeless thing in the padded box.

But tonight my brother left
and the porchlight turned off
and the door clicked its final lock
and I attended another living funeral.

I will never speak that name again
though it burns inside my skin.

StreamOfConsciousness

13.

I finally demeaned the beauty queen in the manner
of a jilted lover of younger days gone by. She was
the pinnacle of a pin up dream and I laid across the
hall imagining her pressed against my body like she
eventually was after a particularly enjoyable six pack.
She ran away and joined the circus with an acrobat lover
who slides down ice luges while the people clap wildly
and oo and ah at manufactured and mindless nonsense.
She lost her mother and her father was her child
so naturally she sought someone to fill the void. The acrobat
is twenty years her senior, but you can't put a price on stability
for an orphan such as she was
and a solid future is an aphrodisiac of immeasurable strengths.
I remember her sensations and her sinews and she was warm when
she was there. She left me when I loved her. I don't feel bitter
about that because it was the love of a child and she had quite
enough of that in her time.
So she ran away and joined the circus and the acrobat still luges
and she smiles in photographs and each night places her tiara
in a little wooden box that her mother used to own for her necklaces
and she says a silent goodnight.
Me, I demean the beauty queen but only when I dream
because in the waking world you have to be a man
and part of being a man
is knowing when to
stop.