I sit down to change the world but then I get to thinking.

I remember when

the streets were slick on Wilmington
and the lights cast long blue shadows
like the milk of spiders,
luminescent webs,
spare a dollar,
spare a dime.
The sidewalks beating and
breaking -
our feet one door down in a two shot town and
our pockets aching with currency.
Dogs doomed to howl toward
an indifferent moon.
We, injecting ourselves into tin tubes
spun toward the promised land,
heavy metals and poison oak,
snow laden sunrise
in
3...
2..

But all there is now
is rain and a rash
and scars from all the slices.

Its hard to walk when the feet are gone,
Its hard to talk when the tongue is swallowed,
Its hard to sleep when the mind is clear
and it all plays in projection
across the black backside of eyelids.

This is all because
of
you.

We Aren't Who We Were Anymore.

You were a postcard shiny and new
with wishes from somewhere I've never been
your signature steady and lines linked
just
so.

I was a postman and they gave you to me
saying urgent, priority, handle with care.
So I placed you on top of all that I had
so you would never leave my sight
or rip
or tear.

I noticed you throughout the day.
I noticed how you reflected the sunlight
and how your signature was steady
and your lines linked just
so.

I found it hard to focus with you lying there
a rare refreshment in an otherwise routine
day.
I took you out when I stopped to eat
under a tree in an empty park.
Wiping off the occasional smudge as
I thumbed your corners
and
face.

Afterward we went for a walk around the treeline and
I admired your contour and your shape.
You had such smooth texture but
your edges were sharp
and I liked that about you most
of
all.

When it was time again for the task at hand
I placed you on top of all that I had so
you would never leave my sight
or rip
or tear.

I carried you,
I carried you with me
until we were the last two left,
the sun sinking low on
the remnant of our
only
day.

So we turned and walked down
your street
walking hand in hand and
I looked at you a final
time.

I admired your contours and
your shape
then rang the bell -
a special delivery
for
another
man.

You were a postcard shiny and new
with wishes from somewhere I've never been
your signature steady and lines linked
just
so.

I was a postman and they gave you to me.

A change in method, a deviance from form

It strikes me, as I swallow this speckled melatonin, how deeply rooted within myself was a pervasive and dominating
darkness.

Like a color palette crashing to the floor with a resultant explosion of fluids (a spectacularly painted conical updraft), so was I.

A tornado of passions and mood and spun out. The sickening prelude to the dawn's soon

strung out.

Half a face in a reflection, half a voice from tired hand. I let it get the best of me.

I don't rightly know how I'm going to reconcile some of the things that I've done now operating with this sharp-tack mind.

I guess God and I will take a walk.

...

These days, as opposed to those days,

I don't even want the same things that I did when my skin crawled with that damn substance fueled prick.

A thousand needles letting from me blood and flagrant sins.

I can turn around and see it all again.

Never mind where it all went wrong, It was all wrong where it went.

Now where it goes is the only pertinent story.

Barbara Bush died tonight and a nation mourned.

Oh to be so special as to interrupt the regularly scheduled program.

So far I feel that I'll need to send out invitations when I'm taken.

Please RSVP.

Now back to your
regularly scheduled
pro-
gram.

A Rare Love Song

Someone save me I'm smiling.

There must be fires in the poles,
or floods down in hell.
I'm a furred ball in sunlight
a potted plant on the sill,
a hothouse orchid stretching
toward a saccharine
sun.

I woke up grateful.
Especially for all of this
you.

Lifting my low so high via
such gentle arms;
clubs of care,
weapons of clemency.

Levels of deserving are for deities
to decide to dole around.
But I guess someone up there liked me 'cause
I feel you here
just 'bout
all the
time.

I hope you know:

No matter what man you one day cradle
in your weary waved white flag,
know that inside my heart
you'll always
be at
home.

I wanted to write like Shakespeare

But all that came was bathroom stall graffiti.

I'm alright with that.
It's something.

Something left behind as
the caravans cross Mexico
like ants to pirate pies.

And orphaned spies lie flat on their deathbeds
Well gassed by their gods and
countries.

And the iron curtain is hung on our futures
while madchildren with armories
play espionage chess
and knucklebones missiles,
bullies buying all the railroads
and Broadway and
Park
Place.

As the television and
our front rooms blur
and the masses riot for retribution.
A torrid sea of twisted dreams
awash with children's
coffins.

Yet in spite of this
I look around,
and
I
am
satisfied.

Today I made a delicious breakfast
and that was good enough
for
me.