Listen

And I was sitting on a park bench
scratching out a poem,
when a man striding by asked me in passing,

"Whatchya doin'?"

Just writing. Nothing particular.

"I hear ya."

As he receded in distance
and memory
and relevance
I put the pen to my good ear
in hopes to hear what it might have said.

Pink Slip

I saw Lord Jesus Christ
And bare knuckle fist fights
Break out on the work floor
That day.

Some of the folks were mad,
One of the folk was sad,
But most were simpley bored
To tears.

Said the company man,
"The shit done hit the fan!"
Then fucked us up the ass
Sideways.

With his gapped tooth grin
Said he'd do it again.
Surely our pain will pass
In years.

Shallow Waters

I honestly believe that
there's no need to drown
in the shallow waters of our own lives
if we wade in aware and cautious
of what lies just beyond.

I say, leave deeper waters to others-
Dolphins, deep sea divers,
fishes and poets.

For most,
troubles merely lap at the ankles with only
the occassional small wave
wetting the shins.
No problem a dry beach towel can't resolve.

This or That

While lying on the couch
contemplating a bit of this or that
I asked out loud to you,
"Then or now?"
In which you walked over
and kissed me,
your answer obvious
in the smile you wryly
failed to conceal.
The reason for my question
now forever lost
among the curls of your hair.

trailerpark@night.com

To whom it may concern,

Across the street from my bedroom window a

burned out streep lamp that, until last week,

once shone down in a cataratic haze of sickly

yellow luminescence, now towers lifeless over a

recently vacated mobile home lot. Truth be told,

they never stay. With its gutted out electrical box

for a headstone and various bouquets of weeds,

ruts, broken bottles and cinder blocks strewn

about, this patch of dead earth resembles

nothing less than an immense unkempt grave

lying in wait for the next transient soul to arrive.

It's a foundation made not of concrete but of

wandering opportunities that brings them in

and sends them away, most poor of money, luck,

and life. It saddens me to count myself among

them, but I hold no excuses to absolve myself of

why I'm here, even now, as I sit staring at my

computer screen e-mailing the city a notice

about the burned out street bulb; the day's light

long faded, wrestled below the horizon by

darkness. Finished, I hit send, log out, and find

my way to bed knowing all that's left for me to

do is wait for the reply of a cataractic haze of

sickly yellow luminescence to shine once again

outside my bedroom window at night.

Blank Page

It has come to my attention that this page is in fact blank-
absolutely and utterly devoid of anything
that would be contrary to the obvious.

It was verified to me by my wife, Jean
who is an expert in pointing out all things blank to me.

"Babe, you're staring into space
with that blank expression on your face again."

"Honey, please don't forget to take a blank
check with you to the bank."

"Darling, why is it everytime I ask you a simple
question you always draw a blank?!"

"Sweety, you're not getting far on your poem,
your page is completely blank."

As usual she's right, this page is as blank as blank can get.
Perhaps I should jot something down for her to read.

Tell Me When

When can I finally leave this place to my back?
When can I let go the years learning to tolerate the
word home, it's mere utterance sloppy and loose on my lips,

A raw sarcasm that burns in a spoken heave
through my throat? When nostril hairs singe at
the word neighbor, when an ear-full of every passer-by's

love of music set to eleven drowns any thoughts
of listening to the quiet pages of my note pad scratch
its resistance to the dance-writing of my ball-point pen in

an ever searching waltz of prose and epigrams,
when I drag along my wife and kids (be it willing or un,
I can't be sure), my sanity, my misery on a bus full of resentment,

when I know the trailer park ambiance
around me makes me feel like an emigrant on
my own street, when the sickly yellow street lamp

outside taunts my dim optimism of a
fenced in piece of Americanan, when the word community
is said in the same manner as one might mention the word cancer...

When.

Human Race

When the day has surrendered to yet another sunset

Run with me to meet the morning's saving grace,

For every new day is reason enough to rise and race

The coming sun to a western horizon we just left.

Impression:You

It must have been the way the drops of moisture
gathered speed as they collected on their journey
down the vertical slope of the bathroom mirror.

There is simply no other way for me to put in words
how turned on I was by the image of your sultry echo,
an impression of nakedness obscured in humid
lust no less real than the dirty thoughts
gathering speed as they collect on their journey
down the vertical slope of my wondering mind.

Surely this is the way Monet would have painted you,
or the way Vettriano would have loved you,
or the way Picasso would have despised you.

Clarity

Years weather to
Instances.
Instances soften to
Impressions.
Impressions,
Soft,
Vague,
Melt and disolve
In the manner of a Monet.

Fishing the Fields of Foley

Morning comes early to the fields of Foley.
Before even the sun itself fully wakes to
Call away the groggy mist hugging either

Eye or ground, a strong morning chill
Penetrates through both soul and sole
As Russ and I parade in step after grandpa,

Ever mindful of the divots we dug during
Yesterday's dawn raid. With pitch fork,
Shovel, and coffe can all with us again

We stop, stab and overturn a moist mass
Of wriggling muck while breathing in
The moments of fresh dirt, worms and family.

It is from this Earth that kinship grows in soil
We now break up with our very hands.
It was here that field and family took root

Generations deep in the fertile bottom
Lands just a chew and spit away from
The muddy waters of the Mississippi River.

King of the Washing Machine

Load:
Once, perhaps twice, you were someone's pride
But now you resemble a carcass lying unclaimed
After a kill, the pride of lions long gone after having
Their fill of you, leaving your cords and hoses strewn about
The ground resembling nothing more than undevoured entrails.

Soak:
Washed up machine colored olive green
Dressed in rust and three cycle misery
Sitting abandoned in an empty lot
Your only companion a busy street
In this unsympathetic suburban Camelot

Sitting dirty, rusty, far from your norm
Dry was once your friend, now rain is home
To a washed up world and washed up machine
I ponder my own on this throne set on heavy load

Disregard those who bare you such disgrace
I know in my heart it was no mistake
Our chance encounter in this urban sea
Fore with you as my throne I will take my place
As ruling king of the washing machine

Agitate:
My subjects rot
My kingdon grows
Bother me not
Your worldly woes
Of sexual inferno
Of fashionable clothes
Of self satisfaction
Or moral agitation

My pride bleeds
As hope takes seed
Trouble me oft'
As dreams take off
Of pure honesty
Of man's integrity
Of illumination
Of God's notions

Spin:
So load me your dirty dreams and your stained woes
Toss in your thread-bare hopes and torn souls
Together, my rusty friend, we'll spin the status quo
Until the world comes full cycle of what it should already know

Plight and Faith

Be it April bathed
In her warm spring rays,
Or winter bound
Amongst her coldest days,
Else an empty night
With only a moons sliver
To light my way,
My love for you will forward on
Till you touch the clouds
Of a promised Heaven
Spoken upon our wedding vows.