"Just on fire"

Look, sometimes the carpet is just on fire –

though hey at least not yet the cat..

some good advice from TV was 

be careful what you get good at..

& it’s mostly-not-wrong to miss a clam bake,

but still you really should try to make it..  

..and passing that kidney stone

-bang- gave the victim a heart attack..

..better never do give up on your own dyin’,

and never say never until it is a need..

¡Be cautious with exposed intersections

leading to the red squirt guns in Aisle 13..

..And I might be risking street cred saying I’m

wondering “so, what if a buttress is a guy?”..

–No it’s not time to make poopies, dad,

they’re already done, I just deliver them alright?

Wait what is this??? am I stuck in reverse?

this prolly shouldn’t all be coming back to me…

oh hell.. maybe breathed too.. much smoke

..or some.. wuh-goobah duhhmm... mebs..

"Grapeshot champagne"

I’m deafened by grapeshot champagne corks,
and tonight’s rented tux just can’t commit;
my martini needs a AA battery and three pennies in
– from before ’oh-two if you can swing it...

I drove over a buried bathtub filled with packed snow –
the landscape’s features just aren’t its own anymore.
Was surprised and, so, froze that-then here-and-now,
but it’s still a sad weird world where a picture isn’t even itself.

I've heard that every bullet feels like a bird
'til it tries to pull up – and despairs, and then wants to hurt.
Science lets us make maple syrup from saplings, though
milking sweetness from babies isn’t something folks much want to do.

We must be more gentle – even language gets broken in half:
convictions’re sometimes the very best or worst thing you can have.
We think waterfalls are beautiful from above and below,
but halfway down are often much less-so.

The lately-regretful brain-in-a-vat dries out on the floor
having reached the Libertarian ideal – tipping over its jar.
Folks are like stock off-feed; but on the other hand, my man, okay – now,
let’s not get perfect – because then there’s no sound.

Bartender, I guess I’ll have another…

"Paper takes Rock"

Sometimes Paper takes Rock,
but Rock loves her,
so he is glad to see her win —

plus, she’s sensitive
and listens to him,
and she understands a wound is a thing.

Magic to him they're still
each other’s best adventure,
even just playing the same old game.

It’s not the have, it’s not the want —
it’s just the thank-god-at-last feeling
each time they can finally touch again.

"Telling, untold"

I’ve eaten rope – it helped me get by..
but you can only take so much at a time.
It’s not how you’d have it be,
no, but it helped me keep both feet.

I know that I’m someone who could kill someone,
but I’m less certain I could again..
–well, unless the guy needed me to,
or he surely had it coming.

My beard’s changed color and –
straight – there’s a bull's-eye under my chin;
it probably won’t come as a surprise when
what befalls does for me, done.

You’ll get killed or you’ll die,
the only two ways to run out of time.
–No shining here, it’s private property,
but 300 feet over there'll do fine.

One day entropy will tear up things, and sense, too,
but it’s not angry, it’s gentle.
Until then, flowers and gingers and Ruth’s Chris-es,
or at least the brief cool breezes of thoughts of..

"The monster on the left"

There’s a uniquely beautiful tree

in northeast central Ohio I want to see

again before I die..

He’s a champion,

a vegetative dragon

surrounded by misplanned communities,

endless faux-farm white plastic fences

of bland ignominy.

But the johnny-come-latelies

don’t matter so much to him —

they will end;

he stretches in the sun

"Census"

...Like many before me, I’ll pass the day,

     we have a long tradition...

many do for this or that, but here for me

     it would be children —

Be polite and civic responsibly

     best as you can contain your conditions

babysit for some friends at the stray brood-having urge

     (which we, fiercely listless, slow abandon...)

"The magnificent sorrow"

you mustn’t yearn

–it won’t help you here or keep you good or warm

you mustn’t yearn

–lose it within the wind like the any-words of a coward

you mustn’t yearn

–perish it parched in their dry endless disregard

you mustn’t yearn

or rage or bellow, you mustn’t make a sound

you must relent that lurid rainbow gleam 

— the yearning for — and

come-still the draw

far and well

down so 

under

ground

"Good luck with Steve, Alex"

—He could shoot the cuffs of a raglan sweater, he could charm a spider right off its feets;

but his own personal, permanent Kryptonite was that his brain called everyone Steve.

Hey, I swear to you that he was amazing —his mini-dachshund ate a whole wheel of cheese!

He had a mustache that would crazily curl up every time he sneezed!

But I'm afraid that no girl's ever touched him, despite his shapely-muscled tan hairless chest,

because it wouldn't have worked at all anyway — he's had this weird thing for the black queen in chess.

And his favorite pieces of music are all garbage-disposal techno medleys

made by some freak in Idaho, posted to YouTube – wow, one's viewcount just broke 17.

But then yesterday he earnestly said to me that he was in love with Steve(!),

but Steve doubted his sincerity (both were best friends with another named Steve).

...Still I'm confident that I know what he meant – gotta be sensitive, he's one of my peeps;

but he'll never get him or her if he keeps up his tanning oil secret: old used fry-grease!

"Comicosmic"

Cosmicomics was the slingshot that sent me flying through the air, one night in dream:

somehow I came to a land where things made more sense, although not much in the way that they seem.

On your first glance around you’ll notice that the embodied metaphors all stand 4-foot-3,

and they're charming people who shake hands with you and invite you home for smoked ginger tea.

Okay, there are stumbling blocks and hurdles to adapting to the pulse of this place – like

the soap becomes fizzy-prickly when you wash, and you become weightless when asleep.

And some things will just draw you up short – you wouldn't think so but hyenas can drive!

Still, the more that I'd see, I couldn’t help but think, Holy shit, this is a place where I'd thrive..

Right away the peoples' conversational talent piqued my interest, our talks insightful and charmed;

the dinner parties were the best I've known, casual savoir faire abounds.

And their pea-lettuce still makes my mouth water; their electric bread convinced me there was a god;

and those grilled cauliflower steaks with pickled garlic really can't help but rock.

Outdoor music here somehow resonates more, the liquid notes coveted by the air;

your mind starts to blur as you take it all in, your skin giggles, the sunlight licks at your hands.

And there's ample love here in proportion to your kindness, your compassion, and need;

it's easy to make friends and not feel threatened, it's really great – there'd be no point in greed.

—But one day misfortune befell me, when somehow I dozed-off on the tram

and someone had accidentally – despite the sign – left the window open:

I drifted off and then just.. drifted off, out the window on a strong gust of wind.

And I rose and circled into the sky through the clouds, with their hidden lightning…

The blue darkened to black as I fell ever higher and ascended the lonely path into space

and found myself catapulted back to this sad, mundane old-dishwater place.

But I'd touched magic and my alarm can't take all of that away from me — maybe I'll

be able to make a certain kind of name for myself someday and wake up there, standing 4-foot-3…

from "How I Got it to Work"

First you air out the earthworms until tough and dry,

and grind them beneath a twisting guilty hand.

Then you make a mean meal with them,

mixed with old flour, chipped tar, powdered glass, and dry sand… 

And once it's all mixed with dust, then you withhold your love, 

and tune the nearest TV to commercials… 

"Lunch with melon"

Pause for a deer in the road,

then wait for the doe's fawn to go —

they don't know that I've eaten my fill:

with that club sammich,

pigs might hate me right now

but tomorrow they'll get over it;

and turkeys are too dumb

to know they've got it comin',

each day a fresh dynasty.

And I wish I had a brain

like a cantaloupe:

great with salt, mellow, and seedy.

"The Uher Road Inn"

The All-Father works your local, but you just call him Roy –

polishing the bar, changing the specials of the day;

feeding croutons and pretzels to some big crows outside;

—though back in '82 his one punch killed that guy.

He'll snort pepper off the bar, tell what you had for lunch from ten feet away.

And if he laughs you'll lose your pool game.

The waitresses all love him, and before they leave they hug.

He whistles these odd tunes no one's ever heard of.

He wears no wedding ring, but the others are made of steel.

No one can figure out how he mixes that one cocktail.

Leaving, he wears a heavy coat like he always expects the rain,

but laughs at umbrellas — "Well, maybe if it was a sword-cane."

Strangers will offer their last cigarette, and he'll always politely decline,

say he prefers something no one has, but I kinda think he's lying.

Sometimes he's less in-focus nearer than from afar.

And don't ever let him talk you into snorting pepper from the bar.

If you press him too hard but don't impress him much,

Ask him straight questions or some-such...

Like if you ask him flat-out — "No, that's where I work,"

but then your beers'll get warm and foam-over dark.

Strange thing is now he looks 40-or-so,

but in the late '70s he had a comb over.

The beard never changes, in and out of style again,

and never to be found a speck or a stain.

His white-collared shirts starched so stiff it might hurt

always on him could be raw silk or linen.

And his tough longish arms, which I know to be quite strong,

mostly just wave folks on in.

The only time that I've heard toward him a raised voice

was when a kid threw rocks at the birds:

guess the kid must've been about three strides away,

because he only got out two words.

—There's just something about this place no one can quite put to terms,

but that's not a shortcoming of host, guests, brews, or charm.

We far-flung pilgrims just rest easy here, despite the din,
     because like it says:
"You're always welcome in 

     the Uher Road Inn."