"The stonefield's harvest"

Left-handed milk-drinking gangsters shining

cheap shoes with stolen pomade.

No one tells them what they should do around

here, anymore…

We learned how to wound from a distance, I’m told 

was mankind’s next big step forward —

but it’s faster to hug the haystack hard if it’s the

sharp pointy things that you’re looking for.

The stonefield’s harvest comes in, cold and gray

–we’re riding low and we’re clear on approach.

A mantis shrimp can’t think a single thought,

forced to see millions of colors.

A hail-stormed walnut tree’s in no mood, left there 

until the earth moves itself.

The bad guy’s exit plan leads to the roof, regret 

curdles about halfway up.

–Well, just because you get the banana out

doesn’t mean you’re not doing it wrong.

Can only time-travel in Findlay, Ohio – because a heart 

needs to beat to change at all. 

"Free-flowing ceilings"

Damasked, dishwashed kitchen knives;

lovely ladles, idle – of mokume.

You never did call me on the phone, so I’ve 

been stuck here in GMT minus four.

Free-flowing ceilings soothe inconstantly – the

central coastal upstate lowlands abide.

Then Boca Burgers and morning deadlines, maybe 

some knife-hits (surely most ill-advised).

The heartfelt signatures forged by a 

part-time phone-sex troubleshooter;

the southward-outbound trout, taking well to a

bit and bridle there after a while.

Soured buttermilk cat paw-prints, vinyl tile.

—Uproar: rib sandwich month is no more.

Overfed, under strain, chipping for more ice.. 

silence is the best news that we’ve never heard.

"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..

"Altered peach"

The hot dog’s wrapper is also eaten

by the newly-outposted alien,

while a real gnome sobs openly on

an ornamented lawn.

How many people is it get buried in, 

you know, a flying Superman pose?

And does Coors really kill a werewolf?  

—there are some things here we just need to know.

Microwave-unsafe things admit their

weakness and then move on.

The new underground baby-fighting ring

almost always ends in a draw.

The poor synesthete’s sense of smell

went deaf about four years ago –

the ensuing confusion was something

strange, not seen before.

A test frog just got eaten by an altered 

peach bred for aggression.

Afghanistan’s tiny leap forward, smuggling intel

on the space program out of Suriname.

Secrets survive to keep the peace

that they kill when they die.

Still, when the sins on earth change, turns out hell’s gotta free

the poor bastards who were paying the price.

"Marooned in realtime"

Today I planned out a ground-level hide –

banking on homelessness that's to come –

that the DNR, State Po-lice & the oil guys won't find:

'cause bad luck puts its pants on 2 or 3 legs at a time.

I just had to turn into the skid, 

but then the skid turned into me and mine.

You'll want the poison in your mouth –

it's just so much worse in the eyes.

I’m marooned, I'm marooned in realtime.

The TV from the future 

tells everyone the next things to get scared about.

..So we're not quite sure

how much it is we all want the then to be now.

Because the what & the how’s not the why,

and the seed is just not the root; 

and Grandma only taught me manners & Manhattans,

and that most folks' hair needs cut.

I'm marooned, I'm marooned in realtime.

—Anything can be bruised so

don't say "sorry" if you just mean "no".

Guess I've found myself some days where

time's gonna take longer than usual...

Nobody needs poetry.

Works better with music, not necessarily as a song, but as something indicative of intended mood.  Plus, music.  I'm working on it.

—Maybe someday Dave Berman will dig my writing, but I'd settle for him not hating my poor emulation of his style.

Go outside in the sun today.

"Thoughts aren't actions"

Yeah I pecked a rooster’s eye out –

couldn’t anymore stand the shit he was sayin;

I'm really not so proud of myself,

but that’s why thoughts aren’t actions.

There’s a hilly field that needs me,

I just don’t know where it is;

I can feel the long grasses sing and call to me

most nights, sometime after six.

The midshipman’s hitch is not in his stride;

up north, walking on water’s a matter of degrees.

Around here they orangely post the word “POSTED”

because the because takes too long, it seems.

There’s a difference between being mortal and being able to die:

ain’t just up-and-over the hill, need some side-to-side;

and don’t wait ’til summertime to go out with a kite,

and just let things be things and hope it’s alright.