Poem from the Lab Book Number 5

Teased

Like a fish

by a lure

Bit it

(it worked)

Bait and Switch

I was reeled in

As soon as I knew I was caught,
I was ready and willing
to visit that higher ground,

The hook was pulled out,

She kissed me, and threw me back.

A Poem About Autumn (Part 1)

The Sun burns hot in
the day only to realize
that the cold flourescent
Moon is
doin' it's job as
The World's Cooler

Canned Cranberry
and pre-packaged pork
people also pre-packaged in
gortex and leather.

Hey look! I can see my breath!
I can see my fingers
redden and feel my nose
doin' it too.

Your lungs'll hurt when
you try an' run, that's a
bullet you feel,
shot down by Fightin' Fall,
makin' fodder
for unforgiving
Old Man Winter.

That Brown phlegm,
brown falling leaves,
from smoking too many
cigarettes.
There ain't enough nicotine
in the Carolinas
to bite back at
construction weather
clouds and wind.

That brown on my teeth,
brown falling leaves,
from all that coffee,
every morning, just to sweat
for a few minutes
and stop shivering.

Nasty rain
That never seems to stop
and then
I understand
why grunge-music
came outta Seattle.

A Poem About a Friend's Troubles

I can show the road and
the ways
all the way on down
to Elysium.

And the dark seas with
fright-white scared tips
nor their climbing spires
in stone
will deter the times
that come
when I'll still be the one
who showed you the road.

There are the bothy ballads
and the great epics
but the one I parted
with at the crossroads,
those roads even less taken,
are the
ragged patch
on my knee
and the gun
rusting on my
shoulder

I lose toes to frostbite
and insist,
still,
on walking there.
All the way on down to Elysium.

I'll step on that ship,
that'll catch that whale,
in that cold span that
reaches to that
cold cold Greenland.
And
I'll peg-leggedly
hobble back
on deck
and look for the
one I lost
at the crossroads,
and somewhere
in the back of my head,
I'll know,
that she's sewn into my clothes.

Poem from the Lab Book Number One

"Crossroads"
What a cliche
Where am I?
this dirt road is
rarely traveled
and the dogs behind
the barbed
wire
are by no means
friendly

These dark hollow
forests hide
memories maleficent
and fantasies
for a fool
I'm ancient, anxious,
and apprehensive.
the sinkhole
and birds of prey,
waiting,
in stone solid
quiet
statue
waiting
for my
fall (from grace?)
The skittering sounds,
then silence.

It's frightening.

Poem from the Lab Book Number Two

Dust
and
Dirt
are
Everywhere.
timeless
sordid molecules
of malevolent
silicon.
Throw in some
water
and we've got mud
on our
shoes.
The smears
on my glasses
and the
stains on the
couch
are infinite
and timeless.

The Disease

Gallbladders
Nauseated with
Eyes glaring thousands
at every mote
in your Carbon Frame.

A sick-tearing
organ retch
To pull Suicide
inside.

"And I will heed
your cry with diligence,
my friend!"
Said The Revolver.

"I am at your Mercy."
Said the Temple.

I, I have been knighted
into the Court of of the Condemned,
Now a servant of
Our Lord and King Pariah.

To work, you must die to die
you must work.

Like a carburetor:
even after an atomic blast
or electromagnetic pulse.

Cassiopeia tempts from
the heavens and only from the
briefest, barest fiery tips of a
Mushroom Cloud
do I ever seem
to
glimpse that
shining field.

For no angel am I,
rather a crashing, celestial,
Satellite
burning
White-hell over the Great
Pacific Garbage Patch.

All steaming and hissing on impact,
tumbling slowly sinking
a black and wretched hunk of metal

Wishing for the fishes' touch;
the barnacles embrace.

(But I made a helluva splash though!)

A Poem Written Under Lamplight

I read koans and you
Pretended to understand
And you craved and I knew
Not for what.
I wrote poems for you
And you hid them in
Steering wheel covers
Only to sell them with
The vehicle.
I knew the leaving was inevitable,
And this why
I always insisted on copies.
Because I knew
That
I was their mule,
Their tool
For
Self-gratification and
Aggrandizement.
I was the busted knuckles
That fixed your car and you gave
Ne'er a loving glance or appreciative
Nod.
I was the gentle hand that comforted
your progeny when you were
Withdrawing from skag and
Pulling inward into your own
Carelessness.
And you,
In true form the abandoner,
and I,
the relinquished.
I was that caress
that touch
that meant
that you were beautiful
beyond measure
and your own prejudices
villified us both.
Maybe I will walk as a loving ghost,
Always caring and loving and with no tangibility or identity.
Drifting.
Concerned, with no hands to caress.

A ripcurrent and dragtide of
friendship
that sank me, drowned me,
and fossilized me.

"This Stuff's Got Legs On It"

A great white highway
stretches
and fills
a horizon
of heat
and hollow earths.

And slowly, it rises,
the long far-off hill-slope
up
and out
dazzling.

A road to walk along,
to drive
at a leisurely pace
it invites
to escape
and elate.

A moon smiles
gap-toothed
on argent
asphalt
and the
stars are
fished for
by the eyes
of a
weary pilgrim.

A winding and vast
web, veil, lace,
Mandala,
laid carefully down by
holy men
one grain at a time, and it,
upon completion
is swept
away, a
reminder of
our only
permanence.

A wind sweeps dust over the
highway and its
pavement
cracks
and bursts
and keeps the time
of hapless
footfalls
all the while.