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.

Standing By

We are waiting

Standing by

The sound of static fills your
Headphones.

There is a shuffle of papers.

The faint ring of a cigarette being tapped on a glass ashtray.

Do you copy? Over.

The static continues.

Whistle! frequency spike!

The microphone is lifted:

We are standing by. Do you copy?

A pop. Static.

The drone of the hissing carries up and down in your ears.

Nothing but static.

You rub your forehead with a quick glance at your colleagues.

They are worried.

The static continues.

You take off your headphones.

The static is on the overhead speakers.

Someone exhales smoke loudly.

You pick up the microphone.

We are standing by. Do you copy?

A pop. Static.

Someone leaves the room.

Cats

Lazing and lying

comfortable and all

feathers

A colder wind clambers

on the screen door with

the resident Cat.

The door flies open and

all that lazing

starts again.

New warmth and the blankets readjust

but god I can hear them now

the food bowl is empty.

Coon Craving

"Well I lit them bridges
an' I watched 'em burn
an' oh my God, you'd think I'd learn
still the same
'til my dyin' day
and I'm still in love with you."

This is about attachment.

So there's always analogies
like
"balls and chains"
or the creepy "clinging" verbs
or the even less appropriate
"bondage" references.

I mean,
we're in polite company.
let's be real.

Attachment is more like goin coon
trapping with no gun.

Ya got the flash lights, the bait, the traps. And you want these damn coons so bad! You get to keep the skins and the bacula and everything!

So you go to work, singularly and focused. The next day, upon checking the traps,
you find more racoons than you could have ever hoped for!

you admire their pelts

your prowess as a trapper

you fantasize about hats, rugs, gloves.

And then you realize, after all this craving and attachment,
that you have no way of
slaughtering the beasts
you so desperately sought.

Your gun is at home.

and you say:

"What the hell am I gon do with all 'ese pissed awff coons?"

This has been y'all's Sunday school. Now run along grown ups got business in the parking lot.

The Beach

The waves came rolling over him,
heaving and weaving sand;
it was white, saccharine,
all full of light and
little glimmers of
life.

He let it first cover his toes,
tiny mollusks burrowing
back into the sediment
between his feet.

And the hairs on his
legs caught the fine grains
shining on his shins,
then knees,
then hips.

He allowed his navel
to fill like an ancient
caldera, boiling over its
rim with
time.

His breast Bones gathered
its collective push; its
breathing, diamond grit
filling the swells
and recession of his chest,

and he reveled in its

weight and movement.


His Adam's apple
lurched and tremored
as the sand carrying
itself
above and beyond
to his chin,
quivering but assisting
a smile, which then
fell to the waves.

His eyes burned and the
tears that mingle
with the ocean
mingled with his as well.

So the sand enveloped him
and the tide rose
and the moon rode
its course across
the evening
and the last
thing he
ever enjoyed was seawater
in his lungs and sand
in his
hair.

Frost Bite

Allister knew
that the cloud cover
couldn't show up
in time.

He placed his hands on the horizon
arm's length,
and discovered
he only had two,
maybe three
hours of daylight.

It was already
cold.

His fingers ached
as breath spumed
in nebulae that
crystallized, fell:
Frost on the ground.

The fire was high,
but not high
enough.

It crackled, reported
and screamed; a billowing
and waving semaphore
of light and
heat.

Ahead the moon,
already eager, late
in the month,
was high in the dome;
Artemis taking aim,
seeming to close in on
Apollo.

"At least there will
be plenty of light tonight."

He thought of a cold, stiff-legged
walk through
the moaning pines
and in that frigid
glare, gunmetal light
of the waxing moon.

Lifting, chopping, toting,

Feeding that insatiable
beast that
keeps him alive, here,
that cracks and
spews and sparks and
demands.

Hacking and splitting,
Allister's hands made
mitts of callous
ice full of
pressure and

He fed the blaze.