Bare Feet and Feathers

I slipped down an icicle And fell into a sand storm. that can desiccate a soul. Wasted like a slack jawed geriatric.   I’m killing a man everyday and I keep forgetting to pray before I rip out his heart. I've got blood all over my shirt. Our circus act broke up When the wire snapped The whole family is splattered. This is the closest we’ve ever been. I woke up in a casket And heard the bastards laughing Over the last shovelfuls of dirt. I've got the rest of my life to escape. I got bleached And lost all my color. Someone slit my throat; no voice. I really am invisible. A drunk driver raped a girl but he was yelling liberal politics So I figured he must be okay. I couldn't hear myself think. It got crowded in my shower I forgot to shave and I look like shit. This is when I bite my nails and shake.  Everyone keeps looking at me. My feet are greasy. I can’t feel the earth Except when I trip. I’ve got to grow some roots.  Where the hell have I been? Those party balloons

Ours is a song of holiday tables. Clattering chatter of our dining room, Wedding china, and shared fables. This is the history of the baby boom. Clattering chatter of our dining room “Remember?” “No, not him, he’s dead.” “Oh, yeah, too bad. Cancer, I assume.” Auntie Vera remembered a good book she’d read. Remembered? Better remembered than be dead. Uncle Jack’s scotch needs more ice. He has to drive.  His face is looking red. John offers his best Republican advice. Uncle Jack’s scotch needs more ice. Good buddy Bain helps clear the dishes. Pat’s telling a story. We’ve all heard it (at least twice). Jesus! Is it Easter or is it Christmas? Good buddy Bain helps clear the dishes Oh God! Who can eat cake? We’re too full. Around here, it’s like the loaves and the fishes. Cathy knitted that scarf, real New Zealand wool. No way. Can’t do it. Can’t eat, too full. “Yes, Sinatra was great but Elvis was better.” “But      "My real name is Mister Earl”, in the lull.   Mom knows her doo-w

I can pack a poem like a freshman loads laundry. Lights and darks. Cottons and knits. You need a crowbar to find an image. Time for me to embrace space and           let                     words                               float. Milkweed seeds            drifting four feet above a field. More gossamer         images lace curtains loitering           around open                bedroom window.                      June.         Go barefoot              in my own backyard.          Enjoy                 the silliness          and cool damp           floss    between my toes. Embrace space! Lighten                   the           load. Loosen      my    grip. A palm full                              of feathers     to       share. Let them                     FLY!

Life wind, timpani roll, rushes round steadfast soldier serving. Flooding sound bleaching color, trailing taupe, phone ringing… Crisis, crushing ego, dust, stinging eyes, closing throat. Over oceans, flies finest throat. Exhausted ear, forward, rushes finding strawberry love in the dust. On the eager edge, laps color blasting temptation. Soldier serving   tours counted by bells not ringing. Sighs, moans, cries and cheers ringing round mute heart (a mutilated throat) Chain gain shackled, sentences serving, hammers pounding rhythms to dust. Outside, dawn’s purple rushes, shivers, slicing sky with color. Flushed face, rose in color. Syllable chirps of a poem ringing. An autumns’ chill rushes (pizza, in a cemetery, serving). Memories gasp, an old man’s throat, made hoarse under years of dust. “Hey everyone look here!” No dust. (Vivid, immediate, living color) No dark lot, no hoarse throat whisper. Clanging poems ringing across wires, for everyone, serving. In, like kids at recess, rumo