Four…
There was a moment…
…where you brushed my hair from my face…
…where you took my hand in your own…
…where your eyes searched mine and they shined…
Then you closed that door and moved on.
(but for a moment, you were mine…)
#4 Poem for Nick Drake
#4 Poem for Nick Drake
Strange that I’d never heard
the haunting words you wrote.
Not once had I reveled in the
darkness found between the notes.
I think I have been in your room,
stood at the round window you had there.
I’ve gazed, misty across the meadows
that felt the weight of your thoughtful stare.
I see you were one not sad, but sick
the gloom that consumed you organically grown,
while your light long fingers danced on strings
words and melodies were born straight from bone.
My soul knows you, Nick, as a quiet man.
Your laughter comes from another room.
Your sadness comes close now with each careful word
I find you everywhere now, like the moon.
“The Lynching” (Hour 4)
I was born an accident,
no longer a resident,
with no reason to repent,
Nothing more then
a failed abortion,
thrown into a world
of distortion.
Killed before my peers,
bringing out
my deepest fears,
while the crowed
shouts and cheers.
Here’s to the one,
they all chose
to pick on,
the one who
was only,
disposition
causing friction
within their beliefs,
receiving less relief,
in what they prefer,
but you’d rather refer,
to the misunderstood,
hiding under their hood,
avoiding conflicts,
resolving issues,
nothing more
then a box
of tissues,
only to
be misused.
I Love You
I love you person
whose name
I cannot say
shamed to
acknowledge how
much I want
love with whomever
god has sent
me but I love you, too,
Man of romance
eternally we met and loved
Then you left,
Then me, now barely
Part of us, but
For forty years or more
I loved you always
Separated, near arms
Untouching until
Tomorrow when tomorrow
Is a day we cannot name
Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow
Repeat this phrase today.
Oh lucky me!
Such a glorious feeling, creativity
My favourite pen dances merrily
along immersed in vitality
My words it’s wake for all to see.
My words, my contribution to society,
my grip on literary opportunity.
The best me is creative me.
What more could I ask life to be?
Kafka on the Shore
This is a story of a boy, fifteen.
Kafka, turns into a cockroach, don’t
approach; I prefer isolation. No need,
no need. Go away.
I appreciate cross cultural references.
Meta-critical poetry. Metaphysical cross-
country. Metaphorical love-making.
Meta-l music. Meta-stasis from young to
younger. Meta-morphosis from man to—
Villain. Or maybe that is simply a trope.
I appreciate tropes. Not troops, military or
otherwise. That is simply too straight—
Forward.
Late-Night Talk Show
Late-Night Talk Show
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.
Thank you. Thank you.
What a great crowd. Not like last night’s.
We have a wonderful show for you tonight.
Speaking of the President, have you seen his ratings lately?
Where are you from? Indiana? How do you like New York?
Tonight’s Top Ten Thank-You Notes are…
Our first guest has a movie coming out this Friday.
You look great!
How much fun was it to work with her?
Here. Watch this clip.
Do you like to play Pictionary?
Thanks for being such a good sport.
Do you like animals?
Don’t bring that octopus near me. Take it away, please.
Do you like to laugh? Well, we’ve got a very funny man here tonight. Please welcome…
On my way here tonight I got stuck in this L.A. traffic.
And how ‘bout those airlines.
Our guest will be doing his stand-up at The Comedy Basement this Friday and Saturday in Athens Georgia. So if you’re in town…
Finally, tonight’s musical guest has just returned from their tour of Europe and Japan. Please welcome…
Stay tuned. We’ll be right back.
Thanks for watching.
Why Do Good Girls Like Bad Boys?
My genre poem, complete with cliche:
Why Do Good Girls Like Bad Boys?
It was going so well with the handsome prince
who came to save her
until she met the dragon.
Hour 3 — Stale Dreams
In the forest by Silvercreek lake
My old man has a log cabin
Growing up, we have always known about it
Every other year, for a few days, he would be gone
With his friends, fishing, and what not
“Gone fishing, yessir,” mother would drawl at the dinner table
Like it was supposed to be funny
in an observational sort of way
I thought it was a nice excuse to get away from it all
The cares of a family man, the city life, the stress, taxes
For a few days every year, if you can make it, otherwise,
“There’s always next year,” he’d be placating over the phone
To us he’d say, “Hey, maybe we guys could go one day,”
“A proper family vacation,” he’d try to sell us his second-hand dreams,
“Nothing like a fishing trip to cure the blues, do you a bunch of good.”
Mother would laugh rhetorically from the kitchen
Banging the pots and pans
to make up for the words left unsaid
All that was before the great cancer got to him
In a couple of years he transformed into a wraith
As if under the spell of an evil sorcerer
He died, I went to college, brother went to war
Dad’s tackle lay in the shadowy attic
A prop for intricate spider webs
As for the log cabin, I never really got to see it
After brother came back, mom got sick
with unpronounceable afflictions
Medical euphemisms for old age
Brother started his own business
Tactical multi-tasking between
The logistics of refrigerated trucks and
Taking care of mother
Couple of years back, I too got married
Have a hyperenergetic kid now
Things around the house perpetually seem to be
in varying stages of destruction
Off late, though, I have been thinking
About the log cabin by Silvercreek lake
Maybe, one of these days, I’ll take the family along
Or alone, perhaps
Would be good if some of the guys from college
could come along…
There’d be fishing and beer
And the shared sense of nostalgia
Which comes from getting away from yourself
One of these days, let’s see…