When I was in third grade
there was an eclipse of the sun
that Charlie Baguette and me
agreed to watch
through his father’s telescope,
each taking turns holding a piece of green wielding glass
up to the lens.
On the day of the eclipse I walked across
the yards and the hot grass,
smelling like boiled vegetables,
to Charlie’s house
and knocked on the door;
his mother stood in the screen window
squinting at me,
one eye closed.
She wore a pink negligee.
“Is Charlie home?”
Her tits spilled out of the
“Can I have a drink of water?”
The door opened wide enough for me
to squeeze through.
The house smelled like sweat.
She turned her back to me
and stepped to the sink.
I shoved my hand up between her legs.
“Hey!” she said.
I reached up and grabbed
the nipple of the nearest breast.
She spun around:
I thought she would slap me
but she grabbed my head and
pulled me to her chest.
I sucked on her nipple
and jammed my hand down
the front of her
and started to finger
She moaned and her eyes
“Oh my god,” she said
as she sunk to her knees.
She pulled my wiener out of
it looked like an uncooked
Jimmy Dean sausage;
she snapped it up like a fish
taking a bait
and began to suck…
I heard Charlie walk in.
“Ma! What are you doing?” he shouted.
“Mind your own business! Go to your room!”
Charley turned and walked off
in a huff.
I thought I would never stop
I forgot all about the eclipse.
If you couldn’t walk would you long to walk in the rain?
In the cold, over rocks, would you walk with a cane?
Do you still have a mouth, can you still talk and sing?
Taste the snow on your tongue, feel the winter wind’s sting?
For the man with no legs tired feet are a blessing
The man with no house a broken TV’s not distressing
The man with no nose would enjoy smelling trash
The man with no eyes would give any amount of cash
To see for one day, to watch the sunrise
Everyone carries burdens, just as everyone dies
So lest you forget to thank God and pray
Or at least just be thankful you saw a new day
Remember before you complain you don’t thrive
You have so much to celebrate. You are alive.
So don’t waste the day watching TV or even reading this poem
Don’t pity yourself, get off your damn phone
Go out and create, or dance, or learn
We only live once, you only get one turn!
So embrace it, even the hardships – don’t complain
Learn to relish the stress, the failures, the pain
Because in the end even the suffering and strife
Are all opportunities to experience life.
Living is the most precious gift of all
Because living teaches us what it feels like to fall
And to rise up and recognize all that we have
And to cry tears of joy, and feel sad but still laugh.
The poet is on my mind
which puts shrouds
they who read poetry
are haunted by love
those who write
have a larger death
looming in the brain
like the merciless clock
Bedraggled words take
away winter time’s
shrapnel or sadness
of lost world.
Love turns into life
Memory clashes in present
A poet lives in deadest moments.
That voice hacks away at my ear; I almost
feel its teeth brush against my eardrum.
I slowly begin to awaken four hours after
bed, my eyes still heavy under the onslaught.
That window offers the same view that I attempt
in vein to brighten with the dullest conversation
with myself, like a diplomat without an audience.
I slowly soak up my own applause without apology.
I spot the solitary crane that slowly picks and pulls
at what is left of the abandoned building across from me,
like fingers with a stubborn scab, that still continues to
bleed with each idle touch yet is never removed.
My eyes divert back to that screen which slowly
starts to flicker and nonchalantly controls what little
light this room offers. It keeps me within that trance,
till that voice once again slowly brings me round.
they swung in
sanguine youth beauty
in your girlish green eyes
like bicycle spokes
arrayed in a globe of direction
as others echo old widow’s gossip
spill tequila under
whispers of pretense
that had made you wince
even as girl scouts whole-heartedly embraced you
holding your legitimacy as leader
with sleight of hand
you mend him
and after a tempered drive
make a tousle of clothes
into a catwalk of futility
into a dark house
you don’t need sun
to cast shadows
stinking of stupidity
he retrieves cold metal
from the bureau drawer
and you give up
a bra hook
a parting of lips
it only took one slippery finger’s bark
to admit the silence into your pillowed ear
deflating this mattress of compromise
your wide olive eyes in a staring girlishness
as harsh morning blazes stab through narrow blinds
slapping sparkle back into your
emerald earrings that had remained
atop the nightstand
in your upstairs bedroom
on 34 prelude circle
where humming wheels of passersby made
routine out of a negated day
late autumn is a dying empire, regally
late as a high-class nursing home,
counterpane of gold over juggernaut of bones
capsized on a film of yellowed gaiety, the Fall
in which the apple is a brown distemper,
celebration of death and resurrection,
and the old, old insurrection of spring,
winter is coming like a wolf, our sole protection
eternal sunlight in a tiny hall.