The Oldest Blend

The breeze of  this august

day is moving the hairs on my body

giving slight tingling sensations

The chimes ding and the tree is forced to

rub it’s leaves together and bend it’s branches

The cars are quieter than yesterday

The swallows are still swooping about

and I am still thinking about Henry’s diagnosis

I need a cigarette and a mocha java now

I have to get up and go inside to get

‘em.   There is something horribly wrong

with that

Henry is in there dying and I don’t

know what to reassure him about

Pizza Puzzle

In the half dead world I call now there are
crazy makers and orchids shooting up
in the line of houses on top of each other
nestled and convenient their lifestyles
hum and swash and vibrate the context
of human movements.

The light of the sun hits the countertop
and breakfast crumbs. The world of now
is busy and murders for rest and contentment
forever bound by labor and new stimuli
the dragon mind scorches wisdom and reality
forever listening to the internal mad left hemisphere
the muttering and mumbling rabbit of darkness
who suffers the task of solace or evolution

The brain triggers before we are aware
Slowly the cells let us in or confuse
us anyway they fit, working the immortal
puzzle, beating and mastering distances
while we are lolled by the jibber of patterns
and piss poor explanations

Your idea of self is a projection
So give love and peace or go
plant peach trees human
frail and afraid and pushed
to break expectations

You are apart of a world you do not
understand. What truth can you
empty? What great task can you master?
So many gods and spirits you speak
for in your twisted little grab for power
or meaning. What scab of a purpose
do you pin on? What lie do you
lay and fornicate on? The buttons
of drive and energy or smiling or hitting
are chemical and electric
and alive. Damn it fool
you are alive. Go fly a kite

or make it with a brunette

I Turned Twenty-nine

I turned twenty-nine.

Twenty-eight wasn’t so bad, really.

I wasn’t a walking one-liner

but after the cake has

crusted and the blue dishes are stacked

onto top of the counter -

I swallowed the coarse

reality that the eye inside

is not going to change -just this body

she must make do with.

So I started to workout

because I am weak and fatting

and want to be forever

with flexible hamstrings

and strong fists.   Take that pie

Summer pastels

Pink and Plump

The sun is on my face

and there is a cigarette in my hand

There are the typical worries and frustrations

in the background but I force the mind

to shut the uck up

There is nothing more important

than sitting and feeling at peace

This is my new way-my secret diet

The trumpet plays spaghetti and breadsticks

This cup is a sad diversion to the heartache

of being jobless and barefoot

in the last month of summer

But I have a bottle of scotch and a canister

of tobacco and I wont let the approaching winter

stop me from tapping my toe in rhythm with the lunch

hour traffic

The piano plays meatloaf and mashed potatoes

I need something else to do

Ever hold fat out of pity?

Sing no songs for me

Here in this castle of cells I live an ordinary

life of a human who is meaningless

in the grand scheme of the universe

I came to life, not from a virgin

but out of a woman who had other

children first.  There was no star

foretelling that I would be great

or gifted or bring eternal peace.

Born on the floor in a swamp

in the everglades, in a hovel my mother

delivered me and although I struggled

early on I rose to awful prominence

and attained silk lined pants and gold

in my fish tank but when I die a few

people may mourn or really feel bad

but the impact I had envisioned

-the wild and adventurous heron’s life

I had schemed up ended and slid away

without a splash of consciousness

The dimpled fabric where my rotting

corpse will lie will be the only monument

of my ordinary existence

The leftovers of life- blood, bone, and flesh

are better than imaginary glory

Sing no songs for me