Poem-A-Day: Day 56

5 Drams

the air smelt of the oncoming onslaught
of my own true desire,
clouded in the jaded mess that makes
driving nigh impossible

under the bitter bliss of superfluous spirits;
a one-sided conversation
of ceremonious chitter-chatter clattering
words down like liquid

missiles whistling clean across the sky.
delirious, and championing
some fortitude not at all forthcoming,
but sadly off-putting.

a unique, chivalric confidence of inquisition
that violently dances
with some flippant, proprietary qualm
that can’t be squelched

by means of the maddening mosaic
painting something
other than me; it’s what’s intended
any more, but always less.

Poem-A-Day: Day 55

The Turtle Eats

A turtle eating leaves
leaves everything to the imagination
as it shovels very slowly,
methodically moving its head

back
     and
          forth;

sweeping the pile for traces
of whatever it has yet to get
in its beaklike jawing conversation
best had alone with others watching.

Poem-A-Day: Day 54

Cane

Under certain ambiguities
the mundane of modernity
seems almost as refreshing
as the bottles that adorn the floor.
Glass of green and brown
casting twisted color shadows
as the light passes by
like a gentleman twirling his cane.
He whistles while he walks,
and works the crowd over,
six pence none the richer,
but damn does he look good.

I watch the shadows creep with time,
and they become cockroaches twisting
thoughts in my callous subconscious
conscious fervor forming thoughts.


I wish I had a cane to twirl.

Poem-A-Day: Day 53

Drafty Windows

The day is a drafty window
with wind passing through it
like shit through a trumpet
played by the indelible
memories of a room with a drafty window.

They are the best memories
that money can buy
with credit where credit is due
processed with something more
probable than the best memories.

It is less than probable
in some impossible fashion sense
of irony that dwarves its own impending
doom patrolling day and night
watching the less than probable.

So as the night is spent watching
reruns on an old television set
out to get back to the one thing
that remains true to life:
a day spent drafty window watching.

Poem-A-Day: Day 52

Epic


Image by Michael Kenna

Poem-A-Day: Day 51

Solemn Maniacal

deep in the heart of solemn silence
sits a waiting rumination,
patient and penitent,
laughing sweetly on the inside.

and as the scent permeates
the callow sweeping darkness,
it stops briefly to listen to itself
and ponder.

the question isn’t what to do,
but what not to think about,
and simply crash face first
through the picture window.

it’s a never ending game
of haves, and never nots
passing by in idle desperation;
quiet grinning maniacal.

Poem-A-Day: Day 50

New Year

Night descends to day
And a new year marches on
Into the future