Diner Haiku #10

milk, cream, sugar, half

n half, whatever takes that

coffee taste away

Diner Haiku #9

i'm so glad we have

texting so i no longer

have to talk to you

Diner Haiku #8

i'll have scrambled eggs,

a side of burnt toast, and all

those crying mothers

70% Water, 30% Land

You be the rolling waves

caressing my shores

I'll be the landmass you're just

scratching the surface of

You be the rushing water tides

always changing

I'll be the shifting sandy earth

always being changed.

strangers swinging from the rafters pouring vinegar from holy pores
a balcony fire that spread to the chamber pots through valleys of cream and sulfur.
the empress violates greasy spoon and fork wisdom. storm clouds stalk the indigent and glass slippers seamlessly line the walk ways of paths unknown. all in the good of the fountainhead says i and we are dancing light years beyond the putrid purple sky.

The first word is the hardest

Be a first word poet.

Compress the whole poem

into a tight little ball

along with your sketches

from memory,

a microphone chord,

a ukulele,

the Cats Eye Nebula,

and the clang of a free game 

of pinball.

Also your last letter home,

the Heart Sutra,

an awkward hand job,

Kansas at sun up,

buying a girl a shot of

Southern Comfort,

rusted batteries eating

through an old camera,

and the smell of Atlantic City,

squeeze all those things into

the first word of your poem

because it is infinite

and everything else is emptyness

A thought sitting on a raised eyebrow

It happens without you noticing, all the meanwhile it's all youre
thinking about; everything is changing. No, you've moved and thought
too slowly already.... things have already changed.
It happened while you were sleeping. It happened when you were out in
the road spinning around in circles like a topsy turvy carnival swing
It happened while you were falling in love, you didn't notice it.
It happened when you got angry and shouted at the clouds
And they just poured out to you
But you didn't notice
Things are changing
No, you've moved and thought too slowly already.... things have already changed.

the ancient egyptians believed that if the names of the dead were still spoken in the land of the living that they would continue to live on in the next life as well. with that in mind,

chris
austin
dave
rhapsody

i miss you all, and hope the next life treats you better than this one did.

Skeletal Closet Blues

I've got some men hanging from my branches, swaying side to side as I walk
Skeletal closet blues
I've got hounds gnawing and gnashing at my back, smaller ones lapping
up the blood
Skeletal closet blues
I'm running away
The blues will stay
And they'll follow
Ain't that a paradoxical
Half-maniacal
Walking death sentence
The skeletal closet blues

Liquor is Love as Water

There’s a ghost & he lies in my bed

He has a beautiful face

but lacks a beautiful name

He kissed me on the mouth

& told me that I myself was beautiful

By morning, his soul was gone

Fleeted with an apology

“Moving on to the next life, mama.”

Throw some change in my direction

‘Cause this scenery needs a fresh take

Everything adds up to dollars and sense

Each breath, mile, sip & smoke

Drags me back for the same price to the same place

I’d like to grow new skin

& exchange my used organs for new ones

like products sold on late-night television

with lifetime replacement warranties

But here you go darlin',

You can have my old ticker,

Free of charge

No shipping or handling

No cash on delivery

You can use it as a pair of shoes

Lace them tightly to your feet

So I can feel where you’ve been

You’ve been vomiting romantic words

Naked in your kitchen

Coming up as bubbles

& I won’t say much

Because my nerves are shot

& I must remain delicate

But you’re the type of bad habit

Mothers warn their daughters about

The kind of guy that'll make

a perfectly good woman go mad.

Do you love every dish

that’s put in front of you

with a side of booze

or am I the only one?

either shine or set

Weather Report

Woody Guthrie wrote This Land Is Your Land
in February of 1938,
hitchhiking through Pennsylvania
on his way to New York. He felt
the mountain range wind laughing.
Over lean miles, he lay on his back,
feeling for the rumble on coming traffic
to disturb the unstirring wilderness.
There was no road but his road,
as I-80 dreamt him along.

If you look for America there, you'll see it
passing you in scenes, standing like billboards on the highway,
moving pictures of the great, empty
Sunday supper.
The oak doorway straining in the
weather. The toll road charming your
last few dollars. The chyrons pronouncing that
the corners have been turned. It's like the
bookmark melting into the page. The field
slowly becoming forest.

My father brought pieces of America with him
when he left. There was the dirt on his boots.
He held onto the sky in his pockets.
He could throw it on the wall, and it would
slowly drip into a mess on the floor.
This was not something he would worry about.

Remember, these roads are still holding
a space for you. Remember that Woody Guthrie
stood
in the middle of Pennsylvania
in February
and he saw beauty.