Poetry

Red and Green and Blue

Ride_2-20-16_5Red and Green and Blue

Red and green and blue are safely locked in my head. Night returns with disease and obsession, obsessions. I draw a line on a dirty piece of paper. There is nothing on either side but I have created a boundary. I don’t feel any safer.

He walks to the back of the house without great conviction, out the back door to look at the alley. The painkiller makes his vision flicker around the edges. Painkillers are a gift from God when they are needed, and they are needed tonight.

The red is the blood. The green is the money. The blue is the sky. I think about a bourbon. That will surely put me away. I like the sound of ice cubes hitting the lead crystal rock glass. The red is the blood, the poison river, always escaping, falling, splashing.

He doesn’t try to count the city lights. There are too many and he dislikes them all. They hide the stars. He wanders rather than walking because he has no destination in mind. He breathes a word that only he understands. He exhales it.

I touch the steel because it is blue. I touch the skin because it is red. I touch the earth because it is green, but that is all. I am unavailable. Disconnect the phone because I know the danger. A song plays in my head that I don’t like.

He lights another cigarette and inhales deeply. Smoke trickles out of his mouth and nose, slowly, erotically. The smoke curls up around his face and into his hair. He pulls an old book from the shelf. Without even looking at the title, he begins to read.

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Poems from the Street: Between

Bridges

 

Between

Between
Between young and old,
black and white,
rich and poor —

Between right and left,
gay and straight,
man and woman —

Between Inside and outside,
thought and feeling,
dreaming and waking —

Between now and then,
yesterday and today,
today and tomorrow —

Between them and us,
you and me
ourselves —
We need to build more bridges.

August 19, 2014

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Poems from the Street: Hit and Run

Red Truck mod

 

Hit and Run

 

Hit and run by the truck

Sometimes known as my life.

Didn’t even see it coming,

didn’t stand a chance.

Karma was smeared

all over the road.

Zeitgeist was totaled.

Spiritual airbags

all deployed.

Angels rushed me to the

emergency room, but

the doctor didn’t

know what to do,

so I went home

to sleep it off.

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Poems from the Street: Listening for a Song

Song

 

Listening for a song, and the quiet

is so hard to find.

The song would seep from my DNA

like an enzyme,

or fall from the stars like dew.

The song would settle like dust

on my bookshelf,

or form like a painful scab

on my skin.

It would be about everything,

and nothing at all,

heroism and trivia,

rage and lust,

entropy and boredom —

Listening for a song.

 

– July 7, 2014 –

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Poems from the Street: Ride the Loop

Crank

 

Ride the Loop

Ride the loop.
Feel the burn.
Cranks turn.

From deep places
in the bone
the fire animates

sinew and muscles,
nerve and eye,
to defeat the climb.

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Poems from the Street: Dogfight

Buchertown Greenway 6

Dog fight out on the street –

Two pit bulls, one leashed

And one free,

hardly a fair fight.

 

Sun rakes the street

with searing rays.

It cooks things dry,

Makes dogs want to fight.

 

Fumes from cars

are WMD –

choking, toxic.

My bike makes no fumes.

 

Allant in Cherokee Park

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The Children of Strange Gods

 

Cooling-Off-b&w

There will be sad air dripping
its stale nectar on the ground.
No paper towel will conquer it,
muddy puddles everywhere.
The children of strange gods
will walk between the toxins,
naked, luminous, unseeing
of the danger near their feet, peril.

We will read the solutions from
Cracker Jack boxes and breathe,
“These things will not work.”
A dove purple and green coos.
We are not the brittle nubile
whores we once were; get over it.
You will pay a fair rate this time
and thank your lucky stars for it.

Ah hah! You are pregnant with it,
pregnant with poison and darkness.
You will give birth to words and
nightmares, and it will hurt, bad…
I can’t help you with that, sorry –
you must do your own bleeding.
I will put on a pot of coffee and
try to stay awake for your travail.

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Brutal Soul

 

weird friends 2

 

Brutal soul,

cannibal of dreams,

you are rapacious,

insatiable.

Night burns into

day, and into

night again,

and there is no

mercy,

no reprieve.

There is only

hunger.

 

There is only

hunger,

the mother

of lies,

and a god

who will not

speak.

I will not

tempt you.

I am not

so vain.

 

I am not

so vain to think,

nor plunge

myself into

the cold flood,

believing

that I would not

sink. Mad,

but not a fool.

 

Mad,

but not a fool,

the lashes

make red stripes

upon my skin.

By them I know

I am alive.

The pain

is truth.

Pain is the

only truth,

brutal soul.

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