Waking Up

Poetry is hunger and protest.

Not pretty sounds

but a howl, a scowl

a wake up call for a drunk

in a hotel with

pretty lies and lights

and a roulette table

that never pays out but

keeps going round and round and round .

Poetry is a cry, a picture

that hopes to make the world

ashamed

that hopes to make the world

– even one man

come out of that hotel

and into the sunlight

of acceptance

and each moment thereafter

be good

and each day thereafter

have a thought of the good.

Poetry is one hand slapping

the feckless face of man unkind.

After Math

They don’t know shit.

Monday morning quarter backs

IMF monocled flunkies

I told you so s

The next President

Critics, commentators

preachers, prognosticators

weathermen

the girl next door

They all saw it coming ….

“I knew one day he’d shoot up that school”

“I could have told you that it would be the Lakers in 6”

” Was plain for all to see – one day he’d beat the shit out of her”

“Saw it a mile away – those bank failures.”

So many experts in the field of

human tragedy and

after the fact

but

where were they before

while the demented lady cried “fire!”

in the dining car?

They don’t know shit.

All they are good at is after math.

Now

It’s hard.

Not knowing what will happen.

Not remembering what did happen.

It’s hard.

This swamp water of flesh and time

we wade through.

Paper clips, candy wrappers

receipts, car fumes, hotel rooms ….

We get lost in the little things.

There is no map.

There is no mama to kiss you

goodbye.

There is no mama to return to.

There are no witnesses.

I’ve been trying to find

the door handle

to let myself out

but maybe I should be

looking for a latch.

It’s hard.

Damn impossible.

I sit in the disappointment

between what was and will

hoping that one day

I’ll know what it is all about.

I sit.

But it’s hard

not to just put a bullet

in my head

and find out NOW.

The Light Keeps Coming On …

Driving late at night

Guatemalan night

the music strong

nothing, absolutely nothing

wrong.

Just me, the road, song

and Mayan spirits.

I’m right where I belong.

Then, the engine light comes on.

There is something wrong.

Could be the tranny

Could be water in the fuel.

Could be electrical.

Could be a million things …..

and to carry on

to get my mind off this wrong

I think about all my own wrong

My engine light now too on.

Could be my heart.

Could be my drinking.

Could be my chassis

I’m just falling apart

and my engine light is on.

I get home.

Park the car.

Park myself.

Take a drink.

Take my pills

and think

of all those whose

engine light’s not on

but who ain’t going as far …..

Everything Hurts

Everything hurts.

You awake and time

pushes down on your chest

and the light outside blinds.

There is no way out and

you have no choice but to get up

and go through it

– the hurt.

Everything hurts.

The walk down the stairs.

The thought of the afternoon.

The weight of gravity.

The emptiness of the sky.

Each spoonful of cereal.

Each sup of coffee.

Every breath, every heartbeat.

Everything hurts.

You can’t tell anyone about it.

That hurts more.

Besides,

you don’t know exactly what it is

that hurts.

You only know it hurts.

Everything hurts.

The news

not getting any news.

The slow gnaw of microbes

enjoying your skin.

The sun, oh definitely the sun

that thought of always

not being

but also being too.

Everything hurts.

Getting dressed, getting ahead

getting head, getting a dress

having lunch – the necessity of it all.

Having stuff – the chance you swim in

the wind on your skin

the sound of distant laughter ……

Everything hurts.

There is no respite.

No water breaks.

Alcohol, sex, pills, rock n’ roll

They only make it hurt more.

Everything hurts.

You roll on, on, on,

up that hill

but the top never comes.

And it keeps hurting, hurting.

It will keep hurting, hurting.

There is no end to it.

Nothing, not even drugs,

religion, sex or

the thought of death

can dial it down.

There is no kill switch.

There is no way out or off.

Everything hurts.

Simple Poetry

There is more plastic in our
oceans than fish.

More guns are fired each day
than knives spreading butter.

We kill over 250,000 living
organisms each time we exhale.

100% of us will die.

Despite appearances
there is no tomorrow.

The day is sufficient
unto itself.

Nobody owes you anything

not the bank

that won’t extend your line of credit,

not the snot nosed kid

you used to be,

not the tooth fairy or Santa Claus

not the girl you gave your heart to

not the President or your dad’s estate

not the bars you so well indulged

and which now won’t allow you in

anymore,

not even the poker dealer

who always tosses you

7 deuce with a smile.

Nobody owes you anything.

Not your folks who didn’t push you enough

into this too soft world,

certainly not this

pale blue dot that

gives you a roof over your head

and the right to be here,

certainly not time

the gatekeeper and

most democratic of sliding doors,

certainly not bare bones life

to which you aren’t even

an after thought.

Nobody owes you anything.

Get over it.

Close your ledgers.

Melt your tin trophies.

Get off your ass and

grow some balls.

Realize

the finish line is also

a starting line.

Unfinished

Now that I have taught

my tongue

to speak what is in

my heart.

I now must find

the one who will listen.

Now that I have looked

long enough

to finally see.

I now must find

the one who will understand.

Now that I have walked

this valley

and reached the

mountaintop.

I now must find

the place I started from.

Now that I have learned

to love

and

to lay down my arms.

I now must find

the one who I can hold on to.

Now that I have drank up

life’s bounty

and eaten my fill.

I now must find

the will to feed others.

Your life, my life, his life

is never finished

merely abandoned.

Know what you do not know

and you will complete

the circle

and stand where

you’ve always stood.

You’re Never Gonna Win

You’re never gonna win

not even if you

practice all day,

not even if you

get that nose job,

not even if you

win the lottery or

hit the triactor.

It’s just not gonna happen.

Entropy has us all in her

dirty hands.

There’s a loose nut in

every assembly line.

There’s a self-destruct button

blinking on and off

in everyone’s heart.

Best to not swim upstream.

Learn to love the toast on the floor,

jam side down

cuz

your ship always will be

going back out again

and

you’re never gonna win.

Get used to it.

There ain’t no Oz, Dorthy.

Poetry by the numbers

There is more plastic in our oceans

than fish.

More guns are fired each day

than kisses given.

We kill over 250,000 living organisms

each time we exhale.

100% of us will die.

Despite appearances

there is no tomorrow.

The day is sufficient

unto itself.