37:2

right in front of me

i watched a man pull pepsi;

half drank; from garbage.

 

 

and i thought how we think we’ve all been there.

to justify the sight of melancholy.

 

half smoked butts, or bowls,

or a pair of jeans all week:

for week on week on week.

or hoping things are better today.

walking to the store,

“for health”,

with no money for gas.

or preferring black coffee:

haven’t fit milk in the budget for months.

 

pretending you can

sympathize with other lives

that face true hardship.

 

or watching the birds of the balcony,

seeing things are better today.

 

 

The Church Bell Hit The Wrong Note

I woke up and laid in bed,

writing in my head.

Sentences explaining love made and love lost,

girls who I knew and have forgotten and

explanations for the reasons I do the things I do,

(and the things I do not do anymore).

I woke and walked downstairs to get coffee and

to further expand the ideas in my head.

I had a smoke and the writings began to leave my head.

The ideas explaining my generation –

what I at least thought I knew of my generation.

I thought harder.

I remembered a girl who had thin lips and another who

had dark hair and thin hips.

I remember a kid who lit my shoes on fire and

a kid who’s eye I hit with a black walnut.

I showered and forgot more.

I grabbed my pad and headed to the library to try and

get these ideas out before they left.

and the church bell rang,

and the church bell hit the wrong note.

and I forgot.

Haiku: 32

complex decisions.

I just want to take you there,

we can watch the birds.

 

Haiku: 31

robins watch from trees.

I’m watching from my window.

tomorrow, we’ll switch.

Bird Murder (1)

“It would take some getting use to, or in this case it would have to be the object of my affection.”
I relied on what anyone else would and I forgot that I was catchy, that I was me, an unforgettable person with a heart made of pure sadness because when you love someone you cry. I’m that guy, I’m the letter Z, from here on out consider me last but most important. I won’t tie any of this together, I’ll let you be the bird that can’t fly, and anyone who doesn’t think that birds have lives sure should get a parrot and train it. I think the BIRDS know what man doesn’t, in case it doesn’t click, the whole bark up this tree came from me wondering if birds actually murder each other. Same type same size ordeal, we know the eagle is a predator.
The lines from your editor…it doesn’t matter right now if you think a bird will murder.
The bird that can fly will escape his own death,
If that Bird flies at all.
Bird Murder

to words not written (1-3)

this is a poem.

this is a – i’ve been up all night kind of poem.

this is the type of poem people who ate too much speed like kind of poem.

this is a i’m living each day like a new king of a poem.

i’ve been doing what I want, each day, kind of,

waking up dry mouthed and wide awake,

slipping in the hall,

knocking on the hall,

listening to the wall,

kind of poem.

 

this is the type of poem you write when you want to write, type of poem.

this is the type of, days turning to night, into days, type of poem.

hoping for something new, seeing everyone new,

everyone the same, type of poem.

this is a home for holiday, seeing old friends – kindergarten best friends – ordering ice cream for his mom at a gas station kind of poem.

it’s a i’ve wanted to be an off track better my whole life kind of poem

this is a no one man you know is happy with where he is type of poem,

and no one man will be, kind of poem.

 

this is a Blakean – i’ve feared these visions, my innocence vs. my experience.

you walked along the fallen rocks and kicked mud, we all kick mud kind of poem.

a “i’ve taken to long trying to write a poem” type of poem.

the type of poem you write when you should have tried prose,

maybe try to explain your ideas better, maybe try and get better ideas.

shorter sentences length, that one is a run on, do you check your grammar, have you proofed this,

type of poem.

this is a, “i’ll come back and work some more on this one” type of poem.

Sparrow: In Fear and Flight – A Faux Ending

The Hawk packed his bags, pacing, eager to fly, ready to go –

“Oh my my, you’ve grown so very tall”

Dream scenes mixing with reality,

And longing for a beautiful farewell,

The Hawk stopped at the Owls nest to see if he had gotten any further with his

contemplation of death and the depth of the human soul,

But he hadn’t,

And the Hawk knew this would be the answer before knocking on the Owls door,

Who was calmly sitting in his double chair,

Ashtray on knee,

Blowing smoke out of his nose,

Deep in thought and brooding with melancholy,

Full of fatherly advice and o’so full of excitement and pain.

The visit was short.

And so the Hawk went to see the Bard of Bird Pond,

For the Crane would be a sight for sore eyes,

For a final time.

The same Crane who had led him to the decision to leave,

On a journey toward understanding and inner reflection

“It doesn’t matter; we are all going to die and it just doesn’t matter anymore”

The Crane said through sad eyes,

A long time ago,

And again for a final time.

The same Crane who now went from place to place brooding with melancholy and the confusion of knowing too much.

But it did matter, and it will always matter, and the Hawk understood that,

And was no longer hung-up on life’s wall mounts of thinking it didn’t matter.

The Hawk stopped at the Peacocks house,

Thought a moment,

And left,

Not knowing what he might have been expecting.

 

And the sun set,

And the Hawk sat on the curb,

Cigarette in hand,

Smoke in nose,

Knowing too much,

Contemplating what really mattered,

Wondering if his journey had made him a better man,

A lump sum of all he knew,

Or thought he knew,

And all the people he had met and would meet.

And the Sparrow saw,

And the Sparrow had no more to say.

Nobody Ever Told Her It’s the Wrong Way

As it rolls off your tongue and passes behind their ears
You start to ponder the interpretation beyond all of their minds
What did your words sound like inside another’s brain, through another’s airwaves?
Indifference.
Over-analyzation.
Jealousy.
Manipulation.
Joy.
You can’t ever quite tell.
If they have the correct grasp or are they holding onto Never-never land?
The truth stands; it was said.
Did the message, tucked away in a bottle
Make it soundly?
Without the ink running or the paper ripped and faded?
Was the letter received
The right way?

Tanka: 20

Did you see me there?

I sat quiet and alone.

Now as time changes,

as with the flowers, the birds,

and all Dove’s creatures – I’ve grown.

 

Hello Goodbye

Such solemn goodbyes
Tentatively bring forward
A timid hello