A Boy In Buenos Aires

I’ve been mugged by a gang
of common cold viruses,
never saw them coming,
very professional in their stealthy approach.
They stripped my nose of smell,
and left it bleeding gray gunk,
decorum dissuades further description;
my throat, with viral graffiti scratched on its walls,
begs cherry flavored, mentho-lyptus mercy
for the indignity of such gravelly, grating art.
It is Summer!
they’re supposed to be marauding
in the Southern Hemisphere.
A boy in Buenos Aires is running and laughing
with clear nasal passages,
while I take a decongestant every 4 hours.

Laundry Note

I put my heart in your laundry,
please wash and gently dry.
Hang it in your closet,
like a favorite blouse
you can’t wear enough.

Old Glasses

My glasses are at the bottom of the lake,
looking at fish tails, and chicken bones,
and mud that used to be dirt.

I laid them on the back edge of the boat,
an invitation for any blind foot
to be mischievous with my sight.

Thankfully, an old pair was found,
I could see to drive home;
the nursing home on highway 20
seemed to sparkle in the afternoon Sun.

Language Of Love

We etched skin-doodles
on memory foam,
night-silk hieroglyphs
with pillow-cased, Rosetta stones.
The maid picked-up the key,
and tossed our sleazy swirls
in a rolling laundry tomb.
The erosion of agitated water-spins
won’t fade what we never shared.

Familiar Faces

The wind has a face
with freckles and tasseled hair.
It runs from tree,
to fence, and jumps
in a half-opened window.
It’s not a stranger, it belongs
wherever breezes brush against walls;
picture frames are left with prints of dust,
touching glass-faces of old friends known.

Writing Under The Influence

The poem I write
on this hairy night
with words that need bathing, and
rotted teeth trailing their soul
to the grave of this lonely page,
is a dirge for the poor reader
who endures this verse;
inspiration’s lying on the floor,
passed out drunk feeling sorry
for never getting laid
by any hot-babe lines.

Point Of View

The beer sat on the table,
surrounded by bobble-heads on bar stools.
They spit and slurred
about half-full,
half empty, or
stagnating in the middle.
All arguments seemed equally persuasive,
so I decided to interject
my particular point of view.
I picked it up
examining from top to bottom,
let the cold condensation of its nature
slide down my upturned arm,
as I drank it, then left.

Obituary Of A Summer Day

I looked out my window
at the stampeding hordes of ghost raindrops,
not a single leaf flinching
from the memory of their falling.
The Sun scraped dust-bleeding claws
down flakey bark-skin, and
bent-back blades of Bermuda—
begging a drink for dignity’s sake.
There was no mercy in her breathless denial,
nor Holy tears to bless the dying.
Day drowned in a pool of fire,
night mourned the darkness of its soul.

Golden Little Eggs

There are coffee beans,
from Indonesia,
processed through
the digestive tract of a tree dwelling mongoose,
harvested, washed and dried,
then sold for hundreds of dollars a pound;
a four-legged
hop and drop factory,
leaving processed goods
like cookie dough on a jungle floor.
No rent, light bills or union wages,
just piles and piles
of golden little eggs!

Patio Stones

His gaze never travels
the shortest distance between two points,
shoulders slink permanently
down ladder rung sides.
He answers to a name,
but usually “hey you”,
a day-labor check for beer and anonymity.
Dreams dulled with the shine
on the last good pair of shoes he owned,
memories are midnight hooligans
rolling his prostrate bones for sleep.
He’s multiplied in geometric progression
building every city’s future.
We walk on their backs
like gray, octagonal, patio-stones
kicking dirt in the cracks.

Peanuts In Pepsi

There’s a sixteen year old kid
in the bottom of this plastic bottle,
chewing peanut icebergs
floating in a salty-cola sea.
An old man sits beside him smoking Kools,
on a paint peeling stool, both
tunneling schemes
under barbed wire roles.
The bottle’s destined for the recycle bin,
the old man was pulled to freedom
on braided cigarette smoke
wrapped around his lungs, and
the kid still puts peanuts in Pepsi,
like pennies in a black hole dream.

Losing Battle

I like my coffee hot
but inevitably I drink some cold.
I pour new to freshen the tepid taste,
rejuvenate with a microwave blast.
It’s a losing battle,
temporary methods
to bolster an incidental routine.
My tongue and lips have accepted this,
but never in your kiss.

Consumer Report

Monday morning,
shower heads weep,
hair dryers howl,
deodorants stifle,
zippers clench teeth,
lip glosses smack,
perfumes choke,
ties hang,
front doors bang,
cars growl,
economic forecast, good.

Stone Cold

I think I want to go.
Go where?
I don’t know, just go!
Barter a deal with sunset,
stow away in a disappearing flash;
throw a rope around Orion’s belt,
swing off like Tarzan in the night.
Is this a mid-life crisis?
Tired of chewing crap like a cud?
Maybe, I’m just afraid
to watch the last ripple
from a stone that’s laying cold.

No String's

“Itsy-bitsy” turned 60 today,
bombs are littered like candy wrappers,
the weatherman promises
rain after six o’clock, and
super mosquitoes
prowl Greek tenements,
blood-junky gangs looting a fix.
Headlines are diet food
for those watching
their propaganda levels.
A new world champion
ate 53 3/4 hot dogs in twelve minutes,
sixth straight title,
bare buns, no strings.