A collection of my poetry from the deep recesses of my mind and the fringes of society. |
Like all poets, I write about experiences and observations from my real life. My poems vary dramatically, from poems of pure image to ever-cliché thoughts on the meaning of life. Some of them are upbeat and funny while others are dark and serious. If I've done my job right, you'll find one that makes sense to you. ------------------------------------------------------ Paradise High above the streets far beneath the painted clouds, I find my paradise. Scale the crackling shingles to an island inside a sunset where the steep ground turns to gold and the shadows bathe me in cool violet. Ravens ride the breeze and circle the trees under my feet. Kneel to watch new green leaves unfurl - a deep, warm green - green like her eyes. Sitting together, watching the stars shimmering like her smile in the dark. My paradise, the two of us hiding above the world where the rooftops kiss heaven. ------------------------------------------------------ Salsa Latin fever burns the soles of my shoes struggling to keep the frantic tempo. Salsa beat drums into my bones. Left foot forward, right foot back, unbutton my collar to let the sweat boil away. Salsa beat fans the flames of my soul. Lost in the music, master the mambo, throw in a cha-cha for flair, spin the girl. Salsa beat starts my pulse racing. Cuban heat crackles on the crowded dance floor, hold her close, eyes locked, song crescendos, one last dip. Salsa beat is the spice of life. ------------------------------------------------------ Sweat in the Street After A. Van Jordan Sweat pours off the shoulders of the night in greasy drops that stick to the sidewalk. puddle around my feet, soak my socks. Soul-heavy air clings to my fingertips, trailing in the gutter with the other restless perfectionists, missed deadlines, abandoned desires. Sweat pours off the shoulders of the thick, gray hour between night and day. The city is hot and foul in the back alleys with the passed-out homeless and last call vagrants. The street is a mirror where the artists drown. ------------------------------------------------------ Soldier of Freedom (Note: There are two sides to every story...) A homemade bomb Ticks under his dust-blue sedan Parked on a Baghdad Side street, where an IED Crater smiles up at God. His hands slip Off the trigger With raw human sweat, The same as any other man's sweat, Even the sweat of an American Crusader. How much more innocent life must stain The streets diesel fire red? When are there too many body bags Overflowing the dumpsters? Funeral bells toll Two thousand Sand-filled helmets. He thinks of the coming nightfall, The sky a puddle of innocent Iraqi blood Flecked with diamond dust. Retribution for his act of faith Will break down dead- Bolted doors, Drag families into the street, Shoot the mothers and fathers. He thinks of his son, Three years old. He must do this for his baby's future. Freedom is priceless, His life is not. He will make it count. Death will bring the promise Of life carried on the blinding wings of angles For his people. A Humvee encases Four American boys. Red, white, and blue country music Pulses through their veins. He grips the trigger, Wonders whether his cause is just, If his son will look at an old Polaroid Of his freedom-fighting father And understand. He presses the button with a calloused thumb For his son, his wife, his country. Dust-blue shrapnel and sand-smoothed Dog tags sprinkle the sacred steps Of a sun dried Mosque Like a summer storm that will never Bear rain. Only dust. ------------------------------------------------------ Appetite Lost He's the person you can't avoid staring at: bulging cheeks, greasy hands, and a stomach like he's cleaned-out twelve all-you-can-eat buffets before he even got here. Digestion is his passion. He glares at a preschooler in mismatched moccasins eying his slop of heaven. He wipes globs of ketchup marooned on his chins onto the sleeve of his Mountain Dew-stained, turquoise Miami Dolphins sweatshirt. He can eat for seven minutes without breathing. Tiny slivers of potato gleam with liquefied lard. He grabs them by the slick, mushy handful, closes his eyes with each savory bite. His mouth is so packed it is unable to close, showcasing the wet, spongy fries dissolving in his saliva. You can hear his teeth grind like a garbage disposal. He swallows them and scoops up more starchy victims. You wrench your horror-stricken eyes back to your ¼ pound cheeseburger with extra mayo and push its aroma of bubbling fat away. You may never eat again. ------------------------------------------------------ The King Has Left the Building I'm sleeping in a railroad station In dusty Los Angeles. Waiting for the midnight train To Memphis. I'm So Lonesome, I Could Cry, On this gum-crusted bench Next to the all-night gas station. Drunk drivers stop for gas and coffee, They don't know who I am. I'm All Shook Up, my energy drained Into endlessly unproductive recording sessions. But sometimes you're just too old To come back. I could use a shot before I shoot Another television set. I could use a bed at the Heartbreak Hotel Instead of this wrought iron pillow. Mama's long dead and buried Down the road they want to name after me. I left yellow roses on her grave, Left to wither under mingled stars and city lights. Good old blues Burst out the back door of the nightclub Across the frozen tar river. Southern blues haunt me Like the bars where I used to play Before I ventured out of the Deep South, Before anyone knew me by my first name, Before 31 Hollywood flops, Back when everyone took me seriously. One for the money, Two for the show... Drizzling dawn lights The train station windows Like the portholes of heaven. I plan to die young, With a golden record Droning its melancholy heartbeat Beside my bed. ------------------------------------------------------- The Blues Slow drums weep with shattered souls. Whitewashed piano keys clink like ice in the empty glass alone at the bar. Acoustic guitar strings pluck tears from the lonely silence that drifts over the barren wood floor like fog on dead moors. A deep, black voice of the Deep South confesses his sorrows to a sparse crowd. I can almost hum along. My heart beats the same depressing notes. I know every word from harsh experience. The singer ain't got nothin' to live for but the cigarette left for dead in the ashtray on the piano. I've got less. We both know this song: the coarse rhythm of rejection, the familiar chord of "let's still be friends." It's been sung by every poet and by every man, but it feels like I'm the only one in the world who could possibly feel this wretched. It always feels like this, like an ulcer devouring me from the inside out. The melody drones on and the chorus runs in circles. It's fitting for my mood. His voice never loses its purpose and never wavers. Neither of us can get the girl out of our heads or out of our dreams. I never stray from the blues. The blues understand me. I leave a dollar in the tip jar on the way out. ------------------------------------------------------------------ Release Infected with incurable fever, I sink down into the mouth of a red leather armchair, encircled by black sunlight and stare blankly, with dark, disillusioned eyes at the extinguished golden candlelight. A storm of visions pummel the damp, desolate moors of my mind. Impermanent footsteps are erased from the mud. Echoes of slamming doors reverberate in my empty coma from which I may never awaken. There is nothing. All this nothing going on goes on for the infinity of a breath. One diamond kiss denied, One sea-green gaze stolen has gashed my sunken, flat heart. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Ace Crack of metal arms, Click of dusty gears. The rattle of creation Fills the hot, stark white room. Pages march across its gaping jaws. Sweat sparkles on keys that catch the sun at the death of the day. The musty scent is intoxicating. Rhythmic tapping on the ribbon makes the words sing their black-and-white sorrows to the waning red light. The black steel time capsule groans from decades of abuse. Inspiration hides in its greasy innards. Typewritten words are immortal. ----------------------------------------------------------------- Dry Shards A bare white oak arches over a narrow, deserted street lined with uninsulated, wood frame houses that lay vacant until summer. Peeling, bony branches drape above a rain-specked sidewalk. The last half-dozen leaves break free of withered moorings and flutter down to the pavement in a cascade of tarnished gold. The leaves spiral and curve on a cushion of stagnant air. They flip, twist, and crinkle against each other. Icy white sunlight illuminates their unique tints - from honey to mustard blonde and deepens the recessed shadows of their dead brown veins. They sigh down past carved initials of the oak's weathered trunk, settle next to the cinder-stained curb, and glitter with frozen drops of dew, only to be crushed into crisp, dry shards beneath the running shoes of an early-morning jogger. ----------------------------------------------------------------- |