Old Easter candles

It’s time to burn
these old easter candles
they sat untouched
during sunday brunch
now halfway through june
their wicks are crooked
and must be consumed,
removed from existence

So mom strikes a match
and I watch her stare
across the table
holding the flame
to our immaculate candles
she hesitates-
then lowers her hand
to the unburnt thing

The little wax rabbit
melts into his basket
With a look of betrayal
The table is quiet.

The cute little eggs
drip down on the carpet
collecting in pools
The table is quiet.

“Some past and future destination”

The day I thought I’d bow my head
was the day I paced across the bridge
beneath were cars stuck in between
some past and future destination

Beguiled in our innocence
by illusions of displacement
we seek out places we pretend
are far from burdens of commitment
or the charge of family obligation
and so the road becomes a conduit
which we tread with sandaled feet
on an alluring pilgrimage to
break the line of sight between
our actions and their consequences

In equal quantities I saw
the headlight white and braking red
and since you never asked about the bridge
I’m telling you now, I’m over it.

Shake, Prometheus

Since you can change a lightbulb,
allegedly,
you are self-sufficient?
As if that mechanical act,
like breathing,
is the foundation of existence?
And you, balanced ridiculously
on an office chair,
are some heroic Prometheus?

Even I do not think that myself,
a learned man,
could fabricate a source of light
using the crude implements
of the original masters
and both my adroit hands.

So where does that leave you,
with no knowledge of metal-inert gas,
thread pitches or circuit diagrams?

Without the history
of the industrial world’s
reassuring hand upon your back?

Perhaps in time
people will grow tired of hubris’
illusion of autonomy,
become humbled by our dependence
on the lattice of society,
and sabotage these machines
which have joined us artificially
and diluted our humanity

“Nature come back”

Nature come back
Monet never saw

gravel truck trails
knuckled out south
past Joshua trees
and rusty red hills

shiny toy guns
casino bright signs
pygmy horse farms
and power line songs

paint postcard spots
over those lilly pads
and haystacks at Chailly
Blot out those perfect
little French towns
and parliament buildings

a brushstroke crushed
on your heavenly canvas
could bring nature back
to suburban planning

so paint from beyond

let it soak through

give us vanilla skies

or bring me to you

“A mild luxury”

The only time in recent memory
I’ve been at peace
(at peace completely)
was when you, finding no sleep
but taking some comfort
in the sound of my breathing

Candidly abandoned your bed
and tiptoed to the living room
to join me instead
on thin synthetic
cots pressed together
so the seams disappeared
like tetris pieces

In retrospect, I failed to inform you
that I slept not a bit in your company
but instead lie awake in the still of the night
surveying the texture of the ceiling
and vigilantly monitoring my breathing
which (until that time, unknown to me)
could suffice for you as a mild luxury
So I took peace in your tranquility
and, anyways, that is the reason
I was so drowsy in the morning
i’m sorry I lied and simply said,
when prompted, that “…I slept funny”

“The asterisk and the ellipses..”

The author’s exposition
on choice of font
filled a paragraph
of f’s and l’s and ampersands
their classic lines and peaks
belonging to lucinda sans
this one, said he,
scribed with love
marries gothic curves of old
to modern parametric curves
and should be clearly visible

So I, with pen and sword in hand,
the battle-hardened scrivener,
set out to conquer foreign eyes
with fonts so pure, their sloping arcs
like illustrated babybreath
could make a killer turn his head
to hide the tear it generated
and what about the asterisk?
with precious few occurances
its utility can’t be denied
though it looks the same in every font–
italicized or underlined.

It met my calligraphic hand
its petals bloomed beneath
but after raven ink had dried
it stared back disenchantedly
I acquiesced to my defeat
released my writing implements
then sat for hours longingly
reading back that final sentence:

The beauty of ambiguity,
*the asterisk and the ellipses…

“The Fate of the S.S. Kingdom Arctic”

they’re going to find a broken hull
surrendered to the baltic sea
belly split and bleeding fuel
amid a circle of debris

a hundred pairs of calloused hands
reaching in the dark and deep
groping for a jacket collar,
a glove, a lantern, something breathing

a knowing visage may display
what vacant iron eyes can hide
the soul that sits so still and placid
sometimes flushed out in the tide

“Six Gun”

I’d like to think of these
six poems I have written
as chambered up in a revolver
instead of saved as text
and i can sight the pistol
and aim at birds or rocks
or cactuses
and then leave holes
inside the objects
where matter had resided
but people are not cactuses
and poems are not bullets
my rhetoric is not a rifle
and leans towards the pedantic
sometimes the only sound accompaniment
is machine gun tapping on delete
to erase in haste a paragraph and
back me up an hour and a half
but still I need to feel i’ve said something
powerful and beautiful
while retaining masculinity
hence the barrel spewing smoke
and all the loaded imagery

“Cleaning Out the Closet”

A wallet-sized picture
was buried in my closet–
a sentimental trigger

written on back were
inside jokes, and, of course
your signature

The sound of the word inside my head
became a breath, as I read aloud
your face appeared so vividly

The N became your Nose
the a’s became your cheeks
as I lingered on the i and e
a smile shot through parted teeth

Surrounded by shit
I was throwing away
there on the floor
I said your name
then watched the window
for air escaping
that would topple trees
and bend the buildings
as it raced like hell
and ran red lights
to call you back to me

“Melodramatic”

HOW MANY TRAGIC DEATHS
IN EMERALD TOWERS!
none?
oh, ok..