urn

I try one last plea
for you most beloved,
on a bed of goodbyes
in a sea of tongues,

as a savory offering to the gods
and their deaf ears.

Where then I find this final verse
in an earthen vessel tall,
filled with elemental ash
in a desert of the nightfall,

as a bright offering to barren spaces
when eyes are only blind,
what beauty shall be found there,
will beauty there be mine?

So I invoke the never ended
of thee now gone away,
on fields of  ever after
in shroud of fired clay,

as proper name forged afresh
all sound and sight  reborn,
urn thou standing now on mantle's head,
I shall spare no more and mourn.

swollen son

minding my affairs
in an old language
like a young friend
pregnant
beneath a swollen sun

tending my reflections
with a desperate sense
like a worn phrase
lodged
between two large stones

apprehending this resolve
in a precious gem
like an ice storm
freezing
those who stayed behind

day lost night (a sparrow's song)

i will warm to old man winter
like everything i asked you to be
piling endless cords of wood
in straight and perfect rows
with a deep and dark
furrow upon my brow.

later,
i will eat dried and sugared fruits
by a windowpane
in the night watches
with an irreverent stillness
that lingers by my aging side
like the vanity of our youth
as the fervor of my childhood.

still,
i will abide a lost and golden melody
by a fire mine own hands hath made
as it delivers a warmth that i can barely feel
caught up with the spell, a sparrow's song
of parley and murder and wine
lyrics that burn intensely
that this pale orange glow belies

so,
i will cry out with the sunrise
to capture that heart of the dark
render a song of the sparrow
live the rest of my life as the sum of this part
that was here cast for me
beneath the veil of fire and rhythm
an opus of lovers,
a right of the wrongs we have done

because
we too will die with the father of winters
as all men are asked to do
in a pine box lined with scented satin
and the shadows of yesterday's faces
slowly and gently there to erase
these furrows from my brow.

penny candy

make mention
fool
of the new apostasies
the cold hard
cash,
like a beggar
and his crusted bread
like a bond trader
and his trophy wife.

make words
fool
of our pending democracies
with cold hard
calculation,
like Columbus
departing in his Santa Maria
like Custer
and the grass that now grows in his stead.

make more
fool
of the old and glorious
those time attested
truths,
like red dragon scales
and a breathless drear
like Justice
in her gown of perfect measure.

but
dare not question
fool
our weighted expectation
a new currency of
toleration,
like penny candy
on a tooth that's sweet
like a tumor
on its course of silent sabotage.

Seattle: Part 1

PREFACE: Lately I have been working on developing my "narrative voice", if you will. I previously posted the first two parts of a piece of fiction, more of which is to come in the weeks ahead. This is the first part of another project I'm currently working on. Enjoy, and leave criticism!

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Seattle: Part 1

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The Pump ‘N’ Munch. This seemed as good a place as any to gas up.

I pulled up to one of four dusty pumps. As I filled the gas tank I couldn’t help but notice: this place was old. It felt like I was watching a reel of grainy antique stock footage as the analog gauge on the pump clicked and spun.  My white ’92 Chevy Lumina, basically an antique herself, seemed content to take it in. After all, she was going to need it. It was her maiden voyage, and it was a long one.

Perched next to the highway, this was strange scenery. It was a shoebox of a gas station whose cinder block walls were covered with chipping paint. Years ago it must have been a healthy yellow and red. Now the whole place looked like some faded picture from the early 80’s. I half expected my dad to step out in his bright red short shorts and tight blue Rollerina T shirt with his blond mustache glistening in the mid-March sun. Instead, I watched as a scrawny kid with a saggy red polo and a nametag took a hissing draw from his cigarette. He couldn’t be bothered to see who’d just pulled up. He just kept on leaning against that wall, the back of his shirt collecting tiny paint chips, his eyes fixed on his cell phone. We were obviously interrupting.

Kenny and Robert acknowledged Mr. Pump ‘N’ Munch and pushed through the front door, triggering the electronic bell tone. I stood there behind my car while the tank filled, doing some calculations in my head.

Duluth to Brainerd is two and a half hours. Brainerd to Wadena is an hour. So Duluth to Wadena, that’s three and a half hours.

The attendant dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk without putting it out. He slowly blew the last draw out of his nostrils, all the while keeping his eyes on his phone. He turned and walked back inside.

Let’s see, Wadena to Moorhead: that’s an hour and a half. So that’s five hours across Minnesota. Seems about right. Then there’s North Dakota. Ugh…

Robert came back out to the car as I dropped the nozzle back on the pump. He was peeling the plastic wrap off of a pack of gum and had a 20 oz. Cherry Coke under his arm. “Kenny’s in the john,” he said as he popped a piece of gum out of its plastic casing. “I don’t know, man. I wouldn’t trust the bathrooms here. Yeesh.” He ducked into the front seat.

Ok, so North Dakota. That’s about five and a half hours. Five and a half grueling hours.

Opening the car door I could smell wintergreen. “Driver’s fee, gimme a piece.” I held my hand out to Robert, palm up.

Then Montana’s another five. So that puts us at fifteen and a half hours. At least it’s got landscape, a little something to look at.

Eventually Kenny came out the front door, skipping like a child in large, uncoordinated bounds, his bright, shoulder-length blond hair waving behind him like a Norwegian cape. One arm swung wide carrying a full gallon-jug of water, the other curled up at his side holding an apple, two bananas, and a huge box of raisins. He heaped the loot on top of two of our backpacks in the back seat. The packs looked like they were about ready to burst open and spill socks and undies everywhere.

Then there’s a little bit of Idaho, right? I think? For, like, an hour? Then on to Washington, in just under seventeen hours.

“Kenny, did you wash your hands?”

He had already taken a big old horse-bite out of his gas station apple. “Shuggump. Letshko.” I turned the key as Kenny wiped the apple guts off his chin and gulped his bite down hard. “Oh dude, here, let’s listen to this! Just a sec!” He reached for his bag underneath the mound of packed belongings and tried digging out a CD. “Oh my gosh, you guys will love this band.”

“Let’s save it for later, it’s a long drive. I want to listen to MPR while it still comes in.”

Then Washington makes for seven more hours and we’re there. That’s a square twenty four hours A full day. In the car. With these jokers.

I was equal parts excited and preemptively exhausted. “Seriously, you guys, I can’t believe we’ve already stopped. We’re not even out of Duluth yet.” I looked down the hill to where Lake Superior met the St. Louis River.

Ok, Duluth to Brainerd. That’s two and a half hours.

We didn’t know it yet, of course, but we wouldn’t reach Seattle in twenty-four hours. Not even close.

The poem thief

The Poem Theif

Today I woke up and my poems were gone.

So, I became a theif,

First I slunk back into bed, found my lover folded in amongst the pillows and blankets.

“ellen” whispered as I kissed her cracked lips.

But she slips deeper so I

I steal poems off her coffee with cream shoulder which breaks above her shirt .

I untangle the bits of heaven from her hair, which mingles in inky ribbons against the ivory pillows.

Her breath hums against the world, pushing back as dreams are being made, and I steal every one.

In the next room the baby begins to sing her songs of loneliness

Her voice pierces,

shrill silver against so much grey.

Without a noise I slip in…next to her crib…but she sees me.

Her lips curl, into her wide daddy grin and she begins to giggle.

Her eyes squeeze tight, trying to hold her laughs in, but with ten fingers and two kisses her laughter is mine

It bursts from her belly,

I capture each poem written by her pudgy fingers on my whisker face and give them back one my one, by nibbling her nose.

On my way to work I steal poems from the cars as they crush against each other,

Greedy for each inch of blacktop, each stop light, and every open lane.

They pour themselves into the pavement,

trying to be the first one to go no where

But the winner is a broken down hatchback with a busted blinker and jacked up rear tire,

 the driver lays on the hood

resisting the tide of cars,

and gives me his poem as I pass.

I steal poems from the naked trees longing for their summer garments

I steal pomes from the puddles mixing mud and gasoline rainbows

I steal poems from the shadows following each footstep of the postman

I steal poems from a bum on a bike whose whiskers have survived decades of razor blades

I climb the clouds and begin to steal poems from the sun

It’s sonnets, like lightening, transform puddles, chrome bumpers taxicab windshields, and the waterfall rocks on 6 TH ave below the coppertop church,

The sun sets ablaze the dying mass of 1 billion huddled snowflakes,

I take and take and take… until I can take no more…

With a head full of stolen poems and I sit down to write…

two

grab an oar

he said to me

as my pack laid at my feet

taking in the scent and coolness

of fresh water i'd never explored before

this was new
but oh so familiar
as I've read in books about whales
and men and shipwrecks and the ocean floor

my eyes are full of salt water
my mouth is full of salt water
my ears are muffled from the words you are trying to say to me