Telephone ...

God spoke to Solomon,

Whose sandy, wide eyes opened toward the sound.

Interpreting, he sang,

                                                                        “To every thing there is a season,

                                                                      and a time to every purpose

                                                                          under heaven.”

And likewise spoke to Caesar,

Whose hungry, gold leaves glistened on his crown

As he too sang,

                                                                     “Took every thing; fair is the seizing.

                                                        Land of Thames, too – never purchase;

                                                                         plunder Britain.”

And sameways spoke to Julia Child,

Who dropped down her bronze duck roast

and cawed by that clang,

                                                         “To every sprig there is a season-

                                                  ing, some thyme for every parsley.

                                                                 And yeast leavens!”

Then to Jacques Cousteau

Who goggle-peered through the water

and, bubbling, sang,

                                   “True levies sing; fair is the sea's song.

                                Hand some time to every porpoise

                                             under the seven.”

And off to Salvador Dalí,

Who imagined that voice was a pubic-haired bird

and claimed, with greasy bangs,

                  “Do anything, bare is the reason –

    grab and twine, clocks and persons,

                     wonder-woven.”

“Aw hell – okay, let's go with that,”

God giggled to its unself

and rested.

Contentment ...

Weekends

are every day

If you start the week

tomorrow.

Look at

a lovely girl

close enough,

and she's so

human that

you won't want

to cheat on your wife

anymore.

Dog shit's

not so gross

once you've picked

it up –

Or dishes

or deadlines

or miles to run

or dying.

Last moments

are every day if you

spend each tomorrow

first-timing.

modern signatures...

The dent in this sofa will never rise.

This car will never shake the smell of tobacco.

My life accomplishments are in short supply;

I have quite a long list of effects, though—

The pine tree I grabbed for, when I tried

roller-skating, will always have a gap

in its branches. My dad will always

hear a ghost-child crying in his lap.

And sometime I said something

(I soon forgot) to someone; it

hurt just right, and became a knot in

shoulders that will always come back.

Somewhere segments of a trash pile

that I helped build, in wrappers and bags;

oil down a road I drove. Skin dust

where I scratched my head. And rags

worn from a favorite shirt. Acid, once a

light-bright battery. A drizzle, misting down

the way it once steamed off, leaving rings of salt

around my clothes—everywhere, I am: profound and thin.

telomeres snapping ...

Not

only

sometimes,

but all the time

I wish like a child

that I were young again:

So that I could heal fast,

chase trails, be explained

away as a youthful folly

(instead of the id-bulge

I always was). But some

days, tired, I'd rather just

go to bed than stay up

all night: We don't earn

reason and temperance

as we grow older,

we have reason

and temperance

foisted

upon

us

Head-over-heels...

Yes I will.

(didn't believe it 'til I said it)

No, I will.

(when you doubt me, more's my drive)

Then I would die.

(how else would you have me swear it?)

Look – I'm alive.

(please, let that be, a hope you keep inside)

Will you always?
(I only ask you for I doubt it)

But then you won't.

(how could he know that, enough to say?)

If that's a lie?

(everyone's perfect in their future)

And if you don't?

(no one's perfect come the day)

That's the most hateful thing you've asked me.

(she won't like this)

Love's a partnership, a swear.

(but then she'll see)

There's never really been a question.

(I believe in her misdirection)

So, then what keeps me standing here?

(her brimstone bright fallibility)

Do you love me?

(I feel so weak when I ask the question)

Then you don't?

(he's never made me feel alone)

Why won't you answer me?

(but I'm dizzy on his soft-toned cryptics)

You're such an asshole.

(I shouldn't say that – we're in love)

*

Do you love me?

That's the most hateful thing you've asked me.

Then you don't?

Love's a partnership, a swear.

Why won't you answer me?

There's never really been a question.

You're such an asshole.

So, then what keeps me standing here?

Will you always?
Yes I will.

But then you won't.

No, I will.

If that's a lie?

Then I would die.

And if you don't?

Look – I'm alive.

Postcard of a sunset, with a tack in it ...

You just have to stare

Long enough at what's pretty

To realize that it's not your world,

Nor have you asked it to be.

Every cage has a painted face:

Between you and that

Expansive view you own – is

Glass, and preoccupations that keep

You inside, on the cold floor

Of buy-it and file-cabinet traditions.

“This is how you fill out forms,”

They told you when you first came –

Weekends are for form-writers, resting

So they can dream. Overtime is for you

Form-fillers, grabbing at these

      dollars; this cubicled,

pre-packaged

feed.

              … You have to

          free up

what you are

to match

where you want

to be.

being sloppy-right, at best...

{Jack Kerouac spur. Interview here: https://youtu.be/oaBnIzY3R00}

You open your mouth;

I'm in a clay pigeon game –

to break what you shoot.

Curling up a smile full of spit;

I'm a joke, and I want you

with me: be ridiculous.

We're on a stage and there's

an audience – you spent

10 minutes on the part

in your hair. I don't care,

sweating off Brill cream. You

are a hazy, handsome slave.

They can smell me

through the camera lens –

I'm brilliant when I'm sober.

But here, light can't walk

the line to my tongue.

It goes dark. Bulbs cool. Shh. Are we over?

The vivisection...

They pulled off the sheet.

“So this is Man, I present to thee”

said God, from a cloud-side balcony.

Said the artist,

“Oh, it's beautiful!

Through mine eyes, it looks to me just so–-- ”

Said the scientist, “How does it work?”

And said the theologian, “Why, God, have you let us know?”

“I brought this to you so that

I might be, through your great debate. Now begin.”

“An unrhymed couplet!” said the zealous artist,

“So wild and frayed this introduction is!”

Said the self-sure theologian, “I understand, Lord,

You mean to be mysterious – so we needn't ask.”

And replied the uncomfortable researcher, “Then we don't

really know – God, what were your thoughts? Your stages-of-task?”

“Oh, fuck,” said God, “I'm not here to talk,

I just am – so please! Spar as you will.”

“Is that freeee will?” cheated the theologian…

“Jesus-fucking-Christ!” subverted the artist,

“Please stick to the theme!”

Ad hominem'd the theologian,

“Don't profane the Lord's name!

You hedonic slut!” And practical'd the scientist, “Stop casting blame –

Help me staple this shut!” … Then woe'd the artist, “Nooo! What

Have you done?” … Rationale'd the scientist, “I just wanted to see inside.”

Moralized the theologian, “You heathen, you sinner.” …

Self-expressed the artist, “This I once saw as

beautiful; now all is a bloody hide.”

Inquired the scientist, “God – may we have another Man?

If I use less invasive methods this time?”

Aphor'd the Theologian,

“Turn your swords into plowshares.”

And polished the artist, “

Might we end with a rhyme?”

The birth of empathy...

I'm

Hungrier      than

boredom,    sitting   here

in the   store    room.    The

bleach is leaking somewhere

in the corner,  thanks  to   a

negligent  teenage   clock-

watcher – either the guy

(who   I   just  hate ),

with a  “beard”

like the

dust in this

unswept     corner

or  The     girl   (who   I

hate   but   ogle,   because

her lazy body is still velvet-

skinned with early-twenties

non-decay   –    that   she'll

drink away,   in   splashes

between bong breaths,

while   tickling

that guy's

baby- hair   chin

whisps – but for now,

she still   looks  cherry)

with   breast-  tops    like

half- baked    bread   rolls

rising      and         falling

softly    behind       her

cardboard  castle  of

cans & cellophane

something-or-

others.

“Hey man,” he says. From the left.

“John!” she says.         From the right

(She looks to his eyes; he looks to her eyes;

I look to her breasts – she smiles at him, in the blur,

sucking at the space between her thumb & pointer finger a
joint, which is make-believe). She coughs on the dust

(which   is   real  ).           He   grabs    his    broom

(useless to him as a dream- joint). “Just wanted
to say congrats.”    Which   he       means,

in a thoughtless way; his eyes say so.

They go  from  me

to a wall I seldom look up to see:

EMPLOYEE   OF   THE   MONTH...

And there's my face from three months ago*

When I was     looking past    a shitty plastic camera,

past a manager's   poor   aesthetic  insights,

to a Lathem  time-clock  machine.*

“Punch in; punch out – we're

a twenty minute bike

ride to your

campus!”

(This store became

my campus: the lion-share

of my course load, the most profound

life lesson –    as my time   turns into   money,

my money into Community College

credits, my credits into a degree;

just another time-card.)

“Employee of

the month, dude.

You should come

celebrate with

us behind the

dumpster –

at 4:20.”

“Right.

Thanks,

John. You

two keep pretty

punctual with that.”

“Hah!   Right, man.

You're okay.” I look

at the picture; he

walks her way.

There it is,

off-center

in a frame,

The man I am

(I hate him too;

I hate us all

the same).