Slow poems... (ghosted)

Wanting to have a reliable, enjoyable way of testing whether I'd been ghosted by women online, I invented this approach. Begin with this message: 

"Hope you're okay. I'm going to write you a 4-line poem...slowly. If I hear back from you before it's done-- great! Let's go to the beach. If not, I'll assume I've been ghosted."

Then start improvising your 4-message countdown... by the end, you either have a response, or a new poem. Win-win (and NOTE: the 'win' is almost never a response, so make it a good poem for yourself) 

[Ghost1 – beach girl] 

“I dug my feet in the sand, and a small white crab...

scaled up on my foot, like a mountain's shelf...

I laughed down, 'You're so lovely, it makes me wish...

that I weren't at the beach by myself.”

[Ghost2 – hippie]

“Rosemary, they say, was deodorant…

and garlic was medicine…

back in the day before touch-screens, when touch…

was hands laced, walking barefoot, kissed by wind.”

[Ghost3 – artist] 

“Do you see, in this stroke, how the layers beneath... 

show their skin, where the firm bristles pressed?... 

From a distance, looks smooth/monotone, but lean in... 

here's my soul, between words your gaze missed.”

[Ghost4 – animal-lover] 

“Few things reflect like a calf's dark eyes... 

all the blue light and green stems, as we... 

stand at the center of those rolling pearls... 

and wonder, in vain, what it's like just to be.”

[Ghost5 – philosopher] 

“Words and their opposites, dancing like swords... 

bending themselves on each other, because... 

what is is a moment, so full-up with substance... 

that no word can scrape it by saying 'It was.'”

[Ghost6 – crafter] 

“Wood, you be my Valentine... 

pulp turning to paper, sheets drinking red dye... 

one feeling a rolling ball, inking its line... 

'All the best, darling.' And then going dry.”

When in the Grip...

           John was one of those admirable pricks

          Who, when in the grip of “I've lost my drive,”

              Would somehow put on a plain suit and sit,

              And do things—not great things, by myyyyy...

                        Me, in the grip of “I've lost my drive”—

                  Just wheel-spin wastes the day: I touch

                            my dark work with one finger,

then eat, pace, and temple rub hours away.

And for what? 

       Torture out a dream better or brighter,

More complex than the bullshit John does?

   I never—NOT ONCE—opened Moby Dick!

                                      But I read Stephen King.

                               Why?

                                Be-

                            cause...

                                   Because, my God, his name is on the whole fucking shelf.

                                     While Melville's got his ONE EPIC THING.

                                     And honestly, I'm not so brilliant, but.

                                     I do have a million half-dreams every day.

                                     And if I could just rush out a few, you know what?

                                     I could build up a half-Tower of dreams that way.

                     And alphabetically? 'John Doe's like me come before

                                     'Stephen King | Stephen King | Stephen

                                     King | Stephen King | Stephen

                                     King | Stephen King |

                                     Stephen King's... 

All art is stolen...

My heart is toward you 

Who hummmMmm noises hoping others will hear & nod to you

a——b elonging.

Who think of a (most definite) thing,

then hide it all like hot trash, or bleach it all like laundry.

You who are the silent tragedy of a house pet;

the standardized neglect of a gut-purr.

You who are the late clap in a playhouse;

feeling most deeply, ashamed to be heard.

                   Did you know

                   that “Dear God”

                   was another dude's

                   dream?

                   That “Our song,”

                   … was a waitress's

                   hard night?

                   That thieves lifted

                   your garbage & gray-water feelings

                   in the air,

                   spit-to-clean,

                   caught “

                   The

                   Light”?

There's your brilliance,

Still stored like baggage.

Your truth,

On a shelf.

Twist your rusty, untuned throat loose,

Screech something honest,

And clap for yourself.

Some say... (will it)

Some say lifting weights is

Boring: take a stack of heavy plates 

and send them soaring

                                        To and from, 

                         to and from, 

             to and from … 

                                             (Some see a hand laying bricks,

                                               Not “building a wall” or 

                                               “Making a home.”)

Some say they do work

For money: subjugating their skills

For a portion of someone else's plenty

                                        By hours and pay, 

                         hours and pay, 

             hours and pay … 

                                             (Poor hearts pour out words 

                                               On words, instead of

                                                Walking away.)

Some say offering hopes into the sky 

Is folly: trusting a life's course

And dreams out-calling?

                                        Sounds reasonless, 

                         reasonless, 

             reasonless … 

                                             (Spooked minds inch wide around the

                                               Sick, sad, and low, rather than

                                               Smiling “God bless.”)

"Why would he see it coming?" ...

His urine, like an amber ale,

streamed toward the shower drain:                  “Oh, god,” he said,

                                                              “The night is dead;

                                                             long live the day again.”

Dark coffee beans, from far-off-coasts,

he drilled to a powder fine,

                     then drank the black tea 

                        pressed from them:

                                                          “What a bless-ed life 

                                                                is mine.”

One tap awoke his glowing screen;

across his palm he swiped:

                                              “Where shall I go?

                                           What need I know?

                                          Ha! Friend—

                                               your post 

                                                      I like.”

Into a half-gas motorcar

he plugged a pod, so then,

            through rim and bumper

                tweeted and thumped her

                                                     voice: 

                                                                 “John, 

                                                                make me grin.”

And singing with her, 

   on slight delay,                           “Hey-Yah!”

like a child too cute to blame—

he slid off his molasses

                      glasses and

                      merged 

                      in 

               the 

  freeway 

lane.

Raw (Sonnet) ...

When bone became 

          inside my jelly clear;

My fin, 

 an arm; 

       my gill, 

          a lung enclosed;

When dryness 

spread across 

my face 

and, near

             The sun, flushed red           while pigments rose;

When air from nostrils 

  spilled hot over my lips,

              A thousand hairs erupted 

                              from within

             And overflowed                  like nails from fingertips,

                    Then felt useless, 

                 oppressed by clothes, 

            and thinned;

When “joy” and “hate” became 

       of moans and barks;

When words grew over              every sense 

                                               and made

My chest-rise 

                         a “spirit,” 

this sunrise 

            an “art”;

    When patterns 

locked between mouths, 

and that trade

  Turned one habit, tradition; 

        another, law—

              I find no layer 

                           denies me: 

                                             I am raw.