Poem #116 Friction Required

Kick like amen

Kiss like a plague

Lie like someone mean and measured

Live like ends and multitude

Everything else a cavity of details

Drawn into life with a

wail, clip, and clasp,

only to  shudder, dwindle and die. 

Poem #109 January 21, 2017 Woman’s March

Punching great grandmas’ womb

Still tied to Liberty’s by a navel cord

Sold us all

From the door of her guard

A sedated look

Snowed in in the midst of winter

Courageous of angels

With a very scurvy word

Poem #93 Inequality is hardly noticeable in the state of nature

inequality is hardly noticeable in the state of nature

she looks conceited probably cause she’s taking a dump

she was wearing a hat and a camouflage shirt

Why does everyone got so much beef

Inequality is hardly noticeable in the state of

Because didn’t you know what she did last year

Missing out on all the educational opportunity

She did a lot of stuff I’m going to tell j separate

Inequality is hardly noticeable in the state

I never had to look for my id

That games going to be lit

Eventually I’m going to have to do that poster

Inequality is hardly noticeable in the

Shut up no one cares

I need a piece of tape

What for

Inequality is hardly noticeable in

My phone it cracked again

Just had to be in a video

Are you serious, what time is it any way?

Inequality is hardly noticeable

Do you have a charger

Na man who puts catchup on mac n’ cheese

Do you have shit with him

Inequality is hardly

She’s telling x that he’s but he’s my cussing

I heard their suppose to be a brawl before the game

20 bucks shits going down tonight

Inequality is

Don’t lie, I swear dog

Don’t sit at the top

Sit at the exit

Inequality

I run that

Shake his hands,

Gonna go to the game tonight

That’s what I go . . . Catch hands with everyone

Poor thing got rings

Bought at the dollar store

Decked him

Poem #83 Pension plan

choose another stay at leaf and verso

escape from himself, the accountant

at a impermanent apartment

in prose fiction printed before high school

fountaining a romance over any event

Salon to his romance a local dinner with

A Fairview of the waitress

Handmade cookies from the grocery 

Poem #74 Procrastinating

Two voices

Telling me

I shouldn’t be making money

cutting costs only goes so far

save more toward retirement

save for a big purchase

some ways to make more money

filling time with unhappiness

who even knows

productivities promises

procrastinating

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Poem #70: Advertisements paper clip fairy tales

Advertisements paper clip fairy tales to a

lazy luscious lie trudge

effort needed for this frivolous errand

Scream some elaborate fantasy fast

Watch want life like like

her, him, picture one need

dream delirious cut off channel

fed moments promise to me,

Over someone’s lather

Poem #66 The Cynosure

Cloud space

Heart dissembles quickly

An always alien action

Rule off Mr. Man

The man who loves her today and tomorrow

And the next day touches her

Stops mid-sentence.

Tremble notices her face in the mirror 

Poem #63 Idleness

Echoes of tea

Through thoughts of plainer muse

Kinder with less glee

But there is not such creatures

wayward Chaucer knew

Leading beside so many strangers

The turn inward

Soberly seek vengeance

On generous light

His head crowned

A smile to common

Idleness

Beside his lurking lips

Circles do not capture

Fear but make strange face

Chaste wit surprise

Spoke men

Valleys swelling

Or ye fill touched

By the scrip gentle girls

Kept weary of strange scriptures

Great god Pan living

Great bounty of our lord eating mushrooms

Songs spread thick with meaning

Sparkling bright

Thy eternal whisper

Flower dress melody desolate of ideas

And filled with tunes that need words to them

sphinx heard us, the day the turtles ran

Soul sunny meadows realms fair chuckling

Words of unborn thought

Willing upward drawn path round

Hidden delight silvery echoes our king

Dodge heaven be still dull ethereal a symbol

An unknown but no more,

Something completed of all perfection

Drooping west sun did not obey me

Paradise cheeks with light tints now sweeter

Venus rose her breath that of waves torn

And a handful of daisies to me

Magic sleep hush liberty

Tumbling mazy world

Lives over gone

Full of light sleeping over

Ripe sleek tarring world

Wed coral reefs

Cupids kneeling chocking on

 of our pollution

 this is what love has known

cold fingers my own margin

nevertheless written with words listel

realness bowed head to pages read

when not full woken

bending low before the world

The Dord* Is Sounding! (A Play)

*Dord- is a bronze horn native to Ireland.

Character List: Narrator, Man, Woman, Girl, Boy, Old Man, Three servants of the king, the king,

One thin white light spotlights the narrator, who is dressed in a suit. He is in his late 30's and situated at stage left. A trumpet is heard in the distance. The Dord sounded in the distance giving signal of the arrival of some truth.

Narrator (thundering voice rapid speech) : An army arriving, the sheep are grazing, the water is infested, the lights have ceased their shining, the old man is drunk again, the king is dead, men were murdered, the women forgot to dress themselves, the children have not been found, the gold has been lost, a feast awaits, the hero returns, the princess has been kidnapped, the hounds have been unleashed, the man in charge has fallen asleep, the maids are weeping in their sleep, the ghosts have awakened from their sleep, the queen is dead, the queen is dead, the floor is covered in bright bright red, the Dord is sounding, the trumpet is heard, the young men have grown a beard. Never come or leave too soon, down the streets the wagons ride, through beds and beds of flowers the wagons stride, and the rain is falling the rain is falling the rain is falling the rain is falling.

A blue light fills the room, the stage is set as the inside of the house of a well to do family. The transition is brisk allowing little time for adjustment.

Woman (in a soft voice) : How was your day?

Man: Good!

Woman: (reaching to unwind the man from his raincoat) That's great.

Man: Great! It is all great. Just great, great, great!

Woman: Calm down; the children shall hear.

Man: (his voice now slightly lower) I don't give a damn whether they hear or not. The whole town's gone baloney after the incident; as though a Chimera has devoured our town. And all this for some damn old man, who thinks he knows  hell about how things run around here.

And then that rain. The rain, Helen, the rain is ruined half the crops. Not that we had so many to begin with, but now we will be harvesting scrubs, and this used to be the best damn farming town in the entire state . . . (His voice has now turned to a whisper) I don't know what I'm gonna do, I just don't know.

Woman: Nobody does. Nobody knows anything.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

Man: (not hearing) And what about the children? How am I to tell them there will not be any harvest?

Woman: They will know. You need not tell them, they will know.

Sudden music arises.

Narrator: (Calmer now and very slowly announcing each word individually )  The passionate cries do strike the castle walls, great cheers, great praise, the mighty lord has not forgotten his men, the queen has fallen and not a tear is shed, the queen is dead. The queen is dead. Dressed in red, she lies a puppet till her very death, and with one mighty last breath she lets forth a cry. What words had she spoken what words had she said? The queen shall be buried for the queen is quite dead. And no roses red shall dress her death bed.

Man: They have heard the sounds of the trumpet. Them damn fools are immune. That's what got us all in this mess.

Woman: They close their eyes.

Man: Like a cat they close their eyes, but that which is not seen is still there. Children like children.

Footsteps are heard back stage. Two children enter the stage garmented in their nightgowns, pink and blue.

Girl: Can't sleep.

Boy: It's the music. It just came out of nowhere.

Woman: I know, dear.

Man: That's it, I don't give a damn what them men over there have got to say; but I sure as hell know what I'm gonna say and do once I get my hands on those fellers.

Woman: No, dear, let's wait. It might stop.

The lights are removed from the stage.

Girl:( fear apparent in her voice) Mommy, it's dark.

Woman: It's just the electricity, honey.

Narrator: (whispers in the darkness) On and on the wagons stride. On and on they stride on streets wet that have not dried. On and on the wagons stride.

Man: (a flashlight in hand) Let's see who's living and who's dying.

Old Man (cranky voice from back stage): Well, as you can see, I'm not dead yet, and I ain't gonna be any time soon.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

Man: What the hell's the idea with the music in the middle of the night?

Old Man: It ain't us. That's for sure!

Man: If it isn't you, then who's the cause of the sound and the sudden lack of electricity?

Old Man: Ain't nobody's fault, the damn city's gone mad.

Man: Mad isn't the right word for it.

Old Man: If that ain't mad, then I ain't sure what mad is any more.

Man: You are not sure what mad is?

Old Man: I ain't sure.

The old man is shoved onto the stage, he is now standing in the dark apartment with the man, in his right hand he is holding  bottle of whiskey.

Man: I heard ya write. Why don't ya write a complaint about it?

Old Man: Muse ain't coming tonight. Been a long time since she visited. Didn’t like me very much.

Man: Said ya drank too much.

Old Man: (ignorant of the man's words) Them darn good thoughts never did come rollin in, and when them did, fingers never did write quick enough.

Man: Never ya say anything as rational as that in a long time.

Old Man: Rational, ain't rational; writers ain't suppose to be rational,  just supposed to be entertaining like actors. Just ain't as famous.

Man: What ever happened to that woman of yours?

Old Man: Never did come back, never did come back; heard she ran all the way back to that good man, said she never like me, never heard from her again.

Man: Well that's how they are. They run, don't they?

Old Man: They run, that's why this place is so empty! Them run and they ain't ever come back. Ever. (he laughs as he drinks from the bottle.)Them never come back.

Narrator: On and on they go, never do they slow, and never do they know quite where they go.

The lights return, a loud cry of a woman is heard, her sweet voice can be heard and brings shivers to the man and woman . The old man vanishes from the stage. All is dark for an instant. The man and woman now reenter.

                                                                                                                                                        

Woman: What do ya think of her?

Man: She's quite an actor.

Woman: So I've heard.

Man: Her life is a great tragedy, and she plays a great part. Death is end. As that of all others, but watch the path that she does lead. All she does deceive, she paints a portrait and smiles as though she was this portrait, this character she has composed, her great mask is the one she claims to be herself. A mask.

Woman: Why did you never go to college?

Man: Sally, we aren’t going to return to this. You know why I didn't go.

Woman: But you could've gone.

Man: It wouldn’t have made a difference then, and it don't make a difference now.

Woman: But you where always smart.

Man: No, I wasn't intelligent.

Woman: Sure you were, you could have made it.

Man: And left you.

Woman: You would've come back.

Man: Would I have come back? Ya know, in one of them old guy's work- Plato, I think. He said that men never come back once they've seen the light. And if they do no one likes them.

Woman: Sounds like the Bible.

Man: It's not the Bible, it's the cave.

Woman: (repeats, puzzled at the sound of the name)The cave.

Man: The cave. (He murmurs)

Woman: Ya would have come back to me and the children.

Man: I don't know. It's still raining.

Woman: It's still raining.

Man: It isn't gonna stop till it's done crying.

Woman: I best hurry, I can't possibly expect that bread shall rise in this weather.

Man: It isn't going to rise in any weather. Cause you didn’t use yeast. I'll go on down to the store and get some.

The man rushes out of the door. A boy comes tumbling in.

Woman: Yeast. (She murmurs.) Yeast!

Boy: Ma, something ain't right. It ain't stopped raining.

Woman: It hasn't stopped raining.

Boy: The river's flooded. It just said on the radio that no one saw it coming. They got old uncle Sam on the radio. It really cool, it got them fellas from the ranch by the Stevenson's and it's even got aunt Jody.

Lights fade from the stage, direct light on narrator.

Narrator: The creator did not withhold the utopia that surpassed all beauty and gave affable men the ability to acknowledge the beauty of his creation. It was not ambiguous and its characteristics were distinctly that of an agricultural paradise, a land enchanted with fruit, a harvest so great one could feast upon this and forever remain in the rays of its . . .(whips his head to peer behind the curtain to that which lays outside. We may witness a sudden anguish in the deadpan face. He responds to a voice that is unheard of by the audience) I meant no insult, my clever tongue has merely spoken without my consent. I do beg your forgiveness, pray it shall wag no more.

A short and stubby man enters , he is accommodated by three servants and is garmented in many fabrics

King: No more it will wag.

Narrator: I swear it shall not wag. The gods do give their consent.

King: I give my consent. Remove his tongue and feed it to the beasts, his tongue is no use to man.

The servants strike the man upon the head and take him by hand and foot and remove him from the stage. The stage remains dark, and in the light shines on the king. He moves to center stage.

King: (Addressing audience) What have we here to greet me? My people, the riches of my land, the brave citizens that compose my kingdom. What honor it is to meet you and greet you.

Narrator: (Screams from backstage.)

King: It is under my rule that all shall thrive and none shall suffer. It is under my rule that you shall at last be freed from the ropes that have tied you. It is in my country that you will find riches. It is in my land that all is good!

                                                                                                                                                                      

The man enters, his hands filled with groceries, the stage is re-lit.

Man: Who are you and what the hell are ya doing in my house?

King: What I am doing in your house? This land, this is my kingdom. What right have you to claim this your house?

Man: I'm callin' the police.

King: Police? What a strange name, I reassure you any servants of yours shall never be outdone by my own; I am ruler and you are part of my kingdom, you shall obey my wishes. You are, as all the people, a servant of mine.

Man: Great actor you are, but I didn’t ask for a person's performance, and I am gonna call the police if you don't leave my house.

King: (his temper has risen) Your house, your house, this your house?

Man: My house and that of my wife and children.

King: It is mine. All that is yours is mine.

Man: It is my house. She is my wife and they are my children.

King: Bring them to me, I wish to see them.

Man: They don't want to be seen.

King: They are to be seen.

Man: Who the hell do ya think you are, waltzing into my house? Do you need shelter from the rain? Is that what this is about? Do you want my money? What the hell are you doing in my house?

King: I need not tell you. That which I seek , all that I do is a matter of state.

Man: I said leave my house.

King: This is my kingdom; I am its ruler.

Man: This is my house. God dammit!

King: This is, if I am not mistaken, part of my estate as it has been my father's and my grandfather's, and my great grandfather’s and my great great-grandfather’s.

Narrator: No you are quite mistaken! This is my house; this my kingdom, for I am its inventor,  I am to tell it. The tale is mine and mine alone. Is that understood?

Man/King: No.

                                                                                                                                                        

King: Have my ears deceived me? You can speak but I have removed your tongue! It is my wife, she has returned to haunt me for all my ill doings? I was no husband and I was a coward in my doings. It is for she that I must weep.

Man: I don't give a damn who the hell you two are, but this here is my house and if ya like now that it's stopped raining, I would sure as hell like if ya left. Thank you.

Narrator: Yes I suppose we should leave for the dord is sounding and this production should have ended three hours ago. The wagons have ceased to ride and the rain has ceased its falling. The queen is in heaven  and I feel that my tale has come to an end.

The King, the man, and the narrator depart from the stage. Woman enters covered in flour.

Woman: Yeast, I believe there was to be yeast.....

Poem #52 A Schoolboy

Like little stick figures

Draw men who eat their insides

all at once called sense

indigestion life

Poem #46 Love Died as a Popular Polka

wishes to thank in customs rustic song

love died as a popular polka

the pressed sailor

reply a road to any man

cheeks cold

in the course of the exceptional

centuries beside the today

with them

 altogether of brilliance

case of another

satisfying means

the interest in resolution

savor of extended chosen comments

of introductions

her views how it works also important

cuts to illustrated can

read again records profound other

eminence easy public opinion

less purposefully mettlesome

the days of slower imagination

fowl discriminating

she never belong so sensitive set

eloquent levelling

untrammeled the case nourished by

an intensely lived life

can pick the fruits of romantic appeal

probably meticulously given

image confirms an ordinary opposition

youth appointed mind an extreme literature

one fine admitted translation ever reared

to that old English blood false perspective direct debt

lands of tradition

spirits skeleton

rape of passion for work

rage some ethereal conjuration

reject them the dead

measures ate patterns

Poem #43 Fifty More Words More I Won’t Know

Hear to the puffed out heroes in the absence of a moral law

Concerning someone else merely hears a cry

Young day I won’t come a ransom like everyone else,

I never was the kind of girl to buy heaven in a store

Or Religion going door to door

Selling promises- for all you had and more

You came you walked and we went

Calling for Bootlegged promises living in Empty conversations

I haven’t got a will falling in a world of free floating anxiety

Swirling and swishing as they go 50 words more  I won’t know.

Poem #38 Human for that Day

between public tradition

consumers of experience

human for that day

fed the larger meat

of fatty liver

forced down a tube

of necessary education

the factory setting

drugs to heighten think

their growth

this treatment

narrow room for caged

live audition

our housing

living in killed factories

of pain medication

in the trim of the unimaginable

no matter

huge living all that matters

feelings cost

conditions amputating.

Poem #37 You probably know the plot

Bored rented I figured

I quit working

you probably know the plot

a heart a boy named:

Stay? Come?

not to be back to tried out

take drags

shouting abduction

population of not as intelligent

good subjects

save millions, Betsy?

don’t care?

don’t care.

use him like forlornly

experimental drugs

research ultimate

right long dinner

answer fatal

to many fish in the sea.

Poem #36 My Life Only Commercials

wasted shape a dizzy boy but waltzing was not easy

a gulf of black moonless brain hung on the kitchen shelf

unfrown itself

my wrist held a shape far back

writing about a thought I can never find

my life only commercials

high fame always goes to shield itself

from the shoulders of elaborate things

embodied fluttering

carefully cropped modesty

the head of the night

mounted stained

keep deported rudeness

noble any sort of person

in a mail dried coat

kept in order

vows work truly riding

ghost last murdered

Indulged my years

forever to hide the rest

tremble down delights

horror an arrow

forever poised to shoot

Poem #7 Gather you famine and bigotry

My country! My country!

On the neck like a day owned husband.

suppered strange men

with the little news— gone stray

sit right down to his choicest lies

three miles away wears a silk dress

make mischief back up bewailing

slackers, clackers, crackers,

schooling an argument

failing to move me

entitled happiness wild and wooly

representation of deeply sorry days

underdrawn by my country

my country!

my country amazed me

together the language was

blushed similar terms of common sense

forgotten in sermons

selling these bewildered ears anything

one child the devil

because he said something complimentary

forgotten little fortune

nothing like America

why?

Gather you famine and bigotry 

Poem #5 On centipedes crushed on the sidewalk

Tuffled mound, of vagrant plants of morality.

And the neglected ranky gray imagination

of misused misunderstood leisure;

on centipedes crushed on the sidewalk.

Coping stone of childlike misery,

overgrown ideas to haunt one.

In the tide of adult life,

like cobwebs purposefully hung,

to catch the consumer.

Flies caught on the glass door.

The procession of the mazy tangle ideas,

with no solution in the ghastly halls of the begot race.

Keyholes to the new century,

marked by hieroglyphic scenes of modern fantasy.

The rat like social channels of ideals-

Cookie cutter shapes to hide the nameless bastards

 meaningless rebellion of bees, that will not make honey.

And at the end cambers of awful speculation,

The antlike hope for end of the world phenomenon.

Embroidered at the gloomy entrance of stores

are meagerly paid people, already celebrating valentine’s day

 on the first day of the new year.