Football Night

Listening to Autumn football
with Winter around the corner,
the season on its last legs,
the playoffs (as always)
an unknown while the other radio stations
begin to whistle and hum and sway
Christmas black and white keys
flipped through commercial breaks,
too cold to make a fire and
the black cloth of sky
too thickly woven with star light
to sip from a flask indoors,

a smile fills my eyes
at the silliness of sports.
Relieved to find, my self spiraling
in to the crescent moon and awed
to be alive in the face of
identities dark door lost,
the butt fumble to break my voice loose
against the sparse clouds and
frosted concrete of the patio
in rolling tumble waves of giggles
to know I am still me and

able to love and revel
in life's absurdity.

Question Marks 6

Dear Dr. B.,

What do you call a shadow when it moves
in the daytime?
Sitting still.

I have reconsidered many things.
I still cannot understand
why you referred me
to that asshat two doors down
a hop skip and a jump
on the road.  He was a jackal.
I am a hyena.  The charts were all wrong.

Like asking a mechanic to fix a meal.

I do miss the waiting room
and your pennyloafers
that filled my eyes when
you stumped me and my own
could not lie.

I hope you are well.

Should our paths cross
in person
I have not forgiven you
for turning tail on me
the last time we spoke.

God bless you
should I have
a lolipop in my pant pocket
and palm candy
in my jacket.

Sincerely, Mr. D.

Question Marks 5

Dear Dr. B.,

I have no jokes.

I wanted to tell you that I appreciate
the gift you gave me of composing myself
through metaphor.

I want to kill again.

I want to kill again.

I want to kill again.

No matter the question, I am the answer am I not?

I do have a joke.

A boy and a snowflake walked into a bar
to see a priest and a penguin
and a polar bear.
The boy said "hello."
The snowflake fell off its bar stool
while trying to sit down.
What did the priest say?

Nothing! It was pulling out the bar stool
for the boy.

I try to remember the places I cannot go.
And keep them close to my main functions.
I wanted to tell you
that I appreciate deeply
the gift you unlocked inside of me.
The gift you forced inside of me.
The gift that continues to give.
Of gab.  Of metaphor.  Of seeing my head
as the machine that shatters under too much pressure.
Of clockwork, of metal, of timed teeth
that need complete harmony
to tell time
that will work
down to 5000 miles from the surface.
Of plates that must move and skate
across molten rock and can.

Once the glass cracks
and the teeth seize.  And the planetary gears begin to fuse:
fear.  With reason.

I want to kill again.

Climb instead.  Dump ballast.

Do not let the wristwatch melt.

You gave me a way
to understand and I have held tightly to it.
I will not allow the coil springs to knot,
the gears to chew themselves apart,
the glass face to break,
or the metal to rot.

I will be a watchmaker,
sure handed and occulus.

I will track you down
and see you soon.

Sincerely, Mr. D.

Spin The Dial

Every time you go to sleep you must change the master key.  For safety?  Okay.  More accurately: to leave a rubics cube should you knod off and not wake up.  I believe in witchcraft and ghosts.   Game on.




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