"What do you mean you cannot whistle?
What do you mean you cannot swim?
What do you mean you cannot stand?
What do you mean you cannot write left-handed?
What do you mean you cannot sleep?
What do you mean you cannot walk?
What do you mean you cannot paint?
What do you mean you cannot see?
What do you mean you cannot snap?"
Tire the explanations that all seep from one.
"Anyone can if they work at it long.
Everyone can if they are willing
to leave their comfort zone,
to give up blood and sweat,
to think outside of their box,
to believe in themselves,
to accept help from others,
to trust in those around them,
to fight for what they want,
to dare and follow through!"
Tire the explanations that all seep from one.
Not all life is a choice made or not,
an action taken or not,
a day seized or not.
Some are missing fingers,
some are blind, some have damaged nerves,
a single hand, a single eye, weakened bones,
malformed cells, malformed minds,
prosthetics in their design, outside
and within.
"What do you mean you cannot?
Man up! Get out there!
What are you afraid of!
Have faith in yourself!
Let me help you help yourself!
All you have to do is try!"
Tire of stating the explanation
that has been a bane of life for decades,
reminded each time asked then blamed
for being unable. Disabled. Absurd. Pathetic.
Sickened by the carousel loop.
Hope in a next life to be born without legs instead
to maybe bear a little less scorn.
original works of parts
Wintershine
Sun salutation begins without shades.
Hair fallen in to pools of rust catalyst,
coolant, hydraulic drips, and dust.
Sweater oil saturated
from months of curbs and slush,
the weeds are sprouting now.
Dry asphalt and breeze dries dripping nose,
in the shade it is still cold.
The fused bolt lets go with a bark.
Fingers spasm. Throb and lock
around the wrench's shaft. Breath and spit,
rust dust, and rubber grounds flecks hit lips.
Groan. Groans. Together. "The river
never froze and may never again,"
said Chibup to Westir (the two seagulls
that always perch atop the two lamp-posts
at the pier walk);
overheard, but not dictated.
Sneeze hard enough to bang forehead
loud enough to get the neighbors dog woofing.
The clock answers both the same,
a pendulous and deep chime.
Hands faster. No mosquitoes, yet.
Everything is easier in reverse.
Is that Mars? Venus? Helicopter.
The sun settles in for dinner. Time to leave.
The torque wrench clicks,
muscles burn in a heat
Spring promises will come.
Glow in the dusk, the bolt, the movement,
the wrench chirp and click of Summer crickets.
Hair fallen in to pools of rust catalyst,
coolant, hydraulic drips, and dust.
Sweater oil saturated
from months of curbs and slush,
the weeds are sprouting now.
Dry asphalt and breeze dries dripping nose,
in the shade it is still cold.
The fused bolt lets go with a bark.
Fingers spasm. Throb and lock
around the wrench's shaft. Breath and spit,
rust dust, and rubber grounds flecks hit lips.
Groan. Groans. Together. "The river
never froze and may never again,"
said Chibup to Westir (the two seagulls
that always perch atop the two lamp-posts
at the pier walk);
overheard, but not dictated.
Sneeze hard enough to bang forehead
loud enough to get the neighbors dog woofing.
The clock answers both the same,
a pendulous and deep chime.
Hands faster. No mosquitoes, yet.
Everything is easier in reverse.
Is that Mars? Venus? Helicopter.
The sun settles in for dinner. Time to leave.
The torque wrench clicks,
muscles burn in a heat
Spring promises will come.
Glow in the dusk, the bolt, the movement,
the wrench chirp and click of Summer crickets.
Daydream
Laughter drowns headphones.
Pause in the crosswalk.
Eyes glued to contrails
lancing through
Winter sky;
clouds of black and Black and Milds
pull a rip chord.
Oncoming bus. Four door people mover
in the opposing lane. Move!
Sidewalk.
Horn!
Pause in the crosswalk.
Eyes glued to contrails
lancing through
Winter sky;
clouds of black and Black and Milds
pull a rip chord.
Oncoming bus. Four door people mover
in the opposing lane. Move!
Sidewalk.
Horn!
Can You Hear It
The French Horns and Trombone
carrying over the wood tops
while you poke a twig near the river.
Between the tiny frog burps and the cricket
wings chirp. The sun came up again.
Fool on you. Tasting the droplet,
put fingertips in pocket. Dream about
the flutes are going with a timpani
a dragonfly takes a picture of the
hues of green reflected in the stream
and all above
snare drowns out a harp.
Electric guitar fires up
a few hillocks away from here,
but loud enough to sing along.
Sing along if you'd like
to
like
like to.
Days and years and a few
long blinks.
A cymbal does its best to crash.
A fire does its best to belch up ash,
while a flask is emptied. A top its head.
The stars look a bit a clearer now
with the sounds of laughter
and running dogs without leashes.
The weather's been funny,
I don't know how
anyone manages to sleep these days
before Spring hits full swing.
I thought we had a thing, you know,
A snowman building contest.
Or at least an open skate.
The breezes taste long and
the air is wet.
Thunder and lightning came back to bed.
The river won't freeze and just like that
Winter is over.
carrying over the wood tops
while you poke a twig near the river.
Between the tiny frog burps and the cricket
wings chirp. The sun came up again.
Fool on you. Tasting the droplet,
put fingertips in pocket. Dream about
the flutes are going with a timpani
a dragonfly takes a picture of the
hues of green reflected in the stream
and all above
snare drowns out a harp.
Electric guitar fires up
a few hillocks away from here,
but loud enough to sing along.
Sing along if you'd like
to
like
like to.
Days and years and a few
long blinks.
A cymbal does its best to crash.
A fire does its best to belch up ash,
while a flask is emptied. A top its head.
The stars look a bit a clearer now
with the sounds of laughter
and running dogs without leashes.
The weather's been funny,
I don't know how
anyone manages to sleep these days
before Spring hits full swing.
I thought we had a thing, you know,
A snowman building contest.
Or at least an open skate.
The breezes taste long and
the air is wet.
Thunder and lightning came back to bed.
The river won't freeze and just like that
Winter is over.
Smoker 50
Sorting through old scans of saved photographs
to see if my teeth will end up exact copies
of my father's. He had his wisdom teeth removed
I think? On his own dental plan. Did he have them done
before his 31st birthday? Maybe not. Never came up.
I may keep my hair. Maybe not.
Murderers row. My mustache is growing
up in to my nostrils. Stop doing that! Stick scissor tip
inside to clip. Blunt. Pick! Rip! Red drip follicle
dangle mirror twitch. What are you doing up there?
Make me sneeze. Papertowel, teary eyed. Faucet, hot
then cold.
The photos are of a person I wish I could
know, until they are not. Ember dies in a can's lid.
Breath in again. Have not slept right since
that bubble popped.
Why not acknowledge imperfection? Embrace him?
Fly a flag against the wind? To what end?
I will never understand,
though corneas dry at room temperature,
eyelids strain,
and rain dots cheek
for peering into memory's river banks.
to see if my teeth will end up exact copies
of my father's. He had his wisdom teeth removed
I think? On his own dental plan. Did he have them done
before his 31st birthday? Maybe not. Never came up.
I may keep my hair. Maybe not.
Murderers row. My mustache is growing
up in to my nostrils. Stop doing that! Stick scissor tip
inside to clip. Blunt. Pick! Rip! Red drip follicle
dangle mirror twitch. What are you doing up there?
Make me sneeze. Papertowel, teary eyed. Faucet, hot
then cold.
The photos are of a person I wish I could
know, until they are not. Ember dies in a can's lid.
Breath in again. Have not slept right since
that bubble popped.
Why not acknowledge imperfection? Embrace him?
Fly a flag against the wind? To what end?
I will never understand,
though corneas dry at room temperature,
eyelids strain,
and rain dots cheek
for peering into memory's river banks.
Smoker 49
Through the window
snow does its damnedest to stick
on hot streetlit concrete and
windshields still warm
from tweens rushing by on their
longboard
scooter
harness
listless
stroller
bikes
rainbow
tasteful sneakers. Hand prints and
smoke rings blossom into hula hoops
against glass. Hours ago and
a few days ahead, only a few.
By street light,
snow flurries
do not stick.
Snowball fights are
out of the question.
The stairs are an afterthought.
Tongue out.
By streetlight,
one sorbet snowflake at a time.
You have to wait
seven months
to breath
the chance
to do it
again and again,
snowflake by snowflake,
consume until
the cold runs hot
&
fingertips burn black.
snow does its damnedest to stick
on hot streetlit concrete and
windshields still warm
from tweens rushing by on their
longboard
scooter
harness
listless
stroller
bikes
rainbow
tasteful sneakers. Hand prints and
smoke rings blossom into hula hoops
against glass. Hours ago and
a few days ahead, only a few.
By street light,
snow flurries
do not stick.
Snowball fights are
out of the question.
The stairs are an afterthought.
Tongue out.
By streetlight,
one sorbet snowflake at a time.
You have to wait
seven months
to breath
the chance
to do it
again and again,
snowflake by snowflake,
consume until
the cold runs hot
&
fingertips burn black.
Dinner With A Friend
the audience will find you
It should be red. The steak. It should be red.
If it's not bleeding, you're not eating.
Asparagus snaps between incisors
and a flake of block of butter bathed
parmesan lights up pink buds.
The Gusaroo G'shon old man cat
paws at the knees of jeans.
Shooting dice again
after smoking his last black and mild
begging for ten cents
to get a bite to eat is all.
Bus fare would be nice.
Everyone in western Pennsylvania
owns guns and bows.
The drug line does not exist. It's a spectrum
not a line. More of a mindset.
Poundcake is tremendous, no matter the season.
How fantastic would a fine joke about sugar,
glaze, fruit, and the piece is gone.
Rolling on brake drums when tire,
rim, and spindle fly apart
on another sugar high.
Deal with one another. Chill, Winston.
What do they look like naked?
Is now a good time to smoke?
Save some for the kitties.
Tin and tupperware.
Make a good impression. Met again.
Met again. Met again.
Make a milk shake out of Poundcake!
Drizzle glaze atop.
Pocket, pocket, everything! Pocket, pocket!
Stomach sings into an empty jug
while a banjo twang
cuts clear through the air.
On a Sunday? No.
Tread light. Listen. Carry when necessary,
allow, gift, enable, and enjoy agency to
blacken nasal cavities and remember
with ease. Fury melts away,
licked teeth and clementine ash and a solid as hell
ball of snotted saliva.
Should have worn eye shadow today.
To balance sunken sockets.
Starvation was worth quinoa farts.
Walk past a piano
without dropping a fingertip,
dare.
The last time setting a table without supervision.
Close to the first time.
Where in the holy hell does the knife go?
A spoon. A spoon!? The world has gone mad!
They said there weren't going to be any spoons!
Okay, bully.
And where are the doilys?
The marinade is wonderful. Lemon pepper,
right. The vinegar is sassy. Just pepper and some salt?
Met again. Met again.
The last time the piece in the kiln was turned
was twelve minutes ago.
Come with?
Ember flare. Garlic on the wind, wasted,
gurgling in an oven and pouring through window seams.
Asparagus asks for dehydration.
Embers flare again. The kiln closes up shop
and shutters her doors. Lick teeth
thinking about the last time tongue
pressed to scalloped blade edge to
cradle the work of another hand.
Good night, my darling.
It should be red. The steak. It should be red.
If it's not bleeding, you're not eating.
Asparagus snaps between incisors
and a flake of block of butter bathed
parmesan lights up pink buds.
The Gusaroo G'shon old man cat
paws at the knees of jeans.
Shooting dice again
after smoking his last black and mild
begging for ten cents
to get a bite to eat is all.
Bus fare would be nice.
Everyone in western Pennsylvania
owns guns and bows.
The drug line does not exist. It's a spectrum
not a line. More of a mindset.
Poundcake is tremendous, no matter the season.
How fantastic would a fine joke about sugar,
glaze, fruit, and the piece is gone.
Rolling on brake drums when tire,
rim, and spindle fly apart
on another sugar high.
Deal with one another. Chill, Winston.
What do they look like naked?
Is now a good time to smoke?
Save some for the kitties.
Tin and tupperware.
Make a good impression. Met again.
Met again. Met again.
Make a milk shake out of Poundcake!
Drizzle glaze atop.
Pocket, pocket, everything! Pocket, pocket!
Stomach sings into an empty jug
while a banjo twang
cuts clear through the air.
On a Sunday? No.
Tread light. Listen. Carry when necessary,
allow, gift, enable, and enjoy agency to
blacken nasal cavities and remember
with ease. Fury melts away,
licked teeth and clementine ash and a solid as hell
ball of snotted saliva.
Should have worn eye shadow today.
To balance sunken sockets.
Starvation was worth quinoa farts.
Walk past a piano
without dropping a fingertip,
dare.
The last time setting a table without supervision.
Close to the first time.
Where in the holy hell does the knife go?
A spoon. A spoon!? The world has gone mad!
They said there weren't going to be any spoons!
Okay, bully.
And where are the doilys?
The marinade is wonderful. Lemon pepper,
right. The vinegar is sassy. Just pepper and some salt?
Met again. Met again.
The last time the piece in the kiln was turned
was twelve minutes ago.
Come with?
Ember flare. Garlic on the wind, wasted,
gurgling in an oven and pouring through window seams.
Asparagus asks for dehydration.
Embers flare again. The kiln closes up shop
and shutters her doors. Lick teeth
thinking about the last time tongue
pressed to scalloped blade edge to
cradle the work of another hand.
Good night, my darling.
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