I'm Still an Astronaut

It's not that I've gone too far,
it's that I've not gone far enough.

I've touched third base, I've slain the chase,
the prom queen,and her muff.

I've razed the castle and the stakes,
mountain, foothill, and bluff.

I've ridden the dragon and the horse,
the bull by horn and scruff.

I've played the winner and the fool,
the intimate friend and tough.

I've cracked the case and thrown the race
arrived on cue and clutch.

I've had drinks on houses and the roof,
eaten single and Dutch.

I've touched a heart and grabbed an ass,
played in the mud, snow, and slush.

I've kissed the gold and smelted bronze,
polished off chrome and bread crust.

I've fasted and been caught out red,
said prayers while jawing and fluffed.

I've bought the farm and slowed the roll,
seen the light and fresh dusk.

I've glassed the town and the ground,
felt the heat, and loved the crush.

I've turned a corner and a trick,
bounced back and lined up flush.

I've hit the head, the nail, and eye,
the hole, the wall, and dust.

I've spurned the rise, the hearth, and home,
snapped rodent necks in the brush.

I've seen the fairy and three gods,
gone straight to raise the lush.

I've smelled the musk, broken the glass,
and bowed to the high and the rush.

I've taken vows and tipped the cows,
worked the circus and rut.

I've blown the engine, cracked the pan,
and gone full sail without a gust,

but even though I've done all that
it doesn't feel like much

and as far as I've come, as far as I'll go,
it'll always be Mars or bust.

To an Older Sister

I tried to paint roses over a fight we had
and make it literary and profound.

On a third draft I realized I should
say "I'm sorry" and leave it at that.

Then I realized you probably didn't give a shit
because it happened two decades ago,

but I still remember the stab in the palm of my hand
when I thought it would only hit your cheek
and it caught in its sweep,
above your frustrated words
at my irrational resistance,
the angles and bars
and delicacies
of your
glasses.

I'm sorry.

Too Much Will Never Enough

Taking it in drafts
that would choke fables
and allusions dead where stood
and standing
and
and
I can and can't understand
wherefore art thou
oh Romeo's dribbles
of poison vialed
tabled for a later that
came and henceforth to be or
not be to known as a quantity
statistically speaking it defies
existence, but the tea cup, the tea cup
sitting at the table at the party
at the end of a universe is
lossy as aspirations go when
attempts to resolve a reality
a certain partiality to
a faith based on parts
of chrome and plated parsed
of slippage and slant and
of a flavor we
save for pinched minutes because
because
because
if and only if
the circumstance is arise
we buck convenient and
weather storm to dive
and flippant and flippant
and florid after success
and full
or
or
try and separate the me
from the you and we
become a sort and sorted and
and
and
where for art thou turns
obelike? lisped missed esses
litmus tested for life
and you come apart
in the morning
having passed
an examination of
margins uncreased
by neither fingertip
nor memory
and satisfaction
and survival
of an and added adlibdinal
wishing for words
for a never that was
and is too much
of an enough
to experience once.

Grave Robber Rides Again

There was an excitement
that tucked itself away
beneath fingernails
and came free on the crown
of tooth and tongue
and stuck in the ridges of molars
at dinner's table, pouring itself
down a throat to a heart still fluttering
alongside grains of black earth
and grass leaf
to settle amongst
the last tremors
of a cymbal crash
of accomplishment
torn from unyielding media
at the point of a spade
and the sweat of a brow.

Ten Penny Lion

"and in an ending I don't think I'd mind being
the man in the top hot with a drink on a corner
and a code mortar microphone and a whole world
to gratefully see seething."

To void that ending and to that end we come
to clasp hands and cross thumbs cause I'm
looking to be a bread winner and I'm
willing to start at crumbs and the path
of broad shouldered madness starts at the
beat of the bread factory's drums

so the point is what they hoped could be
and what I knew I could manifest was
not the bloody nosed virgin draped in
the company vest and so with fistfuls of pennies
I walked on and maybe for the best knowing that
somewhere upstairs insanity crossed wires with
the concept of self respect

and with a renewed tenacity I bit the fabric
of legitimacy until it ripped and within it sat
the carcasses of actions unrealized and I think that
in an ending so abysmally cliched
as a street preacher soothe saying
so that his bills can be paid
by spare change coaxed free by an
inconvenient rant and saliva chinned rave

the satisfaction of a life well lived
would continue to evade and instead of settling for
something akin to a kids coloring book
I realized what died was a passion
for the mastery of the hook
the line and sinker that twists expectations at the plate
and without further adieu I invite you
to check your children at the gate,
because a three ring show is open for guests
and I'll pack them in until they die in the press
to see the headless hobo and the legless ballet queen
the 13 murdering midgets and the glut with the zipper seam.

It's all inside and I can't promise you the sublime,
but if you'll settle for the mind and
all it's rot gut wonders,
the half digested divine,
and a bucket of some of hell's plunders,
I'll keep it beneath the striped tent
beside the freak show on the street
outside earshot of your home and
your factory floor show front seat,

but if you do feel like dropping by and
seek to know the nature of your beast and
don't want to pony up for the total mental buy in
remember it'll only run you ten cents
(it's practically free) and ten seconds
of your time to peel your eyes and see
the stupendous, magnificent,
to its end death defiant,
perfectly innocent, inoffensive
and misfit, paper fold, still unsold
man eating toothless lion.