Saturday, September 27, 2008

500 channels

I've been staring at the ceiling
all night, counting knot holes

in the pine wood and the
way streetlight glares

in the shadeless window pane,
making each slight strand of

spider webbing shiver
just so on silver breeze

and then collapse
it's span between old Cornish detail

and the cable wire
spooled in the corner

where the installer left it
years ago

before there was
such a thing

as having
500 hundred channels
and nothing to watch.

Friday, September 19, 2008

So Now What?

So the laughter takes us all
to another worse- day ever
that now graces diary pages
where ink runs to the margins
under tears and moisture
that rises from the grass
and falls from the trees.

So spins another day laughing
at the runs in the stockings of
pretty women for whom legs
are a religion of length and shape.

So laughter is not the cure for all that
ails the center of night,
but it is song that is barked like the glee
of seals in a circus act performing
Bach on so many tricycle horns.

So the shoe horn one brings to the jam session
can only play sole music is enough to
make us laugh again by the rise of the sun
when it comes over the hills and the mansions that
ruin the view of the coast line,

So the leather that was wasted on the sidewalk
is gone but the feet survive all the blisters
sweet potato blues could provide in a stretch of
Giving someone a hand for merely showing up
in not just a nick of time, but the whole block of wood as well.

So there is no peace under the stars
when we laugh at the sins of the fathers
who visit us in any hometown that can be hidden in.

So there’s a sign up ahead.

So who’s laughing now?

Friday, September 12, 2008

Bad Smell on the Bus

It's a smell of socks
too long on the feet,

cooked onions
wrapped in
skins that don't get mentioned,

an aroma that
knocks flies from the air
and makes buzzards
tear and weep,

fumes so awful
that appetites
go on strike
as sanitation workers
faint dead away
from the aromatic raunch,

yet we don't
move an inch
nor flair our nostrils
save for a small
move of a finger
to scratch a non existent itch,

the books we're reading
seem to have our
attention as if we
were outdoors
on a bench
or a blanket
getting wise in
the clear, fresh air,

we look straight ahead,
we look down,
we stare out the window
and don't flinch one bit,

is rotten
in the back of the bus
and we don't
say a thing
because we’re getting off
at the next stop,
and this foulness will be gone
up the road
until tomorrow
when we’ll meet it again
going the other way.