As I Turn Away from the Numinous

An old man on the porch smoking half a cigar
and listening to the sounds of butterflies in the wind
looks at me with those arched eyebrows
that ask for nothing in return.
I grin as I shuffle by, rust in my eyes.
If I feel like glass, it is because I am transparent.

Life is less than lies and more than this:
let the mountains smash through the sky
and tear the clouds.
A thousand armies writhing beneath trees of death --
rain crushes mountains as time bleeds
and darkness like lava flows from heaven.

The old man's lips are crusted white
and a gnat is dying in his beard.

"Spread ghosts as you amble,"
I think
he says -- "spin a thousand tales
of incest and gamble
life's fruits on the shears of
universal truth,
or whisper. Ya dig?"

Of course, my insides are on sale,
so I agree --
And will you judge me?

Grass shifting in the breeze mutters
life's meaning before I listen,
chain link rattles and beware of dog in red
as I turn away. He was asking too much,
that vagabond. Pistol whipped twenty years
prior? I'd rather spend the night in jail
than spend my thoughts on him.

The salt that opens my wounds
is easy talk but the pain is not,
and he is from the sea.
I'll not spend my thoughts
(cracked lips, he burns in me),
rust coated eyes turn away --
I turn away.

Red Dress

Double bars and a bangin' piano,
subtle pregnant faces rest
heavy on barstools made of oak --
I am satisfied by recognition
when the red dress catches
the corner of my vision and I
spin a golden drink in her direction.
A little stammer in the lips
(I've succeeded in surprising her)
but those eyes are used to exploitation
and my upper hand is sure to fall --

Sawdust (always the best taste
kicked up by ten thousand marching
soldiers in a barroom just east
of the river Nile),
and a plate of oysters
act as catalysts on days
that spread out like lazy kittens
before the dim and itching
bite of dusk.

My upper hand is sure to fall
with her caress
and sunlight's set --
this bone temple won't collapse
but for the flicking spasm
of her electric fingers on my spine.

Red Dress Pt. 2 (silly)

And in the fog
of hazy morning light,
crisp linens and
blue sunflowers delight
my senses
before I come to them
and see my wallet missing
cuff links and a golden chain
evaporated in my kissing
of red dress.

Prayer

Eat less
under the starving vanilla sky --
Beat back excess
like wafers clinging to coffee.
Thomas Merton mutters
holy scriptures
while in the playpen,
the devil blisters.
Death in the breeze --
chopstick clouds spread lacy fingers
cuddling vanilla wafers --
clinging rodents
gripping Solomon's trash,
while underaged prostitutes
spread sepulcheric wisdom
playing skin-flutes
(tanned little girl faces) --
Beat back excess,
praise be
the best
glory unto Him
Glory be the highest,
stutter --
words
shades of empty
form.

City Life

I rest sublime
on your rose petals
and bleed satisfaction
while sodium arc lights
and barbed wire parking lots
guard the night.

You Critic

foam dribbles and
my chest vice squeezes --
I am
unique
you can see
by my line breaks.

capital A difference --
nothing like this
mass of droolers,
I'll spit clichés
like grandpa gumming pork loin
until you cry.

let me submit
(my critique), then
soaring above
underwritten flames
i'll be...
alone

Time's Subtle Blizzard

Spread out my bones
like a local news exposé --
I am yours
under frozen lemon skies,
waiting for the universe
to revolve.

The moon drags clouds
through your hair
as frozen waterfalls shatter
and we turn to whisper
passion stained secrets
of life stealing death
behind ice drawn lines
melting
in the wind.

Nothing if not True

These are jumbled thoughts
like train cars derailed
or some bran filled cereal
spilled on formica.

Nothing you'll read here
resembles truth:
truth, in fact,
resembles moths
struggling
in a web of silk.

The devil invented words
and sent the best
to craft endless sonnets
(like building toothpick hearts)
and whittle at life
in the dark.

A pot of arrogance
and a pinch of whine
is all this poet can stir.
He's not a poet,
but just a guy,
sitting in a swivel chair.

Practice
and together
we'll invent something
and call it perfection.
That's all Alice is After.