All in a Day

Today I played the violin

I wiped the counter

Broke a ten

I ate a fruit 

I boiled water

Washed and dried

And drove

And plotted

Wrote and read

Climbed out of bed

out of sheets that felt like butter

only better 

warmer

softer

Left the sheets turned inside out

for jeans and slippers

pins and pouch

blackened goop 

and powdered rouge

and music that was out of tune

For conversations

papers

pens-

I wiped the counter

Broke a ten

Today I played the violin

Plastic for Lunch

A fork set at the table
plastic handle
Poised to poke
By a plate that's full of empty
on a table
by the stairs
There's room for six more legs
here
but I'm short on tableware
I thought to ask the sky to lunch
but couldn't find a chair
I'm awful lonesome for a meal
or even bread
with pears

But today, again,
I'll sit me down
to plastic
by the stairs.

11:40 genius

Brains and fingers

clash against keys

It's 11:41

Sharpies and post-its

fingers and keys

brains

It's 11:42

Pizza sauce looks like

brains

when it's cold

It's 11:43

The orange juice is gone

I lost my car keys

so I used the spare set

it's still 11:43

It's 11:45 

and the fish are swimming 

in the dark

The TV has been sleeping

since 

(It's 11:46)

an hour and 44 minutes

ago

Brains and fingers and keys

It's 11:47

I the restless winding road

I the restless winding road
a friend to many men
who visit here or bargain there
or have no place to go
I pave the path to loved ones
or pave the path depart
through fields of grass
and walls of stone
or water, quick and smart.
Outwitted air and gravity
no barrier can block
my lengthy arms
my sturdy side
my far extending touch.
Oh traveler, your praise for me
echoes through my bones.
You thank me for the chance to see
to meet to greet to go.
You claim me as connection
to all your other parts,
but do you know
I were the same
that scattered you to start?

Beam Me Up

There is nothing to write today.

The pot is empty
The pumpkin is carved
The leaves have fallen off the trees
The peach is dry
The air is sterile
The peanut shell is peanut-less
The line is long
My patience is gone.

Why does everything have to rhyme?

I don't want to be like a wave:
I want to be the moon.
I don't want to need to be needed
but I do
I don't want to be so predictable:
I want to surprise.
I'm so tired of discommunication
It's hurting my eyes.

And why does everything have to rhyme?


  

poor excuse for poetry

Some days I don't feel like I have anything to write

Some meals I have no desire to eat

But I write none the less,

and on occasion I find

that I didn't even know 

I was hungry.

Pretzels Before Dinner

The dog is on my right
a bag of pretzels is next to me on the floor
a drink of milk numbs my grip,
as the afternoon condenses on the glass
we share pretzels before dinner

Skinny legs is soft asleep in the corner
uninterested in the Bennets,
in the blue eyed wonder, Mr. Darcy.
She left them mid-climax
for the song of shut eyes, small movements
and sweet stillness.

There's sunlight on  the stone floors
and on the walls that were painted white.
The breeze through the door and the windows smells like a mostly silent afternoon
and the making of fresh grass clippings.
My earth smattered shoes are still tied, next to my feet

I can feel the sleep like I taste the salt
like I smell the breeze
and the smell of gasoline that trails on my fingers
here in our bright square of warm
with the breeze and the sleep
and the pretzels

he asks for more with his eyes

otherwise, it is mostly silent