One in the Morning

One in the morning

sounds like the minute hand of a clock in the dark.
It sounds like your breath through your nose.
One in the morning
smells like the dust that coats the top-side of your ceiling fan and sticks there, even when the fan is on high and only falls when it is off.
One in the morning
smells like fog rolling in under your door even though your door is locked. It smells like your shoes by the front door as they are dusted with tiny water droplets brought in by the fog.
One in the morning
looks like your bare footprints on the rose-colored tiles which have no color in the dark. It looks like the pattern of your footsteps went in time with the ticking of the minute hand of the clock.
One in the morning
feels like the page in your book that was left open so you would know where to continue reading in the day time. It feels like the loosened dust particles that fell from the fan onto the page where you began to walk because the tiles do not exist when it is dark.
Everything jumps as the hour hand strikes two and
One in the morning
feels like going to bed, too.

He is a Stream

He is a stream
That is solid
In winter;
Rushing in the spring;
Thoughtful in
The summer;
And mine in the fall.

The Grey Curtain

She walks the sidewalks with her eyes closed. Traffic jets by, her hair whips her face, horns honk. Trash tumbles by, catches in the iron bars of the gutter. She stops to open her eyes. She stares blankly at the garbage. It falls into the drain.

When she was born, all of the nurses began to tremble, the doctor took off his glasses, and her mother passed away. The girl's eyes were open, her mouth was like a distant horizon at dawn, and she was just as silent. The doctor shook as he tried to resuscitate the mother. She stared ahead.

She closes her eyes again, as she is accustom to do. Continuing on her daily walk, she passes an old man, blind and trapped in his own decaying body. He calls out to her for help, for some food, for company. Her high heels click with each step, moving ahead as the grey man has a heart attack.

Stepping off of the curb, brakes squeal and metal collides. People scream and curse, but the girl wraps her scarf about her ears and strides on. Sirens obey Doppler's effect. Police gather to cover bodies with plastic.

She arrives at her apartment. She drops her coat into the closet and watches it slump into the corner. The frayed couch creaks. She kicks her shoes off and unwinds her grey scarf. None of the windows are open. Thumbing the remote, she comes to the news.
Fatal crash caused by jay-walker. Click.
Famine in Uganda made worse by civil war. Click.
Suicide rates rising in America. Click.
Abortion clinic to have grand opening. Click.
Global warming threatens to—Click. Click. Click.

The television screen goes black. She walks over dusty floorboards to the window. Her mouth is like a distant memory. Her eyes are clamped shut as she stares out the window with grey curtains drawn over it.

Fog

Shoes at the door.
Late again.
Empty halls.
Empty of welcome,
full of woe.
The fog's at the windows.
Condensation
On the leaves.
Drip drip,
My dissatisfaction
Descending the eaves.
The view is distorted,
The framework is crumbling.
At least when this
Is all broken down
We will be left with
A solid surface to stand on.
And perhaps it will then
Be daylight.

Edible Identity

There are girls in this class
with names like
“Margarita”
and “Carmella”.
Why don’t more people
name their children
with such scrumptious names?

The Sound That Blood Makes

I am the sound that blackness makes
When it hits the pages of your thoughts.
It is recorded without your knowledge,
Without your help or guidance,
Without your approval. Such as it is
One day you will thank me.
Until then I am just a sound.
Just a hum. Murmur.
Like your head was upon your mother’s chest
And your eardrum captures
The reverberations of her heartbeat
Deep beneath her rib cage –
But she is gone, gone, gone.
And has been for years.
I am the sound in the blackness
That heightens your thoughts.
Perhaps it will return! The plague!
Your ignorance is what I have left to hold
In the darkness; the sound of blood,
Surging through organs to bring life.
You curse my lifeblood while gazing
Into the shallow sea of my eyes –
This cage, you hear the echoes.
But it is dead, dead, dead.
And has been for months. Yes, me.
But I am alive -- like her.
With your curses you spring hope.
My hope is what you aim to smother.
But fear not, I will not drown. Not now.
Not for you or for us, but for It.
I am the sound that your heart makes
When the blackness has left your pages
And your thoughts turn again to Blood
And It will surge through your hope organ
And play a tune so soft
That it will revive us
And we will live, live, live

Signs of Renewal 2.4.08

I want to snatch
Those signs that say
“Turn or burn”
“God hates fags”
And throw them
Into rushing traffic
Watch them crushed –
Smashed – destroyed
Beneath the wheels.
I want to insert
Signs that say
“God is Love”
“I’m sorry for
Not loving you
Like Jesus”.
I want renewal
Of old paradigms.
I want revolution.

My Initial Response to the Winter Poetry Slam

The judges are chosen
By random decision.
And the host reigns
In his supreme jurisdiction.
This is how the Poetry Slam runs.

Some of them rhyme,
Most of them don’t,
Many are quirky.
Peace! Peace! they promote.
A few stand out – gems.

One girls walks on stage,
Jeans skin-tight and boots.
"This girl dresses in sizes too small",
Says I. Who am I? I;
The self-proclaimed jury.

But her voice is strong,
And her words more so.
My ears perk to listen,
My mouth opens without words.
And my shame grows.

It is clear she is what Keats
Calls a “poet”,
What Coleridge would
call “a poet”.
And I belittle her no-more.

Criticism turns to applause
As goose-bumps light up my skin:
Proof of the timeless lesson
That I’ve learned within.
Strangely,

The finger that pointed is now
The voice that cheers loudest.
She might think I was a fan all along,
But she would then be the judge –
To assume me as a good person,
Would make us both bias judges.