The Boogeymen (II/III)

Walking down the concrete

At the witching hour’s peak.

Heavy with twilight.

The rain for the day

Has lifted and the air is warm.

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The Rhetorical Question

It’s ill education

It’s the pursuit of satisfaction

Comparing cash value

To the subjective flow of time.

Thoughts to Page, Ink to Mark

I use a Baoer fountain pen.

When I finish writing, my fingertip

Is stained with ink to the swirling rivet.

Humid Port City

The female figure

Toes like candy

Creased arches

Architecture, Imposed over

Intersections of blue veins

Legs crossed

Pale thighs culminate at

Impenetrable shadow.

The Collective

Slowly slipping away

Measured by day

It’s my conscious thought

Or the ability to collect it.

Natural Instincts

There is

The garden you can see

And

The garden under lock and key

Caffeine Engine

Smoke pours from my crown in the form of conscious thought.

Smoke pours from my lips in the form of a lit cigarette.

Bend in thin alleys and alcoves.

Closed storefronts and bright sparkling coffee shops.

Open the notebook and fall from the world into oblivion.

 

My mind becomes looped in interest,

In the way graphite melds with the white pulp of paper.

In the forming of the letter O

Clockwise vs. counter.

“Operator- can you help me?”

The Grateful Dead in my ears.

The caffeine in my bloodstream:

Oily and clear as Micah enforced by a blue riverbed.

Hot and black as coal endorsed by a green mermaid.

A vowel is a skeleton key.

 

There’s a distracting mechanism on the apple wood table.

Named after a fruit.

Named after temptation.

Show me an array of

Faces and undocumented news.

An endless dictionary, thesaurus, and encyclopedia within my pocket.

Keep the Grateful Dead singing American Beauty.

Connect me with voices wherever we stand if I happen across your thoughts.

I feed its electricity

That glow won’t fade away.

 

The snow begins to swirl brick streets.

The people seek shelter.

Warmth from radiator or alcohol.

Close the notebook, stop drawing letters.

Cap that billowing smoke stack with a black Red Sox hat.

I take advantage of the weather

Move toward work.

The Daisy Field (III/III)

We fell from Heaven

And struck every branch

On the way down.

The impact left a crater,

Half the diameter of a New England town.

With no direction I dream

Of rambling on.

Lucidly waking, scrambling for

Planes, trains, or bus.

Filling my hiking bag, hand encompassing a compass.

The People We Meet (I/III)

I float down the concrete.

Biting on an apple,

Chewing over

The previous night.

Beer,

Steak,

Condos on Front Street;

Financed by taxed poker winnings.

Stepping Stone Moon

I walk a landscape

Of glass, concrete, grass, and

Raspberries by the carton.

The Rolling Bones

Take a chance and

Roll the bones.

Don’t let it build

Until it bursts.

Mow the lawn,

Water the garden,

Get your hair cut,

Sip Lillet Blanc from a chilled cup.

Allow alcohol to touch your lips,

Don’t let it be the reason they move.