Wednesday, June 2, 2010


- The Mouth of Always
- The Mouth of Seldom
- The Mouth of Never

Always: Breathe, think, own, allow.

Seldom: Drink, make, feed, cough.

Never: No, no, no! You've both got it all wrong; those items belong to me and me only!

Seldom: I think not! --

Never: Of course not! "Think" is mine, "Think" is never!

Always: Now hold on, I payed good money for those items!

Seldom: May I...

Always and Never: No!

Never: Now, we'll settle this: a game!

Always: Chess, perhaps?

Never: A wise choice!

(Seldom gives up, exits room)

Never: Now that the fool is gone,
(reveals forked tongue)
We can begin!

Always: No, no. I think I will leave now...You may keep our items. That tongue...

Never: Ha! So be it. I am wealthy, so wealthy!
(cracks a wide, strong smile)



I saw the lighthouse.
It stood, revolving beacon,
A miniature monument,
Miles down the beach road.
Oh how it grew as we
Approached it.

A clock tics,
A baseball game,
A silent, salt-aired

Dark beach.
All street lights sleep.
An orange, bittersweet moon
Looks down upon the calm sea
(Like a sad old demon).
And the stars
Shine as brightly as they may.
Two men cast bait into the low
Tide. I lay on my back,
Another prop on the Beach's stage:
A perfect production.

Bright white sand
And sun.
Blue sky,
Green water
And sun.
One eye closed
And sun.
Feet in sand,
Sun on face
And sun.
Boat moving with conviction
Along the top of the Atlantic
And sun.
Sun taking
Sun breaking
Sun giving
Sun grinning
And sun, sun, sun, sun, sun.

You are just sea glass.
Worn and soft,
Washed upon a shore after
Years of Ocean churning.

Cemetery road;
Not a fitting name.
Everything is green,
With a light breeze
(like just enough salt)
Nudging the lazy foliage
This way and that.
I see no graves,
No grim reminders of
My mortality. What
Gave this road its name?

The gulls laugh
And the gulls cry.
They feel the same
Range of emotions
As I do.
And when you punch
Sand, it feels just the
Same as a brick,
Despite its white, soft,
Gentle face.

There was a face in the
Sand. No, two.
Two faces. Both
Stared at me, with a secret
Just behind their grin.
I wanted to wipe those smirks
Off of their faces, so
I stomped and stomped
Until they were just sand again.


It was hot
that day in the car,
the kind of hot that
made you want to tear
all of the clothes from
your body, then shave your head.
Who was driving, anyway?
Maybe you were alone.

You can't remember when,
but at some point,
you lost your way.
That damn yellow leaf
in the middle of summer
had led you astray.
Where the wind took
the leaf, the leaf took

Sun went down
Leaf faded
(yellow to brown)
Road became dirt
became open field
Car left you, clothes left
You, alone naked
Broken leg sighing soft.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Modern Bible

My cell phone, a gateway
To a land full of other
Cell phones/
People to talk to.
But the doors are closing
As my screen stays dark.
I could get up,
Visit someone in the flesh,
But that calls for effort
Not in the fingers.
So sure, I'll let the gates
Slam shut and I'll stay here
In Hell, with my 2 inch by
4 inch portal to salvation
Under my heel on the floor.
The busy people outside
Will laugh, call me dramatic.
Don't they see?
This Hell has no curtains
And I am not an actor.
Oh but the worst part is:

I think this may also be Heaven.

A Nation's dry skin

Aquatic eyesores on
My fourth night on the ship.
If I could, I'd tear a block
Out of my fourth dimension.

Look at us, we are shell-
Shocked American servants.
Despite our rebel's skin
And rebel's heart, we are
Just a fleck of a Nation's
Dry skin, dandruff.

Score a goal for me,
Sick soccer slave,
So maybe I'll look at
You and call off the

There is no Hell,
No Heaven.
They are under construction.
The workers always
Whistle when our girlfriends
Walk by, even when they
Don't wear makeup.
May I man the crane?

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Thunder and Hands

With any luck,
The thunder will not be
Rocks raining from the sky,
Breaking through my roof,
My ceiling, coming to take
What is theirs:
My book, my poems, my pen


What is language?
And when,
Why, how, will it end?

When will it allow me
To say what must be said?
Where, if not to paper, do
These words and thoughts go?
And do please tell me
How do feelings, senses
Translate into shapes and lines?
Our teeth have sharpened themselves.
Now our word can cut itself
To be an easier feed.
We shall feast on the word.
I will stuff you with it,
You will shove spoonfuls into my mouth.