Whatever can be a beautiful term,
Not just a juvenile linguistic squirm.
The word exists in many forms.
Despite it earning my partner's scorn,
Sometimes the word helps me stand firm.
On occasions when rage in traffic worms
Its way inside, extinguish the burn.
Even if they honk the horn,
Whatever.
When my lover fears I'd spurn
Him for something shallow as a derm;
When he asks me so forlorn
What I'd do to help but a thorn
Of his dreams come true; I reaffirm:
Whatever.
Latest
That’s How it Goes
That's how it goes when you're not like the rest:
They lay down the rules that suit them the best,
But some of us play from a different book.
I don't think I'm above it, I'm no crook;
An addict perhaps, if I have transgressed.
Those of our kind, our static's possessed
By demons of sickness set to divest
Us of joie de vivre by their seething hooks.
That's how it goes.
How can one live at the system's behest?
None can be civil with spirits oppressed
By an inner void which hurts just to look
At, let alone have the courage to brook.
I have nothing to add nor to contest,
That's how it goes.
The Superstar
The superstar of a single block
Is irrelevant on another's clock.
He's made his crowd scream and shout,
But anywhere else he has no clout.
If he's a headcase he's in for a shock.
Once he leaves he's a line of chalk.
Who'll care if someone should hock
Any blasphemy about
The superstar?
At first it'll all seem inside-out,
But is there ever really a doubt
That after he's gone life continues to walk
Ahead, away from yesterday's talk?
That corner will still exist without
The superstar.
I am the corpse no one expects
I am the corpse no one expects,
One of those whose demeanor affects
The pleasantries of happiness;
But underneath there snaps duress,
Whip-like in vicious dialects.
A melancholy which vivisects
The soul. Simple becomes complex
For the wretch whom no one would guess
I am.
Misery in stasis directs
Toward a grave; emotion collects
In a gutter where I compress
From our dimension down one less.
As one of secret derelicts,
I am.
Roadkill
Death on the roadside
unexplainable
byproduct of killing life
who could ever know whom
seeking identification
or if the skull isn't smashed to bits
dental records
what if they had no teeth
witnesses what do they know
not for inculpation
no one knows their name
unknown Corpse
Roadkill
biohazard crew comes by
disposes of what lived yesterday
if only one person sees it
no one does
what if they're not human
not even john doe
deposited on the shoulder
Carrion for the sun to bleach
what if they were my friend
what if only i know their name
then no one knows
i was never interviewed
passing on
so unceremoniously
my killing life demanded my time
i didn't even stop
mangled skeleton
with its wings still stretched
beautifully hideously macabrely
fly away from this cursed world
can one even offer prayers
in this new mode of living Death
living and thereby murdering
sometimes quickly often slowly
i pray the friends i no longer see
are not and will not be
this unlucky one
what good is that to him
when each of us goes out
for groceries or work or just for pleasure
on our final road trip to Death
every one will be our collective fault.
Death
I have died many times before.
I have knocked upon Death's door.
All I heard was the echo knock,
Knock, knocking until nothing
Responded when I sadly awoke.
Needs
I need the capability
to pay the way
through time and obligation toward happiness.
Power of movement's what I need,
flux's freedom,
the faculties of change and of stability.
Fame and fortune are not required,
only some wealth
for the bills, walls for the nights, and food for our friends.
Just enough to afford my car
and gasoline
to go from Spring Hill back to my soul in Tampa.
Are all of these things possible:
to help construct
machines and monuments from some semantic lens?
Can I fund the signal of dreams,
can I foster
candid portraits that understand their own façades?
And when I meet with frustration,
what is the strength
that will be hammered out of my emotions' storm?
Will I withstand the melting down
in raging ore,
will I be annealed or will I crack in the cold?
I'm climbing up the diving bell
beneath the thought
of what warrants efforts buried in silent time.
Never expecting to survive,
will I write these
words enough times a poem can be discovered?
Franklin
It finally happened, and I
Have felt the most singular joy:
Franklin, the largest of our ducks,
And I think the father of most of them,
Ate blueberries out of my hand!
Our younger ducks are still skittish,
So I simply toss them berries;
But Franklin's courageous and comfortable,
He doesn't fear the touch of this ape.
And if ever I feared the bill of a duck,
Truth reveals that completely baseless.
Franklin is sweet beyond compare:
It feels like rounded tongs when he nibbles,
Gently tickling my palms for fruit.
And not just that, though that's sublime,
He even let me pet his breast!
He held himself with the dignity
Of a wild animal, yet serenely,
Familiarly he accepted my touch.
With the backs of my first two fingers
I softly stroked his dappled breast.
Franklin gives his mouth a lick
And holds his head up while I pet him.
I look into his golden eyes,
At his leathery, red face,
The equal streaks of black and white
Which course atop his fluffy head
And down his neck; he's so plush!
I thank him for allowing me
To feel the soft touch of his down.
He chuffs as if to thank me in turn
For the blueberries. He is content.
What an incredible creature I'm blessed
To have as a neighbor purely by chance,
This muscovy duck Franklin!
Percy’s Stretch
Should you have the joy of being
Around ducks in the morning or evening,
You've surely seen the way they stretch—
One leg extending backward
As the matching wing fans out.
I must have spent several scores
Of sunsets and twilights and even a dozen
Daybreaks squatting beside these birds,
But only once have I seen a stretch
The way that Percy pulled it off.
He balanced on a single leg
And started splaying feathers out;
As I sat behind him on his left,
He seemed to point each feather at me.
Perfectly propped like a tiny scarecrow,
I didn't notice it at first.
Beginning to kick a leg out,
As if by legerdemain, from his right
The little extremity extended!
He paused: the ambiguous spinning dancer;
And stretched his toes like a black canvas.
He flared his midnight wing once more,
Kicked his foot its entire length;
Then he set it back on the clay
And gave a little shake, ruffling
His iridescent feathers up,
Looking like a brass pinecone
With subtle green and purple patina.
It seems so rare to me; indeed
I've never seen it before or since.
Percy then settled back down
To gaze at the sinusoidal pond.
Franklin was laid beside him, and Norm
And, further off in a shadow, George
Slumbered on the shore nearby.
I was squatting down on my haunches,
And my knees were beginning to ache.
We decided to let them sleep.
I stood up and stretched my own legs but
Not nearly as spectacularly
As Percy, the little black duck
With a dickie of white breast feathers.
Parting is always sorrow
Parting is always sorrow,
Fear of uncertainty,
Discontinuity.
These ducks that have made their home
Here are the most beautiful
And precious creatures I've known.
I've depended on
These days we've shared together;
Who says it has to end?
The fears I have for the future.
Granite's adventuring,
I believe he'll return like George.
Even so, Cory
Misses him. As do I.
Will they miss us?
Nothing ties them down,
Inspiring as it is frightening.
We're united by chance.
How could we let them know
We're leaving but will return
To visit them forever?
What compact could be made
To tie our souls to this place,
Returning after time?
I think I'll be visiting
More than twice a week.
Easing into absence.
I can't bear the idea
They might feel they've lost us
Or grieve the lack of us.
Will they start to think,
"Did they move on;"
Well, won't we have?
We've both lived in so
Many different places,
Why not animals too?
Darling Granite, we miss you.
We miss your happy laughter.
We miss your squinching eyes.
I do believe you're safe
And probably not far,
Likely with Patch or Millay.
We've become accustomed
To your familiar smile
And gentle friendliness.
You've been here the longest
Of all the ducks we know.
Your presence is joy's communion.
Always and forever
We will search for your profile
On the grass lounging serenely.
You will always be
Cherished and remembered,
You and all of our friends.
Our hearts have expanded domains
Grown from Granite; from Marble;
From milky-eyed Mama;
From Armor and from Helmet;
From the fly-by-night girls;
And from poor little Miracle.
I swoon for animals;
They understand hello,
But never know goodbye.
I think of Lefty the mallard:
Against all odds, born
With a malformed wing, he thrives.
Lefty and all our friends
Who make this place their home,
Aren't we of them too?
This place, this time, this pond
Has found us all together
In our liberty-laden lives.
I think of Franklin and Percy,
Loyalty and Norm,
Steve and Zebra and Mama;
Helmet, George, and Edgar,
All of whom had left
And yet returned again.
This is what we have chosen.
We all may come and go,
That's how I know it's love.
I know that we'll come back,
And so I do believe
Granite will too.
***
Just yesterday Millay
Came swooping down to greet us.
We instantly knew each other.
The little outline of white
Around her beady eyes;
How she ran to us;
Her single tiny squeak
As she jumped onto the grass
All confirmed it was she.
She said hello then flew off.
I'd bet she's seen Granite.
A place for my poems 