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.
Tag: poetry
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.
Last Walk of the Night
The frogs are echoing from God
Knows where; the new moon is
Here to be missed, and it has rained.
The sky is blank overhead.
It's a navy blue hour,
Lit more by the apartments'
Lamps than anything above
Us and the twinkling blades of grass.
The glittering water is almost asleep,
Softly shifting; planes above
Hum toward TPA,
The city a milky way below.
We stroll the pre-dewed lawns,
One last visit for the night.
On the grass not far from the path
Are groups of little dark spots.
Each one of those tiny shadows
Is a precious friend nestling
Back their sleeping, carbuncled faces,
Resting the white curves of their eyelids.
Reflections on how I got here
"Beware this reckoning,"
Glares a spectral pair of eyes.
Blood quickens in frozen veins,
Stricken as though paralyzed.
Leering back from inside
The mirror, a crack which grows
The distance facts drift at one's
Insistence; then slackens, slows.
And crawling over shards,
Wounds are all to show for wants
Slicing black weals of static
Lack of any real response.
The daunting pain of silence
Spawning deranged interviews—
A prison with no orders,
Visions thrown to trinkets' truths.
Worst is when it's within
The first sentence of doom speaks.
Overpowered by black bile,
Loathing and foul wrath it wreaks.
The dreadful sensation
In the head made manifest:
Seizing trips that mark the sick,
Squeezing grip of panic's press.
Heaviness dimly drapes
Every limb, as though submerged
In water's lips; every move
Murmurs, stripped like a soul scourged.
Beneath this awful weight,
Seething, clawing to maintain;
While fearful of this deep hole,
Here the soul can greatly gain.
It's a cage, and no skill
Engaged will, it confounded
Me; but blessed with room to pace,
They dressed patience around me.
Basically life support
Is the grace the dice produced
To hand me a family
Withstanding my sorrow's sluice.
To think they looked at hell
Without blinking, it took more;
More than courage, more than faith,
The surge of strength love looks for.
Looming death, fate diseased;
Assuming the weight of both,
How they faced it despite dread.
They allowed my glacial growth.
They paid for my prices
As I laid, a dying mind,
Withered body torched in hate—
Delivered by a fortune's find.
They believed in a time
When even I am able,
Condoning this path to shed
Loneliness's black label.
It was pure chance to meet
Him, to endure and advance
Past privation and piss-drunk
Starvation's soul sunken stance.
My family props the sky
Up while hammers drop on nails;
And my head has turned up for him,
Ready to earn grace's grails.
Am I a wretch reborn
By a lucky catch? Of course;
Without either my life's in
Doubt, but strife still stalks its source.
His presence builds me up
A pleasant hill to defend,
But misaligned spheres can soon
Find my spirit brought to bend.
We've grown this better sense,
Sown medicines, worked what found
Subsistence, a miracle
System sheer as sculpted sound.
Our one-room made of smoke,
Blunt and bespoke, fleeting home;
In a flash what saves me could
Crash like waves of frothing foam.
I cannot guard, protect,
By forethought or by power,
Against illness, accident,
Killing events' furled flower.
There's much I can't make kneel,
A touch could steal all I care
About. My dear, meekly tread
And scout ahead. Best beware!
A place for my poems 