Current poems in progress...

Inland on the Lake
strapped to the mast of the Edmond Fitzgerald

Pen set to memorialize my father
because he fell,
like Icarus beneath Inland’s fiery gaze.
I recall the abruptness with which
that cold steel bitch ate him;
knowing he’d been courting another,
knowing full well he was leaving.

I close my eyes to remember his smile,
or even his laugh,
or the way that he refused to wear
a helmet while speeding down county roads.
As the years pass, I find it more difficult;
but I remember her.

She laughs at me, from the lake
mocking me with her foul perfume
every time I drive back into Lake County
and all I can think is that
my father deserved so much more
than a granite marker with a start and end date
and a daughter who can no longer picture
his face.
--pandora
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poignant :) enjoyed.
-t
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Wow. Jax
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as "t" said, poignant. thanks.
~brock
(remember me?)
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Of course I do...
pandora

the glass

sometimes we look at pictures and remember people we once knew,
and at first glance our hearts are saddened and sink alittle,
memories start flowing like water from a spicket,
people places and things that will never be real again,
except in our minds,
but then joy is the glass under the fawcet,
filling and and then overflowing,
filling our hearts and minds,
and drowning us,
people come and go in our lives everday,
smiles that etch themselfs into our souls,
and let us no we're not alone,
even in our darkest hour,
so smile everday,
to everyone you know
and fill there glass

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Sweet ..Take Care

filling in blanks with an asterik
small print and big ideas

Your Best Behavior

For the first time in 22 years, you recognize
your brother as a man. Boom. There he is:
standing in a puddle of blood in the kitchen.
His voice becomes a buzzard flying
circles above your neck. He has the lips
of an astronaut. The shoulders
you once sat upon now reveal a secret,

confessing their obscene beauty to you
in the hallway. There is no longer a sweetness
in praising the enormity of his hands.
You’re not sure how much more of him you can take.
Every glance across the dinner table, each
accidental brush of his leg against yours
drags you further from the young catastrophes
you once were; the shared bed in winters,
the magnified deaths of burning ants, the belt buckle
that kissed your backs, Easter morning
in the basement with a stolen bottle of gin.

It is the last night you ever spend in that house.
For the next eight years, its only signs of you
are birthday cards on the mantle and a wreath
of pinecones made in Sunday school.
When your mother dies of a terrible disease,
you send a modest arrangement of snapdragons
and baby’s breath.
All the men you sleep with become a quiet revenge
against the beautiful man you’ve been married to
since you were five. It is a polished infidelity,
an almost odorless betrayal.

That same year, you cut off your hair and quit your job.
Lose your apartment. Get addicted to coke.
Everything you need to live your soft, invisible life.
On your thirty-first birthday, you leave your car
on the side of the road and run into the empty dark.

Eventually, you find an ordinary town to die in.
Marry the first man who hits you, buy a dog
that shits the carpet, give birth
to four ungrateful boys.

When you finally die, it is the best day of your life.
The doctor makes the announcement and leaves
the room. You are lying in bed, surrounded
by your sons and their agreeable wives.

It is very charming, they think, how your grandchild,
a lonely little girl with messy hair,
lays her head upon your chest,
listening for a heart
that has not been home in years.

She warned me about you Tennessee girls

when plain Jane and Betty Sue from Chattanooga
sat down with me between i was not prepared.
Jane'd said "coffee" but she did not mention that we'd have company.
and likewise, i hadn't counted on minding.
Betty comments on what a good mom you'd make,
and how good a swimmer you are,
and how your hair looks so pretty now that it's shorter, Jane,
but what you don't know is as she says this and you glow
like morning over the thick blue lip of the cafe mug,
that her hand has slid under the table like a snake
and it's fickle tongue fingers are rap-rapping on my leg,
my thigh.
i surpress a noise that'd give her away.
like the weak mortal i am, i succumb to her game:
even as i keep my eyes on you, i can feel hers on me.
and when you open your mouth to speak, ain't it funny how
she feels the need to interject something nice about me
and call my attention to respond, to guide my eyes as i notice
how she's removed her hoodie and that her cotton top is
too threadbare and frail to contain her gently heaving bust.
i hate to admit it but i like how she tells me, this way,
how i matter most.

Procrastination
This isn't fair.
I tell Him, my face covered in salty tears.
I love him.
You *think* you love him.
I turn away, ashamed and stupid.
I care about him.
You don't. You care about you.
I ignore him.
I care about us.
Who's "us"?
I look down, angry and defiant.
Him and me.
Him and you?
Yes.
I love him.
You don’t.
You *think* you love him.
I slump back and sulk
I love him.
No.

so, i do?

Free

You aspire to austerity.
No more than plain food,
a glass of still water,
taken with silent thanks.
 
Each word is measured for
wisdom; discarding those
that fall short. You wish
to be diminished, reduced.
 
But when you laugh it is usually inappropriate:
rude and sexy.
You burst out with suprising force;
overwhelmed by joyful insubordination.
 
Your pleasures are secret:
dark chocolate in the dead of night;
a glass of red; an orange bra; idle hours;
but never on a Sunday.

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missing only a playmate, even on a sunday
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what a great line:"overwhelmed by joyful insubordination"
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oh yeah, it's your playmate!!
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sweet words and descriptions