Letters on a Plate; rough draft

Indeed I followed too far and this is not
unbound I say goddamn can you believe what the maker said
when you can't believe the maker?

Emasculated jellyfish sit in packs off the Florida coast
awaiting an unspoken invitation
to thuggery
so we deal out the card until Jokers wild.

UFO landing in Arizona reads a bumper sticker.

Lickety-split and still I lick the cream of memories.

Wonders upon wonders speaking through mirrors
I guessed the return of the elephant
and here it comes trampling the earth and all who walk on her.

Faster than lightning the program goes unbroken
typist finger digitalis heals all maledictions.

40th and Market; final draft. (formerly El Thoughts One)

Salt dissolved in water sticks to my shoes
crawls up my pant legs
fresh spit snow and crusty coat
chunks of ice slip and slide beneath the soles of my shoes,
black and gray speckled white mazes
in this record-breaking winter
I criss
cross the dwarf I am
against this skyline of man made sequoias
concrete rebar buildings of glass and glowing lights
testament of some kind of life in the spinning airs of the world:
a soft pillow to our concerns pitted far flung in space.
I am moving so fast I'll never slow down.

The scene on the corner of 40th and Market
men standing grease or anything-else smudged polyester jackets
worn soles propped on empty and upside down Pepsi crates
and the ambassador speaks, “Get a ride!” “Get a ride.”
A taxi ride but where's the taxi?

The El runs under these streets and you can hear it rumble
you can hear it scream
and you can have whatever you want
trinkets cheap bling incense body oils,
bootleg movies hot off the press,
Bo-Sing Chicken, nails or a new haircut,
H & R Block day care and a wine shoppe
tried to go into Flynn's but Flynn's be closed.

I slide my gloved hand on the rail and descend.
my feet graze steps and my eyes like a beeline
keep my pace in line
so I don't stumble here at this stairwell finish line,
too late to miss this one, too late to wait
six or less or ten or twelve minutes
depending on the time of day.

I cross the platform entrance
run the pass push through the turnstile.

The whine and screech of train songs congest the air
platform three-quarters full of scattered people and I,
step left step right fill gaps in efficiency
ever crowding is the rush hour El.

Doors slide open like Star Wars
I pass portal to a land of blank stares
and vacant aural landscapes
but for the tinny sound of a hip hop amplified iPod
and the cajole of a mother to her daughter,
"Sit down." "Sit down!"

Or the braggadocio of two seasoned brothers
slap-sticking black verbal dance on the urban landscape
scat about cards and women and hard luck,
two seats to a man.
And though I am just on my way to work
language also is written on the walls around me.

Cherries Wet in the Sun; final draft

As a youth I would climb high up in a thin-limbed tree,
bark scratching bare arms as I picked cherries,
dropped them into a bucket
and relished the wind on my face and the sunshine that warmed my skin.
These memories are now confined to a picture my mother gave me many years ago as part of a birthday gift: one photo in an album full.

But when summer downpours sucked my sister down a ditch
under and inside a thorn bush's craggy and cavernous insides
I learned not to expect worn out shoes
or tattered clothes to keep the rain out:
fungal feet swollen like monkey paws clutching pacifiers.

Parched throats need water
and arid eyeballs stare up periscopes with foggy lenses
only to see
mountain gorillas running on four legs
their knuckles skipping against stones
(instead of English they use sign language:
universal love signifies speech like bitches signify heat).

Volcano Thoughts; final.

I can't stop mixing feelings with volcano thoughts
and sometimes you need to vomit before you can get cuisine.

Night ride I
down tree vaulted asphalt of Martin Luther King Jr Drive.
Headlights of cars passing too close flash and blur in my mini rear-view,
but my aluminum tubes, carbon-reinforced fork, and steely resolve
carry me as I ride on.
And as I ride
before me rises an artificial sunrise
ambient glow of millions of street lights,
the LED sprinkled city skyline,
and my wheels spinning rpms some sixty.
The moon casts its reflection on the rain flecked street.

Outliers of tree branches hang overhead,
to my left the Schuylkill River's riparian zone,
and mixed among the foliage and sculpted meadow-lands
wild geese and goslings'
goose droppings brown black and white
heavy scattered among the grass and on and along the pathway.

But on this night
I who choose the road also avoid
headless geese carcasses deeply genuflecting on the bike route.

Fist a Flying; final.

I step into the ring fists a flying
blood stained ropes
splotch covered canvas
smashed mouth and I'm shaken all my body through
falling backward
bouncing off the ropes
g-forces whipping sweat off my face
like a dog shaking off water after a torrential downpour.
No time to ask myself what's the fighting for.

I turn and face a battle royal where everyone's against me.
Eyes lean forward my mind leans backward
and I remember a time when I saw the finish line
a mirage rising murky on the highway,
and I drink deep from a dream-works spigot
fade in and out
come round about
hot tub thermostat shoots to the moon
120 degrees
so hot it burns.

Tickle; draft #1

The more I am tickled the more it hurts
I can't explain my irrational gasps
or the sensation that runs across my skin like army ants on the march
soft blue electric lights seeking for fuel
or a wind that quickly whips across your face
I flush red and my body shakes.

My cat Bella has an uncontrollable purr.
Touch her and she purrs. Give her attention and she purrs.
Now, at least a little, I understand her automaton nature:
tickled I laugh a chaotic mess, not funny but an unthinkable
gagging breathless gasp of funnies left behind.

My wife enjoys my helplessness.
Touch me wrong and I tickle.
Smooth skin and I tickle.
Tickle me I'm the tickle monster's return for revenge.

Tight Rope Walker; draft #3

I stand on the tight rope
toes tight against the coiled threads.
My eyes look forward but my mind sees three-sixty:
steady while I sway, approaching halfway.

The crowd is silent. Should I achieve unscathed the distant edge
they'll applaud but for the most part they await disaster,
that I should fall without a safety net:
I too was dared to perform by passersby
too afraid to walk the straight line herself
but nonetheless gleeful bystander to the glitz
the glimmer of this media driven spectacle.

From on high among the rafters, the nosebleed,
a yawn settles upon silence
my soft feet lift glide inches at a time
eyes glued to the goal despite the catcalls.

The platform nears
my mind turns to the philosophy of distance,
how it changes moment to moment
relative to my pace, the subtle swish of legs.
Mind and eye are one
an audience of Baptists thinks I look like Jesus walking on air.

My right foot clears the cedar wood platform edge.
I hear first a solitary clap and then a cacophony of applause
the rhythm to which I declare my living pulse.

Newton's Only Law; Draft #1

For many the dance
quixotic spectacle of crystal meth chandeliers come crashing to earth,
Newton's only law,
became the only thing worth waiting for.
And so sweat boiling on brows and the tension in the air
and thoughts juggled as bites from apples appeal to the worm
while people stared,
made up for puking out metal shards and shitting black tar.

Opossum Belly; draft #3, finished poem more or less

Dead fur dries over and over peels skin
slowly lifting from muscle tissue:
somewhat of death an end to heartbeats love nerve twitch
severing iron from blood the life-giver oxygen reactor,
somewhat the passage of windy airs
somewhat also the rapidity of flies dropping egg bombs
their young pouring forth from fleshy orifices:
muscle becomes meal.

An opossum's belly turns and writhes under the hot summer sun
and it turns also my stomach
thankful I am empty of food late for dinner.
Gas expands turning animal into organic and bone toothed cavity,
byproduct of microorganism-evolutionary vagary:
the small rule the fate of the large
that feed and fuel and wait and crave
demanding more from passerby's lest they sit unsuspecting
and then too bare the rancid meat fruit of fly speck goners
puking red meal acidic entrails out onto the pathways of life.

Summer Ice; draft #2

For the sake of summer pleasure
ice once was harvested from waterways of the North.
The Great Lakes, Hudson Bay, the Baffin Sea
and all across the Land Of The Midnight Sun
hulls tought from port to starboard
longitudinally crossed the Atlantic
bound for ports along the St. Lawrence Seaway or the New England coast,
water choppy as unpredictable storms lashed with wind,
raining death on the unwary.

Upon arrival, men stacked the ice in barns
in shady places always the coolest part of town.
It perspired and evaporated but slowly
and as a refrigerator left open wide
emanated cold air:
a respite for resting workers
this ice that stuck out like a sore thumb in the humid sun.

But those were days when miracles became mechanical wonders
days and years before the rudiments of electronic inventions:
cool and cold now manufactured
man made abundance
like winter plucked from the sky
imbuing our favorite tv dinners prepackaged heaven's on earth.

Tight Rope; rough draft

I stand here on the tight rope
not walking just standing
toes tight against the coiled threads.
My eyes look forward but my mind revolves in 360 degrees,
measuring the distance to the further platform
simultaneously looking back on the pitter-patter of my feet:
did I shake the wire? Am I more than halfway?

The crowd is silent. Should I arrive unscathed at the distant edge
they'll applaud my efforts, but mostly they are waiting
some say courting
disaster, that I should fall and this time with no safety net:
for this walk was a dare, put on me by passersby
both too afraid to walk the straight line themselves
and also gleefully participatory in the glitz and glimmer
of this spectacle and media driven life.

I can hear someone up in the rafters,
someone too cheap or too poor to pay full price,
yawn.
My feet softly lift and glide forward and my eyes are glued
but my mind is a juggler
looking between tossed balls of circus glory
and the wonder, are they tired of me or worn out from work
where my dance at sometime
became the only thing they've been waiting for all the week long,
as if the sweat boiling on my brow, the great heights, and the tension in the air
made up for puking out metal shards and shitting black tar.

Nearer now the platform looms,
my mind philosophizes on the meaning of distance
and how it changes from moment to moment
in relation to the pace of my legs swishing back and forth.
Mind and eye become one body glides,
baptists in the audience think I look like Jesus walking on air.

First I hear a solitary clap, and then a cacophony of applause
as my right foot clears the cedar of the platforms edge
declaring both my living pulse and the success of the venture.

Wanting a Bonfire Blaze; draft #1

My fingers linger on her soft skinned belly
pale red glass of a tummy ring for as long as I've been looking.
The skin stretches thinner after each exhale
lungs vacuum mucous membranes
ribs barely hidden behind flesh
ribs almost pushing against the smooth flesh.
But I want
lips lick tongue kiss up belly button hard hips
hope for internal combustion, a lighter lit flame igniting body
such that our skins touch and
THE WHOLE THING GOES UP!

But she lays still
eyes soft glazed breath
dizzy pain of long workdays:
unable to release as talons of sharp-eyed gold feathered eagle
clutching chinook between claws.

I wish she'd spot me a thousand miles away
grip me bloody tight between her fingers,
take me to her nest and eat my flesh warm and raw.

City With A Slow Heartbeat; draft #3

Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

Knife scratch phone numbers etched in dull stainless steel
seats covered in seventies style thin and stained carpet
violet speckles on soft neon blue.
Ink stain directions smudged in broad crack head script
From the 15th ride the broad street line north
get off at Allegheny
and you're at the Diamond street projects.

Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

From Erie-Torresdale going West
here on elevated tracks high above Kensington Avenue
ride quiet quite like the glance of a bull
in the kicked up dust just before the charge:
just the squeal of breaks
the breathless mechanical whistle of metal against metal
and a mechanized voice announcing the next station on deck
letting us know whether the doors are open or closed.

Welcome Latenight Rider, the cool eyed El awaits you.

To my left across the aisle two men sit facing each other,
I see them out of the corner of my eye,
each sprawled across two seats,
one sitting back twisted
arms gray anguish folded across the back of the seat
speaking gravel too fast
but not for his brother no he ain't no fool
he won't get fooled again
he ain't no fool and he won't get fooled again.

He speaks and chants and sings
and God bless this and god bless that
god bless these bitumen black-grey roofs that stretch out
endless in the dusk and we only pass by with vacant stares
burrowing holes into windows seatbacks and floor,
or chins notched in books
avoiding cigarette burn holes in my jeans,
even as we ride by abandoned warehouses shit full of shattered glass.

Myth of Meritcracy (draft #2)

Lightning flashes across the maddened sky
cuts molecules in half and you can count the seconds
1...2...3 then crack and boom!
Peering down at that moment you see the slow shuffle of yesterday's work,
the careworn and withered movements of dying-eyed
shadow characters best known from a distance
best known as abstract in a less than ideal world
while working-class stiffs think concretely,
lest our own thin skin be ripped
sinews and veins born against an x-ray sky.

Storm moving fast as clouds churned up by a whirlwind
dark masses floating in ethereal airs:
turned hot on its heals an evolution
of stomaching stuffs and growing the belly's bulge.
Fat now made famous
its consumptive powers render supposed evidence of our own will to fight
mano y mano
even though guilty till the last man standing
oink and you slobber over dinner
hwoink and your tongue pale pink lolls out
once more to suck on mother's tit
as anecdotal evidence insulates fallacious theory
in this myth of meritocracy.

40th and Market; draft #4

Salt dissolved in water sticks to my shoes
crawls up my pant legs
fresh spit snow and crusty coat
chunks of ice slip and slide beneath the soles of my shoes,
black and gray speckled white mazes
I criss cross
the dwarf I am against this skyline of man made sequoias
brick stone glass and glowing lights
cutting gashes through the spinning airs of the world:
soft pillow to our concerns pitted far flung in this space
where I am moving so fast I'll never slow down.

the scene on the street corner
men standing splotched polyester jackets
propped on empty and upside down 2 liter Pepsi crates
“Get a ride!” “Get a ride.”

“Get a ride!”

A taxi ride but where's the taxi?

The El runs under these streets and you can hear it rumble
you can hear it scream
and you can have whatever you want
trinkets cheap bling incense body oils,
bootleg movies hot off the press,
Bo-Sing Chicken, nails or a new haircut,
tried to go into Flynn's but Flynn's be closed:
sometimes lucky the fate of the passerby
I am so I walk on
walking man leads the way.

I slide my gloved hand on the rail and descend.
my feet graze steps and my eyes like a beeline keep my pace in line
to keep from stumbling here at this stairwell finish line,
too late to miss this one, too late to wait
six or less or ten or twelve minutes
depending on the time of day.

I cross the platform entrance
run the pass push through the turnstile.

Whine and screech train songs congest the air
platform three-quarters full of scattered people and I, stepping left stepping right,
fill gaps in efficiency.

Doors slide open like Star Wars,
I pass portal to the land of blank stares
and vacant aural landscapes:
this but for the tinny sound of a hip hop amplified iPod
or the sometimes reasoned sometimes outlandish cajole of a mother to her daughter
"Sit down." "Sit down!"

"Sit down!"

or the braggadocio of two seasoned brothers
slapstick black leather charm
something must have been funny but I missed it
I who keep my face buried in books
while language also is written on walls.

Baby I Scar; draft #5 (final draft more or less)

those hoodwinking evangelists
are not abuse burn victim enough
and I
am driven into thick mud under foot
days after rain
black tongues burned black talk

and who pays for this windmill whirling
piss trickling down drain pipes leaking from decades long decay
and how
do I daily wash my hands clean when it is my people
keep shitting in the shallow end
cannibals eating the hearts of others?

Maybe accident prone are we
mix of colors and chemicals in a meth lab
chipped pale red wood shavings sprinkle cast shadow off cabin's far corner
funneled by leaky weather rainvomit onto woods green turned to brown:
rinsed away like so many earthly crimes.

Needle can I lick taste the bitter drugs as they rush through your veins
as I fall backward in a passed out slumber backwater night walk?

this machine steals thoughts and body functions,
has an inside deal on 22nd century eyeglasses,
sees in 3-d,
and though my skin may not burn
I scar baby I scar.

Shattered Glass; Draft #5 (near final?)

I piece together the shattered glass of this half empty cup
like Superman I fly fast as infinity
reverse the earth's rotation
change the course of history
breathe a cone of cold on any who stand in my way.

A slow motion shot of levitating glass fragments
up from the kitchen floor,
gasps of shock turn back to smiles or blank stares:
my slippery grip fades back to a firm handshake.

Sticky liquid slops up the side of my cupboard
like Einstein turning gravity upside down
settles back in the cup just prior to implosion.

At this moment I realize density, mass and time:
as Atlas holding up the earth, as Hercules sweeping shit from the stables.