PoetryThreeSixFive

Anyone who walks into someone’s house and,

when asked if they want anything to drink, says,

‘just water’ is lying, because they are nervous

and trying to make a good impression or they

can’t wait to leave, which is why I never go

anywhere I don’t want to be, and when asked

if I want a drink, I relax and take whatever they

offer, without insult, and hopefully it’s whisky.

Some folks see a nuisance,

some folks see a tree,

I see a home for animals

and shade for you and me

Some folks bring a chainsaw,

some folks bring a rake—

I’ll just bring a book to read

so I can take a break.

They try to kill him,

he kills them instead;

they don’t try to bill him,

they try to kill him,

but they cannot out-will him

and that 's why they are dead;

they try to kill him,

he kills them instead.

Working like a slave

with every minute I can find;

I might not get ahead,

but I will not fall behind

Stop saying the word, ‘Universe’ with a capital ‘U’

for God’s sakes; the universe has no plans for you,

and if I measured low high density lipoprotein, it

would tell me more about your ultimate destiny

than whether or not your Venus is in Mars or

whatever the hell that means; you are not

connected to all things; you are made

of the same stuff; you are a single

vessel made of blood and bone

working under the muscular

tensions you provide to it

requiring fluid and gas

exchange, nutrients,

digestive bacteria

and the motility

of your large

intestine

The way the heat dissipates from your meatball

parmesan sandwich, its ambient beauty coming

through the wrapped paper, magic in your hand,

at first, warm to the touch, but ten minutes later

a little less so, and within an hour, no more than

room temperature—that is how fast life goes by

I have no need for caffeine in the morning.

I wake to the dread of existential uncertainty

which bolts me upright every time I achieve

but a sliver of consciousness, its bold fangs

gripping my jugular with the tenacity of truth,

the only motivator greater than pain or death.

James Bond taught me

everything I know,

when to floor it really fast,

when to take it slow,

when to linger with the ladies,

when it’s time to go—

James Bond taught me

everything I know.

I need to read some Hemingway

to cope with all this heat,

pretend that I am strolling down

some ancient Spanish street

I turn into the plaza,

find a café on the square,

and take a table in the shade

to greet the evening air

The waiter then approaches me,

I order up some wine;

apparently, it’s something quite

poetic when we dine

He comments on the weather

or the bullfights of the day,

with strangers this forlorn

it doesn’t matter what we say

These simple, quick exchanges,

here a greeting, there a joke,

the art of common language used

by ordinary folk

And yet, it soothes the senses,

all this phrasing, short and tight—

I need to read some Hemingway

before I lose the light.

I wonder what it would feel like

to be killed by Mr. Wick;

it probably won’t be painless

but I’m sure it would be quick;

the move he makes to take me down,

I’m sure it would be sick—

I wonder what it would feel like

to be killed by Mr. Wick

The sunlight blasted in my room

to blind me as I woke,

streaming in beneath the door

like some bright morning joke

Reflecting off the hardwood floor

and straight into my eyes,

a blinding light straight out of sleep

is something I despise

With all my promises to keep,

and dreams of wakeful bliss,

of all the things I could presume,

I’d not expected this

And though I labored to resume

the peaceful sleep I’d known

with doors and windows fastened tight,

my restful state was blown

And so, I took this morning sight

to be some wakeful sign

that I should get myself in gear,

and all things would be fine

As often, it is not so clear

how God exalts our day,

for even when we shut Him out,

He always finds a way.

It’s much the way a pine tree feels after it has been

chopped down, stripped of its branches and bark,

and turned into a telephone pole, transmitting

the chatter and dreams of thousands of humans

vibrating through its dried spine as if resisting

an eternal swarm of cicadas, the human hive-mind

repurposing everything it sees, turning everything

into something else, leaving nothing alone, ever;

you can strip me, nail me, wire me up for sound,

I will never be what you want me to be, always

swaying, forever ready to topple to the ground at

the first wind, taking your delicate world with me.

I can’t write when I’m tired,

the words, they just get stuck;

they flow when I am wired,

I can’t write when I’m tired,

for once my mind is mired,

I could hardly give a fuck;

I can’t write when I’m tired,

the words, they just get stuck.

It was some British cozy detective show set a small

town where everyone dresses in tweed and shawls,

and the two policemen were interviewing the old lady

who runs the local boarding house where the victim’s

body was found and, of course, like any proper lady,

she served them tea and tiny sandwiches crafted of

cucumbers, sour cream, and what looked to me like

shredded carrots, and I can only imagine how tasty

they might have been, but when she offered them,

standing there holding her silver tray, the detective

waved them off, saying no thank you, and resumed

his questioning, and none of it would have mattered

much except for the look on the old lady’s face, one

of mild surprise mixed with hurt, the kind of look

that said, Wait, I took all this time to make these tiny

sandwiches for you and you don’t even want one?

you don’t even want a taste? you just glance at them

for a second and dismiss all my effort, all my hours

of selecting and slicing and preparing? Now what am

I going to do with all this food? let it go to waste?

and in that moment, looking at her face, that is exactly

how I felt about my entire life and every woman who

has no interest in all that I have created: my home,

my education, my career, my physical and emotional

self, the adventures I’ve had, the children’s books I’ve

collected, the garden I designed, all the poems I’ve

written, all for nothing because no one wants a bite.

This year, the 4th of July was a strange one,

the country immersed within the World Cup,

raving about our national team taking charge

and the mingling of dozens of nations coming

together, mixing, singing, dancing, drinking,

rowing like Vikings, playing bagpipes in the

streets, still horrified by the corruption and

anarchy, but revitalized by the human factor

of common spirit that cannot be politicized

by those who would have us believe that we

are more different than alike, and when the

time came for fireworks, the clouds rolled in

and unleashed a barrage of heavenly bursts

that made our meager paper toys diminutive

by comparison, reminding us that though this

single country has been around for 250 years,

we have all been here so much longer, and

the world in which we live much longer still.

Trauma is when someone hurt you

a long time ago, and ever since,

you’ve been hurting yourself,

and even though they are

long gone, you keep

doing it for them

Poison ivy just wants to grow,

but frankly, I don’t care—

eradicate it all, I say,

to hell if it’s not fair

Take the sharks with them,

and cancel their ocean lease—

I know they’re predators, blah, blah, blah,

I’d rather swim in peace

Finally, the mosquitoes,

remove them from the earth—

the bats will find some other bugs,

of that there is no dearth

Then I can be merry,

enjoy my outdoor living,

while counting all fucks I give

upon my middle finger.