Yeah... Kinda Like That.

Like tap dancing during an earthquake.
Like drinking fire.
Like trying to fly.
Like sitting on the third rail with a wet ass.
Like wondering what that noise was in the darkness while you're trying to sleep.
Like driving with your sense of taste.
Like eating your favorite record.
Like playing Russian Roulette with an AK-47.

Like lowering your fucking guard for two seconds
in order to let someone
who may be just a bit more enlightened
than you
teach you something about life
because you can't fucking fathom
that we may all just be one soul,
and that we should just lay down our verbal
and physical weaponry
and usher in a kindness and peace of mind
that just lasts
for the rest of humanity's reign
because making art
and being good to each other
 just. Makes. Sense.

Like accepting fate.

You chose to write poetry.

And I thank you for it.

Foundation

Only the foundation 

remains 

of the haunted inn 

where your father bar-tended,

and made you into a bar-baby,

long before you found comfort in spirits.

When your parents finally divorced.

You dressed like a magical pixie

and tapped patrons 

with your wand,

allowing them the wishes 

that the booze couldn't grant.

But,

even more so,

you wanted to ride 

the dumbwaiter

from the bar 

to the kitchen.

They would give you maraschino cherries,

as you listened to the plates clang 

and clash.

That ride was your one desire.

              And they denied it. 

A few days ago,

that inn burned down. 

And our friend was there afterwards

taking pictures.

You wanted to buy one. 

Why?

You haven't spoken to your father

in 8 years.

You wished that he caught fire 

instead.

Should we drive to New Jersey

and steal what's left of his record collection?

Or should we worry

that he'll show up at the wedding.

Demanding answers 

from a room full of Irish

and Puerto Ricans?

I'd pay to see it...

Now, the inn 

is the ghost of a memory now.

Yet, here you are.

Red hair crescendo,

dancing by the sandalwood incense

in front of the living room window 

to soft music. 

Where were you on the night

that your past 

went up

in flames?

Yesterday

I've got a lot going on.
And, lately, there hasn't been much music
in my life.

Everyone on the radio talks too much.

Yesterday
The ice and snow
mixed on the sidewalk
and streets
And it looked like Cornmeal porridge.

The kind I used to make when we were snowed in.

I brought this bottle of rum with me.
Its got a good coconut and lime accompaniment.

Maybe, together, we'll hear jazz one more time.

I woke up
dreading the day
and missing people
I haven't seen in a while.

The typewriter ignored me.
The word processor ignored me.
The computer ignored me.

I wrote another poem about nothing
in my head
while I had my coffee
in bitter contemplation.

I would have written you sooner.
I wanted to.
But I don't like writing about cliche topics.
Or,
the kind of things that strangers
discuss while waiting for buses.

It's 2015
and I have 3 dollars in my wallet.

I'm waiting to hear back from 2 poetry contest
and a literary magazine.

They keep me going.

I'm waiting for the night time to come.
She'll be home, and she'll smile at me.

I'm waiting for the right word
to strike
and ring out in the forge
of my aged soul.

Perhaps I should eat strawberries a little more slowly.

Perhaps I should go fishing
when spring arrives.