empty

32 oz. cans
of malt liquor
squib,
and squabble
back and fro
as the storm brews.
cries from
a single apartment
building ratchet down
towards the dirtied
sidewalks
as the storm eye
intensifies.
a bullet crests the
upper ridge
and blows through
the invisible
stop signs
as the approaching
storm comes
closer to the ground.
another birth,
more beer,
the drug dealer sneezes,
as a new election
tries to capture that
one audience.
and if nothing happens,
the storm will
ruin all of our futures.
the malt liquor has
run out as
the umbrella unfurls
and we all
hope that
there's an ear
that my receive
our blueprint
prayer waiting to race
skyward.

I Keep Losing My Place in the Story

‘boss for a day’

an indinan
man at
the
conoco
next to my
work
always
calls
me
'boss'
when i but
a
juice
or
corn nut
bag at
his shop.

each time,
i smile
stronger,
wider
and
say
'yes'
as
he
goes
on to take
my money.

as i leave
the
boss,
i know he's
the real
boss
and
his
verbal play
time will
always keep
me coming
back so
that
i
can
pretend in
brief moments
of blowing
money
that i am
the boss
in my
juicy world
full
of
fucking
corn nuts.

New Book Title

'Editing

my

Dreams'

- How

do

you

do that?

i wonder all the time

not simply
wondering,
but i wonder
about wonder.

and the wonderful
wonder that is
around us.

just the notion of
wonder,
and the slight
glimmers of
occasional topics
that flit into my
radar view.

but mainly,
i love the act of
tending to 'wonder'
as the world of
wonder suffers to
really be embraced.

for what could be
duller than not wondering
about anything or ever
wondering about wonder.

lest i waste anymore
of your wondering time,
i'm off to become a
hero of wonder
and to save
the plot of wonder
for my kids,
my wife
and anyone else
wondering what this
poem is really
supposed to mean.

good yawners

make you feel
the warmth of
a bed.

their lazy,
comical roar forward
is usually a clumsy
act that is about
as natural as a human could get.

but it's those that
elongate their faces just so,
the longevity of the
sign of tired,
and the intensity of
their watered eyes.

and it's at this moment
of veering in,
and not feeling too tired
that i get into their
brains and feel how good a
bed can feel at any moment
of a day when
sleep is just another
unattainable thing
your biology
lets out in a triumphant
guttural blast.

all the cold cigarette smokers

loiter
out in front of
brick buildings
like outcasts
waiting for a
hollywood call up,
or inmates
cowering away from
the warden for a moment,
or child support evaders
hoping everyone will look
at their smoke versus their faces,
or they are the lost gods
that will become the future
idols of utter witchcraft,
or they are the children of
the lost that will keep showing you
their courage against mortality,
they are the people running your life
and your life is only a cold cigarette
in the blistering cold
as the last of
their wafting nicotine habit
goes hurtling upwards
towards a finality of invisibility.