Scrambled eggs.

Fuck Hitchcock

the birds woke me up this morning.

disheveled

in a mid morning daze

from a long night

needing to rest well through the dawn,

they woke me

and were adamant about keeping me that way.

trying to gather my thoughts

as i take myself out the door,

words like cars barely getting through the gate.

‘fuck’ slides through no problem

with its inborn confidence

but the word morning

seems to get cut off at the ‘m’

forcing me to shovel it up

from this early traffic jam.

all the other words are carrying out

but if I try to stop and look at them

they fold back on themselves

and i have to read them backwards

as i drive by

and carry it all around the corner.

She saw me then

and I felt ashamed.

Making Love to a Street

A special sense of sensuality,

A feeling nothing else really gives

An appreciation

Of something no one else notices.

The amorous curves

Rise and fall,

Sway this way- that.

All breeding an intense admiration,

Akin to an adoration.

The tingling sensation starting in the soles of my feet

The tentativeness of a virgin

Reaching a hand towards the darkness.

Careful-

Not too fast,

Don’t be too gentle…

But for heaven’s sake, be gentle!

At last reaching down to brush my fingertips

against the seemingly smooth surface,

like touching a black widow;

a wrong move or unwatchful eye

could be the death of me.

 

After the first few loves, you begin to have standards.

No longer will anything do,

Only some will start that tingle in your feet,

While others cause a rough ache and a flinch.

Driving along, when I see one I wish I had,

My hands grip the wheel a little hard,

Gritted teeth and a long exhale.

That vibration that fills my car,

But always starts at my feet.

 

A Religious Easter Weekend

On my back

drifting across the black sea

hand occasioning to dip and caress

the warm and inviting asphalt.

Knuckles bounce joyously inside fingerless gloves

as they stretch and interlace

the wheels beneath me creak and groan

but peacefully as they can.

Billy Collins words drift through my headset.

 

From far off, someone’s Black & Mild scent drifts into my breathing.

I am not offended, nor am I by the sounds of close cars that wash over me.

I am content with the world carrying on,

so long as I may have

this patch of tar

for myself.

A Long-Awaited Letter that Almost Came.

I’m glad to hear from you.

It really means a lot to me.

I know you’ve had your difficulties.

She’s been in the hospital.

He’s been troublesome.

I would’ve loved to say you didn’t have to.

But now, it means the world.

Through everything else

all the rubble

of a disrupted

life style.

You till cared enough to wish me

a happy birthday.

 

Now I wish you hadn’t

because I’ve waited to hear from you

because “happy birthday” is all you said.

And I feel selfish and ashamed

for never expecting more.

 

A Formal Apology.

I feel horrendous. I have let this blog deteriorate, grow in obscurity to a purgatory. I realize it’s been months since I’ve posted anything new… and I feel terrible because I have suddenly realized how much it betrays any person’s even possible interest. To any followers out there who are still with me, I thank you. I have been distracted cutting the line between the growth of reflection and the attraction of experience; for the last several months the hunger for experience has outweighed my need for reflection. Here’s to realizing what’s important in my life again. I hope you will see more of me in the upcoming weeks.

Most Sincerely,

JSCK

Under the Footfalls

People stand the same,

As leaves of grass after a frost,

The past had chilled them,

While the shining future warms to them.

But even those bathed in the reanimated dew

Still look upon their brothers,

For as the hopeful sun rises,

There are shapes of darkness that drift across the land,

Holding some in the shadows for a little longer.

 

How dreadfully bitter it must be-

To look upon the future with a warm heart,

And look upon your brethren with a cold shudder.

 

No body.

There lies a child,

dead in the road,

a child to someone,

perhaps already a parent to someone else.

I see it as I drive on,

No body stops,

No body cares.

Further along there are firetrucks, and police cars, and ambulances,

But none of them notice the child,

They’re busy looking at something else.

The child still lies there, I’m sure.

Other cars have probably hit it without looking or caring,

No body has enough dignity to even drag it to the side of the road,

A place where, perhaps, it might lie in whatever peace it has left.

We are all animals, why does no one else care about this one?