Tag Archives: Poetry

On a pronunciation of ‘I am’

To the speaker,

I couldn’t help but

notice that little difference in your voice,

your ‘I’ swings low, into a lul,

almost saying, if not following a ‘U’

in its shape.

 

The ‘a’ appears almost over matured,

crafting a din like an ‘e’

but resounding like an ‘æ

forgotten in olden days and long past times.

 

As the ‘a’ strikes against the ‘m’

there is a hidden subject,

a small child between the letters,

something that smacks of an ‘l’,

but just barely.

 

In your voice I can hear

the ‘a’ reaching out to the ‘m’,

as if afraid to fall short- terrified.

and I can feel your tongue

reaching out to the roof of your mouth.

Like the tentative tongue of a virgin’s

reaching towards the labia

of a woman he doesn’t love.

 

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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.

 


For Us.

For us, this moment will work,

For us, the day will be summer,

For us, the headlights will be sunsets,

For us, this moment will be perfect.


Ode to a Lost Thought

Though you are a beautiful notion,

You have come too late in this day,

You rise only to be stunted-

By my resigned and resenting eyelids.

Though you may never see day-

Be breathed unto the intellectual air-

Or feel the freedom of ink and page,

Know that you were my own,

One that I loved though I can not remember,

You are undoubtedly one that I cherish,

For you have risen with me, by me, and for me,

You are one of the few I can call my own.