2004

two zero zero four
b. r. crandall

i.
everyday, i
rack my brain to ask if
i’ve been half the man i should be,
knowing that sacrifices were made for me
along roads of historical hardships which others endured.

bryan, i say, how
on top of your world are
you? And if i feel successful, i
dive, headfirst into sleep, rewarding myself for a life well lived.

ii.
before i learned to learn i
read books.
i read my family,
dissected them like
green frogs in biology labs.
eventually, though,
the scalpel became my mind and i
tore into my soul with too much imagination. now, a

bwidge is necessary to get
you, me, humanity over siddhartha’s troubled waters.
every step i take forward, another drowns by the
racing, rancid river. i turn another page, and another
story is told, but still, but still, staying blind as the fool i am.

iii.
krap. i’m running out of time -
evolving into history, a
visionary who can’t see:
i need goggles. i
need binoculars to

capture
another sighting of sasquatch.
i need laser surgery and i
need to believe in the mitt.












iv.
tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,
each day we idiots are wide awake in
narcolepsy. are we snoring? are we
entertaining fellow fools in
sonnets of shady songs? story?
how are we doing
as compared to yesterday? today,

curtis came and wrote a poem, an
unbelievable poem,
reaching beyond the dark -
tightly, she lasso’d my writer’s soul, and
i am yanked alive by her words,
secretly sold into her magic. such a witch, you know?

v.
just when i thought i had an
answer, they threw me a trickier question.
my mind was given their virus and i
emitted spam to whomever would listen. i know, i know,
shut up, already. my hard

drive is on, but i can’t shut it off. it’s
running all my programs at once, and like an
umbilical chord, i’m attached to the
ridiculousness of being small. so are
you, James....so are we all.

vi.
the dad can
only do so much,
my father taught me. i endured
anger, his
rages of how stupid i was being, and he forced me to
question my world -- my stupid, selfish,
unbelievable drive for
self destruction.

everyday i think about this. his
very strict fists
and words aimed to ruin my life.
now, i
see, though. i see an ass for what an ass is. what an ass i was.












vii.
tiny we were
in westmoreland...
five year olds
folding our
arms in
newly learned respect.
you go to school to learn from ms. saladino.

for the first time, we were all
away from home, mom’s lunch -- the
young getting older every day. the garden open-never the same again.

viii.
ask my sister about me and she’ll say i
love the guy, but he’s a jerk. he
loves being a jerk
in his quest to make
everyone around him their best.

friendship is what we have now, she’d say,
in a sure, secure song, but when we were
neophytes, i hated his standards, his
lust of making everyone think too hard.
existing with bryan, she’d say, is like
yakking. it’s awful while it happens, but it rids you of illness.

ix.
andrew is driven. there
needs to be nothing else said. he
desires goodness, fairness and wrongs to be made
right.
each of us can learn this from him. in fact,
we need to study how hard he works before it’s

gone. memories. yesterdays. the
reality that time trickles downward .
and, perhaps, before any of
you know it, the drive will be over (like this poem).

















x.
running. that’s what i seem to be doing all the time -
over grass trails, paved dreams and
by polluted, forgotten rivers,
eternally flowing,
racing, moving, being, living,
taking my breath away.

he sprints, too,
arrives to the finish line, quicker,
laughs louder and
stays on the path of his own drum and band, while
entertaining the thongs sung loud, like chickens, in his head.
love to run. run to
love. live. that’s what i seem to be doing all the time.

xi.
at the basketball game, i sat
under the scoreboard,
scratching thoughts into a
hollow journal while
ausha made another rebound.

how much is life like this court? i thought.
it can be a losing battle, game after game, where
learning the better pass, the better block, more finesse with a
lay up, bird like, swan-swish, really matters?
i wonder such things in my poetic
madness as
ausha shoots again ...
now, who knows who will win?

xii.
ask me once why i do anything
like i do and i’ll tell you
it’s all premeditated and for a reason.
serendipitously, i am always
on my toes of tiptoed tulips in
need of the better lesson, glistening on a pond.

how else is there to live? with all
of us as dust upon this marble, except to be aware.














xiii.
Please.
he simply asked/stated/said/wondered/
understood -- please, let me
open your soul. i
need to see what’s within.
go ahead, she said, but i’m watching.

He went ahead and began to write,
unleashing her worries/fears/dreams/hopes/
yesterdays. please, she said,
no more. that’s enough. and
he closed his journal and called it a day.

xiv.
knowledge is more than
all that crap we tell you because
the experiences of your
road, your journey, is the surest
intelligence of truth - it
narrows you into perspective
and whips you, whap, with wisdom, wiping the buttocks of lies.

how one succeeds,
over and beyond the
ludicrousness of school,
college and job - is how they carry their hearts
over and beyond the mundane routine of life.
my surest truth, katrina, is you,
bitten by the bug to work hard, will
evolve, immensely, beyond us all. -- passion and drive, your key.

xv.
knowledge? what? screw
each of you ... and the horses you road
in on. don’t tell me how you
think. don’t measure me by your
hierarchy of intellectual blabbering.

be black, i say. be you.
love knowing that i
already know how to make the
cause for a new generation come alive.
knowledge? what? screw that. it’s a

joke where the punch line is on how
ordinary their common thinking is.
he can go further. i can go further,
needing nothing but
soul to succeed in the
orchestration of their so called intelligent life.
no. knowledge. that and that alone belongs to me.




xvi.
madness brought me
amongst the streets and skies of
creative chaos --- (and i’m supposed to be the
knowledgeable one: yet the more i know, the less i seem to
exist). So, how do i resist the every day for its
nectar and flavor, without getting overwhelmed and nauseous? i
need the challenge of ingredients, but drown
along the river of its flavor. just

joking. i try to laugh and
occasionally shed a million tears from the
humor of it all. the emotions are
necessary, after all, aren’t they? i’m
sick, though, right?. -- torn down the middle of the page:
occasionally tip toeing with zest, but
narcissistically needing to hide.

xvii.
knitted within my expectations,
i weave glimmers of gold --
my intentions are always stronger than my

need to teach a lesson. no, the world doesn’t
get easier, but
onward, you must hope.

xviii..
driving here, then there,
everywhere, i see the
violence of how we exist. yes,
i splatter bugs on my windshield, too, and it’s
never-ending (like that dream of a vietnamese flower).

life is roadkill, though,
and we’re guilty until proven innocent.
man, my truck needs a good washing these days, so thanks, devin, for
bringing me your windex.

xix.
jokes on us, josh -- especially
on the ones who misplace their
senses, their humor....i guess
he who laughs little, lives not, but

leaving is a difficult thing. see, i used to leave
all the time, walking beyond my egotistical
zoning, honing in only on me. yet,
all that comes around, goes around...siddhartha sees how the
river flows. it goes beyond all of
us. you will leave, too. religion calls. i finally know how
sam wise feels.




xx.
the other day, i saw
him, this kid, i used to know
and we said hello.
now i can’t sleep. he keeps
going over and over my thoughts.

last year, he was alive with magic. now, he
exists as a ghost --- blank to everything he meets.

xxi.
a penguin knows how to bite. they can be
nasty, feathered boogers,
going slip slap slup on the ice. they
eat herring, you know, and they
laugh at the seals for balancing balls
along their nose.

look. see that penguin. it bites.
ouch. it bit me and
my life will never be the same,
asinine ... i need a doctor quick.
xray my wound before i........croak (ribbit ribbit)

xxii.
nourished. the poet
goes after words like they’re
unusual vietnamese soup.
you’ve got to slurp it up
eating the spices and herbs until going
numb. you must taste every syllable,

licking your teeth and lips.
u must know life’s delicious.
u must know the flavors are infinite.

xxiii.
rain, if cold, becomes snow,
and blankets hibernal minds,
and covers a thinking soul.
my fingers tap across white keys,
yelling to the world, ‘i
need your poems...’

my soul craves
all the seasons, all the
love of how
one drop
now
exists -- changed for the better, perhaps, later.






xxiv.
leiz left me a popsicle in the fridge. she was
eating it earlier, when
i didn’t see her. it dripped down her cheek like a
zillion random thoughts in my brain.

man, i’m glad she told me it was hers, especially
after i pulled it from the fridge to
satiate my own exhausted appetite.
‘oh, bry, that was mine,’ she said. ‘i
licked it and put it back.’
oi vay --- these kids with their good intentions.

xxv.
poetry, a religion with words where
heaven finds its a way upon earth.
i need to believe this,
loving language -- how it can
lift a spirit by twisting them
in perplexed cocoons.
poetry spindles hope, i hope.

music comes from our
creation, and how
people: you, me, we
have the spirit within to play:
eternity
epiphany
testimony that (when we remember the words)
everything is possible along the
rivers of the journey. the
secret, of course, is to sing. simply sing. to find a song.

xxvi.
daily, we go through the motions,
awakening only to depart from
nocturnal dreams once again.
he is somewhere between these phases. at

night, the knuckles bleed so he
get another cigarette. it’s
useless to inhale and exhale all the
young worry about.
enlightenment and truth aren’t as complicated as the
nights make them. sleep, friend, but don’t forget to wake up, too.











xxvii.
did you hear about the
one where the boy goes into a
nudie bar? neah, I didn’t
get to hear it either.

the wax in my ear built up,
on top of the fact that i’m
not a good listener, anyway....and
you?

no. i don’t know the one about the
girl, the gynecologist and a sushi bar.
u don’t either? then why are
you wasting my time.
existing is about laughing. god i
need to laugh.

xxviii.
pear?
apple wine? a
tablecloth of poetics.
i am in love with the idea of
entertaining words at the edge of a
naked forest, where the basket opens to
chardonay, and i can not say a word - the feast
entertains my palette instead.

pear. apple wine. table cloth of poetics lying
elliptical on an orb of green grass, growing
and knowing that it is within the simplicity,
complex realities arise. so, i take an
ornamental bite with my silver,
cut my chances with a
knife, and enjoy.

xxix
next to every sunset
is a dream for it to rise again.
now, it must rise again
and we must follow its lead.

pride. ethics. culture. drive. the
horizon is a listing of what’s to be done
and how a good life is lived. the sun, like you,
must fall, only to rise again.










xxx.
all our thoughts are a blink of an eye.
newborns only be reborn,
neophytes, vulnerable and
awkward.

rare, the right words to say
in callous contemplation of
going ahead as planned, but
going backwards, we trudge on.
such is life and so must it always be.

xxxi.
every time i drive home,
my mind wanders over the pages
i’ve written in black ink.
leaving, and driving back, i
yearn to return home.

such is growing up and leaving the
cave. the safety of shackles
oscillates against the freedom of
being alive with truth.
boy, i’m not sure if i like being
an adult. does anyone have any candy?

xxxii.
kryptonite. they need to market
enormous buckets of the stuff so
i can bring people down. no, not the
tiny people....they’re insignificant, but
hubris. i want the egotistical to fall...

to wallow in insecurities for
a while to see how it feels to be
living beneath their nostrils,
living underneath their feet.
erroneously, i am under a rock --
yet superman flies away with my vision.

















xxxiii.
children are temporary and age will have them
older before another moon goes full and
rotund in its midnite illumination..
days are like this. they offer hope but
i long for them to return, slow down,
and bring me back to simpler times.

these children i teach, each sliding along their
horizons with optimistic steps and
omnipotent doubt.
my role, on this moon is,
perhaps, to simple to be
knowing how transient it all is and
i’m only a fly-by in the mirror of life, anyway.
new. old. and new again,
sun rises only to set us all aside.

xxxiv.
krazy.
i am krazy. a
ripley wrapped by his zaniness
and hysterics of living life where the jokes on me.

tell me a story and make me laugh. tell me the
one about the chicken and his thong, because i
need the sparkle in my
eye again.
you’ve got to steal glitter -- throw it at me. make me blind with hope.

xxxv.
last but not least, she’d like to
accept the title, ms. brown school,
under the guise that she’s not the
raver, smoker, lover, swearer and
eternal do everything girl.
naw, she is only lauren.

passing the ball, while
finishing the stand
and popping corn for
nerdy losers on saturday nights and
needing an ocean front talk, while
entertaining friends,
running laps to stay fit, and
sitting close to death on couches of b.s.
tired/exhausted/frosted and SADD.
i have eyes,
lauren, and i’ve seen how your tongue
licked the icy pole, and laugh at you, cuz you’re stuck, but happy.






xxxvi.
january is coming, and will go as fast as my
existence. resistance is pointless.
so, i’m choosing to sing the
songs...to find the hope
i know i need to move on.
call it faith, if you will,
and sing with me, if you want.

purpose is hard to explain,
really.
i know i have one and it is
emitted by my word choice,
stolen from poets before me and
twisted to make sense to me.
each of us, jessica, are such poems,
ready to be captured by your spirit and pen.

xxxvii.
the sun is a simile
each ray of its arms like
rumors which make you laugh -
riddles which can be solved -
ice cream, fudged with chocolate -
children being silly -
and a smile....the sun is like a smile.

terrica smiles,
and she’s like the sun.
you can feel her harmless hugs from the
love she laughs with
or the kindness she carries, selflessly,
ray-like, with warmth.

xxxviii.
hues. the colors of you, me,
us in this american goulash
on a stove always heated,
needing monitors and timers to keep us
going, cooking, in the right direction, for the right

taste. more salt? pepper? garlic? are we
ready yet? cooked? baked? done?
alive as we once were? does the boat
need any more flavor? i’m ready to leave.











xxxix
clay, new york, taught me that
adolescents are stupid --
ridiculously caught up in the
awkward game of youth.

u, too, are caught in the game, but
coming out of it soon. the
cocoon always hatches (sooner or later) and
enlightenment will arise from the phoenix’s
life of ashes...dust to dust....and fire.
little did i know back then and
i regret how much i thought i did.
needless to say, i am human. damn it,
i am human and here i sit, cursed, seeking forgiveness.

xxxx.
teats? tarts?
oh, that...
my hand writing’s just bad.

vat, vat are you saying?
i’m saying that
creativity is the ooze of a
krispi creme donut and that
everything is a poem
ready to be written.
you, tom, are a poem, too.

xxxxi.
too bad youth is wasted on the young,
u don’t know, exactly, what’s about to happen
and how it’ll never be the same again.
now will not be tomorrow.

vietnam of yesterday
under the guise of american lies, trying to set you free, today......



















xxxxii.

last year, i
almost threw in the towel.
u know how it gets when
reality doesn’t meet expectations
and the disappointments somehow do.

well, i came back.
i decided to war once again:
learning with its struggle,
laughing from the accusations,
i teach another day
among the good, the bad and the ugly.
moonbeams, trying to taste their new wings in a
song only beginning to be heard.
oh, if only i could know them later on,
not now, where they’re stuck in the metamorphosis.

xxxxiii.
clouds are supposed to part, but
ours are here, forever, it seems.
reality -
your performance on stage, so young

always trying to remember,
needing meaning,
despite the sickness we are -
raving lunatics, I guess,
egotistically
walking in the shadows of our own conceit.

such is life...
tedious, mundane, repetitious
and akward.
ultimately, though, our
beings are still here:
living, loving, believing and awake...
eternally, with your candle light in our hearts.


xxxiv.
dancing, that’s
all we have, and music, memory,
nirvana starlit skies...
i hope we’re
earning this: daniel,
living, loving, learning,

joining
one another to strut and fret our
hour upon the stage until
none of us are heard no more.
star light, star bright, first star
out there tonight; it’ll
never be forgotten. never.

2003

words for 2003

b.r. crandall, j. graham brown school

i.

Running along crescent hills of clifton,
Along brownsboro and frankforted roads
Children learn to dream of a
Horizon, beyond the Ohio River, while
Entertaining the journey motif which
Lives, uncharted, within their hearts...their
Longings.

Rachel began running a long time ago
And desired scenery, sensual,
Under moonlit evenings,
Hoping hoping hoping for more hope

ii.

Juxtaposed to the Ohio River,
Along Louisville, lies southern nights;
Men meet ideas, thoughts,
Images, and truth (which also lies), in
Every moment of each dream.

People, they walk everywhere, each
Investing their own secret
Cares, and some of us sing along. Some
Kick stones along sidewalks
Existing only to feel pain,
Running, only to trip upon terrain -
I fear
Loneliness not alone --
Lucidity, stupidity, cupidity, fish.

iii.
Laughter, strange,
Against its rarity of a character flaw, brings
Delusions to my illusional
Yearnings to set a written heart free,
Beyond the baffled boundaries of
Ugh, yuck, bleck, shit -
Go take the trash out, will you?

How do you do it?
Oh, bug girl,
U manage filters, files, and a
Love for an artistic, poetic
Existence, but so young..so young.
The pond becomes a playground, for
The winged one, sprites, who
Exist only to put dreams in a frog’s eyes.










iv.

Violent we are, we beasts,
Icaruses with burned wings and
Calloused, overworked hands that are
Tired...so exhausted from turning every
Other page to see what
Riddle is written next
In this epic poem hidden within
An acrostic world.

To think we’ve ever solved anything is
Ridiculous, because there are
Only questions --
Unbelievable puzzles to mock ourselves into
Traps -- to tip toe through the roses.

v.

Nude teenagers skinny dip into
Adolescent luminescence,
Towards the tap dancing tango of
Adulthood where nudity
Looks like sagging losses -
Illogical marshmallows of wrinkles and
Endless decay.

Know that, and remember it,
All while singing that operatic voice of yours.
Rivers flow forever, but run dry.
Let that love, that laughter, that life, live like it does ---- naked ----
forever.

vi.

Little, are words, their power,
And how sour they taste when
Quenched with doubt
U need to get over yourself, girl
I said, you need to rip open that shell and
Taste what’s good for you. don’t
Argue with me.

Many days passed, and continue to move
On. This is how it goes (and you don’t know --
No, you do know, it’s gone when it’s gone.
Road of barbed wire and irises.
On. This is how it goes (and you don’t know
Everything -- even if you do know too much)






xxxiv

Jittery joke on us all,
Each finding purpose for the game,
Needing another roll of the dice,
I wish to buy another vowel, Pat...
Final Jeopardy, how much
Exists, really, for me to wage, to
Rage.

My age is working against me -
Apart from yesteryear, when
Life had more pieces to play with -
Life had more clues, yet now,
On this playing field,
You aging fart, You don’t get another chance.

xxxv

Juice was pored into a koolaid cup.
Apple
Cranberry
Love for the
Young writer who,
Now, was thirsty.

C....i told u it was good.
Orange juice, yum, and
X’isting.

xxxvi

Mr., Can I ask you a question?
Everyday I
Gain more wisdom, more perspective
And my eyes are growing weary. I
Need advice.

What? he asked,
I wasn’t listening....I was
Going over and over this
Gosh darn poem, and i
Simply can’t decide if I need a comma.

xxxvii

Today, I
Entered another
Realm, where
Reality was
Equal to a
Lamp post
Lashed with electric lashings.

Snapping,
My neck
Is harnessed by
The kinks of bad sleep, and I’ve
Had a terrible, crooked day.

xxxviii

Entering the
Limelight
Isn’t always easy...it’s like a
Zillion stars are shining in your eyes
And instead of vision, you go
Blind.
Entering the
The song of singers
Helps, though, in moving on.

Perhaps I’m wrong and
Ridiculous.
I have been and will be again.
Every time I place
Simple sayings into
Tight spaces, I
Enter the lime light with you,
Riding on the wings of your flight.

xxxix

Nine minutes after three,
I pulled into the lot,
Counted the plastic
On faces, in purses, of their
Lives --
Each, a flamingo, in more affluent lawns.

All I wanted was a book, to
Rake in the published voice of a
Buddy, back in college, who
Unleashed his soul and was
Caught as a son of heaven.
Keep your head up, kid, I
Laughed to myself,
Existing amongst East End tupperware.

xxxx

Lead paint
U used lead pain to
Knock up that wall, dude?
Everyone’s gonna get loopy, whoa..

Vat? Vat? It’s not lead.
Oh, my bad.
Sorry.
Search and destroy, guy....paint your life away.












xxvii

knowing that whiteheads exist
and need to be popped,
totally zonked by the bone man
having subterranean gloom, let me say i
love your letter, your poetic
evolution and for this
eternity, i hope you not only love the moon, but
need its pandemonium, too.

knowledge, wisdom,
and “an eye” have always been your
kind friend, lying on the back burner
in desire of the right match to be lit --

violet fire, with auburn tips
oven baked concepts
existing existentially, while
learning to laugh, love life, and live --
keeping one eye on the road and the other
eye on the river at your side ... this has and will always be your wordplay
rendezvous, and reading you is delicious.

xxviii

Rowing in the canoe,
On Elkhorn Creek, weak from
Being alive,
Entertaining twelve year olds, a
Rainbow trout swam by,
Trolling along, in simplicity.

Down the river, a young man would
Erratically lose control,
Needing to save himself
Needing to save the young boy
In the crash of sudden current, against a tree,
Needing to spit water, a bag around his neck -
Gasping in a complex moment, under water.


xxix

Drowning, there are those days I need the
Existence of artists to illustrate my dull pages and
Rub oil paints into my words.
Every now and again, paper is blank.
Knowledge does no good.

Why?
I don’t know about nothing, but know it’s
Located dear to my heart, and I
Can’t start another poem if they won’t provide
Hues, and the colorful clues for being.
Each blank page begins with a need for us to
Reach for how the other artist lives.


xxx

Jackelopes are good eatin for
Aardvarks when ants are scarce and
Monkee brains are off the market.
Elephants taste like chicken,
Sometimes, depends on the barbecue sauce.

My vocabulary is limited because
On my quest for truth, i decided not to
Read the ones who covered up the banal with
Roseo Infantum.
I like words..don’t get me wrong, they also make me
Sick. Addictions are predictions for death.

xxxi

Jason was a pooping boy
And pooping’s what he did...and
Ma hated when he stopped by,
In days when we’d used to play, cuz
Every time he’d visit us,

Ca ca was his surest way.
Over the toilet he would squat,
Making faces and odd words, and
By the time Jason left our house,
Sure enough, smell of turds.

xxxii.

And on and on, another poem, a
Shadow on the stage,
Haunted by the hunger of words,
Loving the sound
Each pitter pats upon the paper, including
Your name.

Lame, another poem,
You, written across this line.
Ompaloskepsis,
Navigating my naval in meditative
Serenity....Om.

xxxiii

On humid nights of
August,
I imagine

Not here, but
Going away,
Unsociably unsophisticated,
Yearning for the ocean - alone -
Entangled by its distance -
Needing another place than this.


vii.

Azure, the color of the
Sky, a blue, bright -- not the blues.
Horizons kiss its hue and makes me
love, one deserves to love again, man.
Everyone deserves to love and
You do, too -- it’s true, so

How have you been lately -
Energized, enlightened, enthused? You see,
Now is the exact moment for you to take
Destiny by its reigns and live
Exotically, erotically, hypnotically.
Reality is how you make it -
Show ‘em what ya’ Got.
Onward, my dear friend, because
Now, we need your color more than ever.

viii.

Laughter isn’t constant,
Is it? and it may be why I love my
Zzzzz’s, easing into silent comfort.

Noone can make it out there alone,
I know, but you’ve got to
Create the loner who
Knows how they can
Exist upon the
Roads when they’re lonely.
Stars can offer guidance, as can books
On the shelf, but
Noone makes it without their own hand to hold

ix.

Knowledge and rainbows,
ornate sunshine waltzing upon the Ohio
River and at this moment,
Tonight, with its trouble and my
Need to control the uncontrollable,
I love to read your words.

Right now, at this moment, a person is
On their death bed and another is about to be
Born into this miracle --
Everyday that’s yours is a miracle,
Really. But it’s a
Tad bit easy to forget that, unless, unless you’re
Stepping side by side with someone along the beach.









x.

Not everyone sees the stars,
How they scatter like music
In an arranged composition of the night.

Not everyone sees the moon, that
Giant orb who hovers its phases
Under starlit darkness. Yet,
You do .. and dance with them, too,
Existing to laugh in nocturnal light.
Not everyone sees its smile.

xi.

Ellipses, etc ... blah blah blah, and that
Rendezvous with
Infinite infinity ... all that jazz.... yadda yadda yadda.
Neophytes and fledglings, the artist’s moon,

On the road to find out.
Mr. Moonbeam dreams too much...
And thanks God that others do, too -- others
Run along, lakesides, watching the sailboats
And the laughter of cunning children.

xii.

MacLeish became curious of
Existing, why why why why why
Life needs hope, and hope is life.
I think about this a lot,
Not all the time, but a lot, especially when
Days blend into each other, backwards,
And I’m thirsty for a glass of water.

H2O.
Aqua.
You’ve seen me parched,
Existing out of breath and dry,
So, you brought me something to drink. Thank You.

xiii.

Lending that touch
Is like unleashing the wings of a
Zillion and one stars -- yet they’re unleashed, and

Dying closer to the everyday they live -- a
Rampage across the black chalkboard of night,
Ubiquitous loneliness,
Roaring in a universe of all these thoughts...
You, aglow, like so many.







xiv.

Commercials bring us a two minute lie.
On and on they preach, making us
Reach into them that there is salvation. We
Need them to know what life is really like.

On and on and on they lie, changing the channel.
Now, I think about this, behind warm in flannel.

Tomorrow will go.
He knows this because he does--
Each of us knows this

Knowledge, wisdom and advertised truth,
On and on they’ll leach onto us unless we choose to
Live for ourselves -- turn off the t.v., so we can simply
Be.


xv.

Krispy Creme donuts ... for what?
A moment of thirty second satiation, for
Love, flavor and cravings, given
Into, unto, onto the moment it cries...
And who gets paid what for that bliss?

A temporary smile
Takes the hard labor of how many
Citizens, working calluses, upon their
Hands for wages, rages, and the cages of the
Living....so much is put into
Every moment of a chicadee’s life.
You’ll be able to afford it all. The good stuff is free..

xvi.

Jokes on me, this time,
On a believe it or not Ripley morning where the
Sun shines, but the forecast is gray.
Have a nice

Day.
Am I willing to walk away?
Variables in the equations
Ibid., irises, ie;
Delusional illusions
Since the second my eyes
Opened, at the brink of dawn.
Now i must choose what to see, or not to believe.









xvii.

Knew a little girl once
And the only curl i saw was in her heart
You’d think she was horrid(but she wasn’t)

People thought they knew her...
Entertained the flippant facade,
Not the reality of how she felt within.
Childish are the young, yet
Enlightened as they grow.

xviii

Keeping balanced on an uneven beam, my
Ears grow cold, numb, and
I can’t help not listening,
They can’t help not feeling the sound anymore and I
Hate the silence, the ice.

Down the beam, the sun
Orange-warm and bright, glows, but I can’t
Reach it -- things are uneven,
Shaky, not smooth. I want the solar system,
Especially to thaw my years, those fears of my
Youth. One foot in front of the other, I travel.

xix.

Color me a mountain,
On the horizon of a
River. Call it good morning,
Tell it to me in japanese, Ohio,
Land, my brown band of brotherhood,
Accompany my blues --
Neolution, Neolution
Dying historically for a solution
To make the landscape come alive.

Arrived, the boy with his pen,
Realized a truth about all the music he
Memorized through cultural
Society, buzzed on the sobriety which
Tells nothing but the truth...the whole truth.
Risen, the phoenix is reborn,
On the ashes of another’s death...
Nubian breath is taken,
Giant, within the white clouds.












xx.

The trick is not only in our journals, but in the
Ridiculous ways we can concoct our truth
And create the magic for better memories.
Cacophonies are best, when exploded
In the sparkle of the human mind.

We find voice, only in play
And reflection. We see ourselves in
The mirror only after experience, but very few
Know how to smile back at what they see.
I used to hide from the glass, ashamed of the
Nights and days of childhood and what I was told.
Songs, though, are better sung for me, alone-now I sing.

xxi.

All my life, I’ve tried to be brief.
Less a dictionary,
Less a dissertation.
You know what i mean?

He, they say, goes
On and on and on, and
He, i say, knows how
Mad it is. I want to be
A blink of an eye,
not the optometrist.

xxii.

Grow, said the sun to a seed,
Reach up towards me. My
Energy is vitamin to your soul.
Go on, now, grow.

Please, said the seed,
I need more light, and I’m
Thirsty. Water is
Necessary, too. But I can’t
Evolve with you burning me all the time.
You need go behind the clouds.

xxiii.

Reaching across the table, she grabbed salt
And pepper. She said my pasta
Needed more flavor -- it was too bland.
Did she think i was stupid?
All day she watched me cutting herbs,
Lifting vegetables from the garden,
Lining ingredients for days,

Boiling the Pasta made from flour and time.,
Lowered in tomatoes, peppers, pesto sauce,
And served a
New dish, upon an old song. Neither of us would
Do the dishes.

xxiv.

Man met woman in a galaxy of
Stars, and suddenly was struck by seduction,

Kaleidoscope of peacock behavior
Existing to woo a little “wuv”.
I am not the first poet to wonder, to
See the drive which
Haunts our
Apple trucks.

Chemistry is more of the element, and i
Hate thinking there’s even more details
Amongst the chaos.
No. Man met woman in a galaxy of
Testosterone and
Estrogen.

Dionysius got involved and invited Venus
Over and wola! a
Raunchy rendezvous of blood,
Sweat and tears.
Erotic. sometimes, but mostly
You do the eye game to satiate the moment

xxv.

People rush behind headlights
Along salt-lined roads.
The radio is turned off, and you
Reach at the seat belt.
I feel uncomfortable, too.
Crowds of people moving,
Innocently trapped by
Angst, clocks and needs.

My grandmother
Always took the time to
Reach across her seat belt to hug us,
Children, give us poems.
Underneath the tapping of your foot, impatient,
My drive is to write poetry for you.

xxvi

Crazy how crazy I’m becoming.
And they say,
It’s only the beginning and
That senility is even worse. Walt
Laughed at me this summer
In his sharp, meteorologist way.
Needs to see me lose my sh*t, he said.

Reality, for me, is already
Assanine...and he, he wants to
Yank what little truth i have into geriatric dreams. Crazy.





xxxxii

Just between you and me,
U got to be a bit of a con - man to
Scribble out poems. You’ve got
To have word-tools and an
Interest in S P A C E, a
Need to mean a little more.

Hell, anyone can write a poem.
All you need is wascally wabbits and wile
Ye coyotes....then,
Every now and again, beep beep,
Some road runner leaps across the page.

xxxxiii

Jokes on you, they said,
On you, you, you and you.
So, they’re right.
Humor.

Me in an
Overture of self actualization.
Reached into my stomach and pulled out
Rancid meat, slightly digested,
In less that twenty four hours,
Silly succotash and stupid sagacity.

xxxxiv

Boy, those hugs,
You got to cherish those hugs as they
Reach around your stomach, arm
Over arm in a bear squeeze of
Need.

Love...this is what it looks like,
Unlike the way most of us are,
Kindness is a young man,
In his senior year,
Not caught up with the world’s
Sadness, but with hugs...just hugs.

















xxxxv.

tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,
hovers upon us like a plague of yesterdays -
each of us will forget and remember.

brown school...a huge pain in the
rear, a rare gift amongst the chaos,
on the corner of Muhammad and
why we united together...birds of a feather
naturally flocking.

since this will be my last poem for you,
cause the chapter is being finished, i say,
have a great life, move
on, forward and ahead
on the idiot’s stage.
live like maude. love like we do.

2002 - tea room

tea room poem for j.s.

we, learners, sojourners
of sunsets and dreams,
in a countryside city,
sing, and feel no pity from books,
brains and how the everyday
explains our love of poetry and
laughter from Martha Ellison’s Song.

We, believers, stand strong
in comfy jeans and well-worn sweats,
singing how we belong to diversity,
and dancing to the complexity of being different.

In the clouds, both rainbows and raindrops are born into a hammock of
tattooed colors --
a sun brings us
the comfort of pillows,
a moon reminds us to walk barefoot in wet grass.

From class to class, a human pyramid
of students and teachers share
deep breaths and laughter,
and grow from memories of love and respect.

Everything swirled, whirled and twirled
makes Brown...
and it is the sound of our music,
a first and muhammed ali
cacophony of
us.

2002 -coffehouse

for a coffee house and moonbeams....

stupid me, and this dumb b.s. reality
that found myself in a cinematic paradise
with music, a city of circuits for $15.99....

and once again I sit here tapping, like a poetic swine
into memories of a life I’ve always longed to live....

yet content with the everyday that a teacher must give
and save the applause for a subordinated clause

(trust me, I don’t know what that is either).

Yes, there’s a piece of me totally Toto,
young, naive and an absolute fool upon the stage,

but there’s also that age in me that makes me
intellectual alfredo
a destined dodo amongt the
beautiful daffodils of which I teach...

I reach,
I preach,
I leach upon day after day after day....

6:30 a.m. okay
coffee injected
email projected
Alice protected
and I’m elected certifiably insane.

What other job calls for the inane
ridiculousness
riddles and bliss
of the mind’s mental kiss
and magic,
(the constant flickering of flame,
the constant bickering and blame
of “whydowehavetodo this”

hissssssssssssssssss
sssssssssssshhhhhhhh

the music is getting louder
and I’m growing prouder and prouder everday
that I can stand out to say “I know the 2002 salute”
and have a breast I can always grab....

this, makes me smile, when life is most drab....

And the songs make me seek out the truth
and I find it quickly from Boehnlein and Ruth
who’ve brought this house into meaning....
watching as they’re weaning their way into graduation,
satiation,
intellectual constipation
and relief
of “uh oh, spaghetti o’s”
what a relief it is....

offering this poetry hand, so we can stand before one another and create...
find those words which make us irate and strong.....

because, like all of our presence, words, too, must say “so long”
and onward we all move.

we all go.

we all fly.

we all know.

and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
creeps in this petty pace
from today, today,
to the last uttering of the tick tock watch....
and all our yesterdays will light this fool
the way to a dusty rest
out out, young poets,
life is but a walking shadow
that struts and frets his wisdom upon the screen
and then is heard no more.

it is my tale, our tale, your tale, told by a moron,
full of noise and chaos
signifying everything.

Bring the world everything you can............
cuz we are the everything........