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Poems for the Night

People Who put Ketchup on Eggs

Make way in the dawn,

it’s the time in Chicago

when the haunted fly the streets,

my leper friends on the prowl,

beating their peculiar way

where only outcasts know the road.

I know the road; it leads to stone markers,

and other ways to forget.

Bang,

you went on my door one morning

banging back into my life,

which was a detonation,

a nuclear meltdown,

needing something, anything,

but another washed out enterprise.

Bang,

you pounded again; I didn’t want to let you in.

Why not? you said, why not another

whacked out sunrise?

I was proud, you see

that this was to be the first

day, my new start,

but there you were with your twelve pack,

Apostles of Sunup, trying to ruin my hope.

I sank in my corner, but you were evident in noise,

the rustle of movement, the glitter of chopped light,

like H-bombs slicing through glass, demanding

more beer, even without cheerless women.

I shall answer the door

even though I know few answers.

You will be there, as always,

better than no one there at all.

This poem was published by, Pegasus, Summer, 2007.

Feelings of Autumn

Autumn in the city, puffed up trees,

golden umbrellas protecting rooftops,

littered streets, damp from a rainstorm,

covered with a fleeting, mosaic tarpaulin.

Schoolchildren walk home through alleys,

splash in them, like rusty water.

They can crack under your feet, dangle

in the wind from pliant branches, while

rays of sun, stinging past smeared clouds,

bounce their light off window panes,

refracting like a vision,

the reds, yellows, and browns

still clinging to limbs,

trapped like actors in a spotlight,

rocking above the rapidly hardening earth.

And there’s country autumn

where trees discard their coats

in mountainous heaps,

acorns mingling in the piles,

exploding when they burn,

shooting out their skins

as if Vesuvius spitting lava ash.

Tied cornstalks, guarded by a moon

of panned gold,

while forest’s darksome shadows

reveal huge heron nests in barren trees,

summer hideaways exposed

by a gentle, haunting, stripping away.

All days are like amethyst, or onyx,

in the castaway adornments of nature’s coincidence.

But above a thousand other suns,

a day in autumn drenches me in relief,

leaving a clean, strong, revived awareness,

to perceive more and more.

“Feelings of Autumn,” was published by the Nisqually Delta Review. It was released in the Summer / Fall, 2007, edition.

Watch for my up and coming books of poems

Opium

Opium,

I sometimes could not resist your soothing charms,

your deadening relief, your retreating sympathy.

I reposed in you often, blending my being

with the fragrance of your anesthetic numbness.

But will you always be with me?

Opium,

let us speak of myths and calm our emotions

with tales of magic. For you, my friend,

are the first cause of such jokes, held fully

responsible. Exchange phrases with me now.

Dare you deny me your presence, holding your

mouth shuttered? Let us speak of myths and magic.

Come, I welcome you to my home. Sit awhile,

relax, talk now in familiar tones.

Are you now aware

that I have recognized you?

Hear me: I am at last enlightened

as to the nature of my seduction.

But now what? Laughter? A mischievous,

flirting, ever taunting smirk in the face of

truth? Do you flaunt this awareness at me,

as if this twisting in my mind amuses you?

Then listen and listen well: You

who have strangled and muted me,

you who have deceived me over and again,

I fear you no more.

At last, silence. Now we shall converse.

Tell me, do you blush at the sight

of your own masquerades? Are you flushed

seeing your sinister tricks revealed?

But friend, you are ever the genius,

the inventive one, the creative one.

I feel no shame at my previous weakness,

for you have fooled many. I can only

praise you. Come, let it unfold now,

that we may examine your methods.

Our diners: how can I forget your careful

preparations, as you served me half-baked truths,

while I devoured them hungrily, stuffing myself,

gorging down your logic and reason,

waiting there contented, anticipating a sweet dessert,

topped off with the wine of grand promises.

The fragrances and perfumes enticed me,

tickling and soothing my nostrils,

my eyes drawn and captivated by

curls and swirls that I foolishly chased,

while you sat in my bed chamber, grinning.

And more:

The world’s amusements placed at my feet,

I sniggered in delightful bliss at them,

my intoxication with your books,

plays, music, nightclubs, parties, people, cars - how

I was saturated, feeling enthralled,

as I quoted and paraphrased what I hardly understood,

deluding myself that I was selected to dine

with kings and nobility. But you were there,

playing the violin, pen in hand, made up for opening night,

you were always there, never imagining

you would be discovered.

And now, my companion,

are you finally cognizant

that I have recognized you,

that I am at last illuminated

as to the nature

of my seduction,

that your trickery has been unspun,

no longer nourishing my heart?

It has been said to know thyself

before casting off on voyages

for shores of distant complexity. My

search for awareness will now begin,

my quest for liberation, which

for so long you had smothered.

My speech has been short,

only minutes have passed,

But Opium, pick up your coat and hat,

face the night and the bellowing wind alone,

for I now begin a search

by myself

for whom I really am.

This poem of the pipe will be published by, Prism Quarterly, in an upcoming issue.

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