Presented Without Comment

I rode up to your window.

Then outside two stories down from you
I was looking on the ground for to

Hunt up small sticks and rocks,
Like signal flares to launch.

But you were already watching.
A distress call detected before it ever was sent.

Still,

I bounced a pebble off the window screen
And with a smile asked if you would meet

Me down by the water.
Where I was shuffling my feet,

When you met me on the rail bridge.
Water rushing beneath.

Took a pause for a long while.
The day could've been longer, were it earlier in the year.

The Sky is Blue, Unless It's Azure.

Legs rasping in time,
Cricket plays beautifully.
Dance tiny Cricket!

“I wrote it for you.”

“I get that. Who else do you call Cricket?”

“No one.”

“That was a rhetorical question - and for the record, female crickets don't chirp.”

“Oh.”

“It's essentially the orthopteran equivalent of gorillas pounding their chests, there's nothing beautiful about it.”

“It never hurts to portray things in a positive light.”

“So if I write a gentle, metaphor cloaked haiku on orchiectomies, would it make the subject matter any less grotesque?”

“I suppose not.”

“A stunning metaphor for our relationship! An attractive, ill-conceived mess wrapped in your optimism and nailed to the floor by my immovable realism.”

“I love you.”

“I know. Is that all you wrote to say?”

“Mostly.”

“I love you too... don't ask for me back.”

“Why?”

“Because female crickets don't chirp.”

Amndestyll

I saw this and thought, ''NEAT!" So, I played around with the idea longer than I care to admit, and this is the most compelling thing I could come up with...

amndestyll

Any thoughts? It seems a shame to not explain it at all... I'll tell if asked, but it's really more fun to decipher the/ascribe your own meaning.

An Ode to Something Less Mainstream

Appearently, it's National Poetry Month -- as good an excuse as any to usher myself back into the writing habit. So, without any excuses or further adieu..... 

Amidst the slurs and dribble, 

mentholated smoke, 

scribbles, 

songs, and sour mashes,

survived by our whimsy, 

we, 

the reckless, 

disconcerted, 

connoisseurs of the cool and contemptible, 

claim our birth right – to live and die blue ribbon lives.

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Now it's your turn! As a prompt, here are five items one might find at an auction -- include them in a poem: Flintlock Pistol, Houdini's teeth, pinball machine, (deed to) an industrial complex, silver rings.

Meh. That's all I've got for today. Even if you opt not to use this prompt I could use a five item suggestion in turn (it's not as interesting picking the items myself.)

For other submissions and suggestions please visit The Germ of the Idea. Happy April, Poets!

Wanderlust

I'm a jerk who has not been writing much recently, but in all fairness, I am a very busy jerk. The semester is nearly at an end and it's time to cram for finals and write things that are not fun to write. More to come after the 16th of December. In the mean time, here is something that was actually written some time ago and recently rejiggered.

Many a day I've walked along, through varying tones of tan and blue – split at the horizon – through lands naked as earth will allow itself to be. My nap sack bore the scares of time in the form of several tears; some mended, others not. Calloused hands and taut muscle bore witness to a life of labored survival. A wrinkled brow implies years of introspective contemplation. In the desert life is hard so you keep moving, body and mind – keep things limber. If I walked until the soles of my feet blistered, popped and oozed pus in protest, I'll know I've gotten to wherever I was going and I would rest until fit to journey again.

When I knocked on your door, you answered with dripping, moisture darkened hair, wrapped in a towel. You offered lemonade, ham and eggs, and your body. It must be lonely in the desert, I deduced. What I couldn't cognate was how you managed such a well stocked fridge or why precious water would be wasted on priming.

Yes, the miles of ambulating over shifting, wind-swept dunes, and desiccated flats, had left me wanting for anything that would make me feel more human. I sucked the moisture from your hair as we made love, face to face. I was born anew. With feet bound, I started off again on my great journey, to whatever place is as far as I can go. You took another shower. I would have loved to stay but the isolated comfort of that place seemed too placating – stagnation, to me, translates as death, in spite of the fact that every journey ends the same.

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Wait! Before you leave these here interwebs, make your way to these fine reads:

Andrew Kaspereen's disconnecting from the missing link, is a powerful gut-check.

Remind yourself what it means to be human with Paul Mullin's The other us.

Thankful For...

Nothing special but I couldn't resist. Once more, Happy Thanksgiving!

The food in my belly

The air in my lungs

The roof over my head

The warmth of a hearth

Warmth in general,

When the days are cold

Cold when the days are hot

Smell

Touch

Taste

Sound

Smiles

Sun at my back

Wind in my face

Earth at my feet

Sky round my head

The unattainable perfection

(Something to shoot for)

All good things

Some of the bad

(Juxtaposition is key)

Day to sleep in late

Snow days

(Similar but distinct)

A pot to piss in

A leg to stand on

(Cliches)

Room to stretch

Friends to hassle

A love to desire

Family to...

Family.

Science

Celestial bodies

Zippers

The Rent is High But At Least the Taps Are Out

Sorry for the bit of lag these days. I've been trying to do more reading than writing. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this. Thanks for reading, have a happy Thanksgiving!

Brian Gaff made a somber gait through the dingy, flyer riddled door of the local backstreet pawn shop. He kept his head low, tucked into the hood of his plain gray pullover – an article of clothing he favored particularly for its common, low key, nature.

He fiddled with something in his pocket, something small, which he turned over again and again in his hand, until the memory of the object rubbed itself into his finger tips. Three quick steps up to the glass counter top and Brian slapped the object onto the counter with a thudded clink.

“Another?'' The wizened shop keep inquired. ''That would make it the third this week,'' she said, tugging at a tuft of hair protruding from the coffee bean mole on her chin.

''Sounds right,'' Brian replied meekly.

''You just find these things?'' The keep asked, now tweaking the mole as though it were a nipple through which her curiosity could be aroused further.

Brian lifted his hand off the silver quarter – the untarnished portrait of Washington gleamed under the mercury store lights. ''I collect 'em – or used to,'' Brian lied. Truth is, knocking off parking meters ala Cool Hand Luke was easy, and no one seemed to understand the true value of certain currency.

''Well, rate hasn't changed,'' the keep snipped, releasing her mole. ''One dollar.''

''This one's different,'' Brian assured her, ''1935, very fine condition. Minted in San Francisco. Look.” Brian fingered the quarter toward the far end of the glass counter.

''Don't mean a lick to me,'' The keep chided through the ash gray hairs fell over her face as she leaned to elbow down on the counter. ''Silver is silver. Don't matter when or where it took a shape.''

Brian, too tired to haggle, put his palm up and curled his fingers inward repeatedly. The keep placed two dollars in Brain's hand saying, “Tell 'yer dad we miss him at church, will ya?''

“Will do, Mrs. B.'' Brian curtly replied, ducking his head to conceal an uncomfortable smile.

The more money Brain could get, he thought, the longer he could stay clear of his dad's bender on the anniversary of his mother's suicide.

Brain left the store the same way he had entered, somber and slow, in no hurry to be anywhere.

''It's a shame 'bout the Gaff boy,'' Mrs. B said to her husband when he came down form the apartment above the store.

''Aye. Damn shame. His father ought know better. Tellin' lies 'bout his mom like he does. Boy's old 'nuff to forgive his pa the truth, but it's the lie spreadin' 'em both thin 'nuff to crack.''

“Aye.”

Awkwardly Moments: D+D Edition

This is just plain silly, but I guess that's the point. For quality 50-word stories go here: 50-to-1 For mildly amusing 50-word stories, continue reading.

Broads and Broadswords

We settled down with our drinks, some friends and I. Large breasted women wrestled on the television. Their ample bosoms heaved and swayed as they tore at each other. The Dungeon Master shut off the TV and started up ''Midnight Syndicate,'' the official role playing soundtrack.

''The game is afoot!''

Overawe

Droth, the dark elf, exploded into flame, incinerating his guides, as he gripped the orb of power.

“Did you see that!?” I cried at the prim girl – a loose aquaintance who had stopped in to wait for a ride.

All she saw were dorks, plastic figurines, and dice.

Rash

Those were sad times, when I'd browse Craig's list, in hopes that I could fill the void in my life with one night stands. All the ads made clear that I need be D+D free. This vexed me – I love D+D.

I told my woes to a friend. He laughed.

What Advice Can You Give Me?

I've often looked to horoscopes

for some semblance of direction

but being duped, by vague vicissitudes

I've seen the arrow's flexion

Of a sheep's bladder drawstring pouch

I consult the cast contents.

Divining truth from chicken bones,

to finally find life's sense.

“You'll be feeling misanthropromorphic.”

The bones seemed to me to read.

And as you could bet, I double checked

So as not to misconceive.

That night I dreamt of deserts.

Cool Creosote bush scented air

punctuated by the darkness

through which I caught Marlboro man's stare.

We meet eyes and with a drag

his face became aglow

'twas featureless save for a hole,

through which Marlboro man smoked.

With a flick of his wrist he threw 'ore me a lasso.

His horse and he let out a huff.

They pulled the rope taut 'round both my feet

and took off, dragging me through the dust.

Like a true buckaroo,

a real renegade cowboy,

the wrangler rode full trot,

backwards, standing, clear to Illinois

Pelting me with loosies,

methodically, on the forehead

His accuracy was flawless,

until I woke, sweat soaked, in bed.

A stray cat, come in through the window, lay upon my chest

''Wherever you go, there you are,'' it said.

The bones foretold this, but gave no insight on coping

with hate, fueled by fearful cravings for a cigarette.

Things I've Seen While Driving

This is unfinished and quite depressing, but I refuse to fictionalize this piece and there is much yet to be seen on my drives. I'll keep an eye out for eros, agape, etc. 

Red Carnations:

Bouquet.

Cast, haphazard,

to the wayside.

Unrequited love.

Mid intersection,

a toad,

unwavering,

bereaving splattered partner.

So it seems.

But toads will eat

nearly anything.

False love.

Road kill:

Light brown hare

pale as the moonlight

lighting the road.

Black hare

waits for my pass

then nudges the corpse again.

Star-crossed love.

15 Minutes

A 'lil something new. More to follow soon.

Your time has come,

but

maybe

it's always been.

Warming up.

Spotlight,

                     on.

Can you feel it?

Break pace,

                        Bolt.

Don't finish,       flourish.

Gusto,

             check.

So you're all set to go.

Your time has come,

but

maybe

it's only been.

Taking Even

Fun Fact: The working title for this was ''Wrapping Presents" (Rapping Presence, get it!?). Yes, I think I'm hilarious. Anyway, please enjoy.

I'm immortal is a motto that I'll carry till death.

If you find that fact a fallacy put it to the test

'cause I

Must confess I'll put to rest duress with fisticuffs and If I must,

you best guess I could be dangerous.

Now I could try to forget

And I could try to forgive.

I could let bygones be bygones,

I could live and let live but,

Shit!

This cyclone's spinning and it just won't quit.

There's no karmatic requital.

It's not a question of faith.

No passion play recital,

It's just me and my own stakes.

Circumambulating

Lamenting remunerations

Got me frustrated, contemplating some heinous

Resolve to exolves long gone but still raw in the memory.

Remember,

Enemies tempted this fate. Now ensate

is the steel so they reel but they'll never escape.

All Good Things (links)

Busy, busy. New writing to be posted soon. For now, enjoy a link to a new work on SixSentences, as well some links to other great works.

• Riding a Reverie: My story on 6S.
• Only Human: New Poems by your bro and mine, Glen Binger.
• The Broadset: Test your knowledge of beat poets and more.
• Ginsberg's Omelet: A piece I really liked by a gentleman named Ron. He also has many other fine pieces.

For Better Or Worse

I originally submitted this to seventytwowords, but they have yet to get back to me, and seeing as I'm a dolt who (much to my chagrin) failed to properly proofread the damn thing before sending it, I doubt they ever will. My bad.

For better or worse, Geoffrey lay pinned beneath six stories of shitty apartments. He knew the basement laundry room's wall saved him. He would lose his legs. Fine, insurance would cover the losses. Moreover, this excused him to continue his old passion of writing, which his nag wife resented. Her chances were slimmer on the fourth floor and seeing as the latter of ''for better or worse'' had long come, Geoffrey smiled.

Drink Of Me Deeply

Here is something I wrote for my girlfriend because I'm a goober like that. It's our one year anniversary today and this is my way of saying to her, ''Thanks for graciously putting up with me for a whole year!''


Drink Of Me Deeply.

On first approach does steam rise to and warm your nostrils?

Can you hear the crackle of effervescence, feel its flecks upon your lips?

Do you feel a faint chill, hear the rattle of ice?

Does the sting of ethanol fumes tickle your senses?

How am I perceived?

Drink of me deeply.

Am I cloying, austere, bitter,

Piquant, salty, cool?

Drink of me deeply.

Is a grit left on your tongue?

A fine silt.

A clinging syrup.

A silky coat.

I know,

given the day,

I can be any and all of these.

Still!

You drink of me deeply.

Do you find me best served torrid, temperate, frosted?

Perhaps even,

frozen,

on a stick.

Drink of me deeply.

But first!

Will you take me with lemon and honey,

Cream and sugar,

A dash of bitters,

A twist of lime,

or

A grain of salt.

Me?

I'll take you as you come.

You'll have the same, you say.

Then I suppose, all that's left is to toast.

Brown Marmorated Stink Bug

Haiku time -- but first, a brief anecdote. The other day I went to burn a pile of personal documents in the wood stove. Shortly after setting a blaze the ashes of old fires came to life with a buzzing whir, launching themselves into the room. After a brief panic, I realized the wood stove was filled with stinkbugs. The bugs make there way indoors in the fall to keep warm -- I slammed the stove door, (startled and enraged) and allowed them all the warmth they could handle. Up until then my hatred for the invasive pest (in spite of their congregating en masse on my home's exterior)  had remained passive. The next day I worked my way around the house killing every one I found...

Chitin crunch abides.

Battery acid stink drifts,

when boots meet beetles.  

And there are still beetles in the wood stove.

Tatooed Mom

I'm hard pressed for material indeed if I'm putting this to the public eye! A few short stories are plodding towards completion, but in the mean time here is a bit of ''polaroid poetry'' That was scribbled into a 4 1/2 x 3 1/4 composition book while at Tattooed Mom for debriefing following the Broadset meeting at The Wooden Shoe. Yes, I was upset I couldn't share a plate or two of Falafel, but still, good times.

Lollipops in ashtrays.
Tagged walls.
Punk rock sounds.
Textured furniture.
Hole in wall, filled with beer cans.
Dimmed lights and white noise.
Bumper cars.
Pabst tall boys, 1$.
Junk sculptures in alleyway windows.
Tops on tables, leap frogs.
Lots of clocks.
V-neck white tee, stares and leaves
(must have seen the time)
Felafels came as wraps, not appetizers.

Memo to Me

Your lack of will
is a willful act.

Incite

More? Wednesday for me now equals eight hours on campus with roughly four hours of class. This started as the opening of ''Endure'' but I figure the two stood better on their own.

Dedicated to Jackie Leseur.

When evening light falls

the loving luminescence

of a glowing heart still guides.

May peace find you as you go,

wheresoever you go.

And as you piece the subtle text

of your life

I ask;

let me be a thread -- to prove tensile and worthy.

Endure

When the leaves of our lives

are riddled by time,

time will tell

in hues of red and yellow,

black and white,

that roots so deep

are nourished by past falls.