Page of Pentacles

In all his mercy, the page with the red floppy headdress and green frock gazes longingly at the pentacle he guides aloft, hovering just above his fingers, giving off a glow of hopefulness and desire.  He stands in a field of wild berries, some perhaps poisonous, a grove of lush trees in the distance.  An icy mountain pushes toward the sky and a crop of elderberries readies its bounty. I can have everything, he thinks, just show me where it is.

Story Cubes

The nervous boy, perspiring ridiculously, removes his shirt and lets it dry, sweat bleeding from the fabric, dripping to the desert floor.  He spies a lone tepee in the distance set against a stand of saguaro, and he makes his way to it while checking his compass and being pestered by a bee that will not leave him alone as if to give warning.  Inside, the boy finds an ancient person of undetermined lineage or gender who asks him to choose between poison or an unopened letter. A choice?  He selects the letter, which is opened with a rusty pair of scissors to reveal everything beginning with the letter L.

Gory Glory

Another bad day will come

Inevitable

A phone will squeal

The news, long delayed

Arrives in all its gory glory

I will sing that song

Practiced

Red sails at the ready

Intoned and invoked

In celebration 

In remembrance

In defiance

Elusive Promises

Floyd Fox enjoys the listing

Open house Sunday 

No one comes

He rests in the great room

Waiting for the doorbell

Waiting for his life to start over

Thinking he needs just one close

To pay most of his bills

Salvage what's left of his credit

He uses the bathroom

Spies in the medicine cabinet

Eats some leftovers from the refrigerator

A lonely dried piece of chicken

Looks in bedside drawers

Wonders why this house, this life

Was denied him

Perhaps if he bought the property

He could have its emotional riches

Its beautiful wife

All its elusive promises

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Abduction

The lords of a neighboring planet castrate captive humans because they were observed doing it to their imprisoned pets.

The specimens are skinned and flayed and baked and sautéed because it seems customary on that blue water world.

Genders are opposed and matched, forced to pose in strange positions as assumed is customary.

Hordes buy tickets to observe the latest catches, marveling at their pleading expressions, then dine upon their raw organs like fresh fish bars on the place they claim as Earth.

At night, broadcasts of Star Trek and Dr. Who are projected to induce sleep so dreams can be tapped and seeded.

The Lion and His Twin

The lion, in the shadow of canyons, rests, alert, poised, pretending to be oblivious, shivering under snow, sweating with humidity, ever present, waiting and watching with his twin, discerning all with overdue tomes.

Sprinkle

Rise up
Grow some nads
Proclaim the truths that fester and hide
Inside everyone
Every thought
Every salacious disgusting detail
Every rock overturned to find
Scorpions, spiders, centipedes
Scream it from the roof
For once
True
Just for once try a sprinkle of honesty
How does it taste?

The Gonk

The Gonk
Rests wearily
A hundred years
Welcoming artists to
Drink, gossip, breed
A round table for arguments
A comfortable room for writing
Elbows for egos
Whispers, secrets, lies
Elevators tiny, cramped, intimate
Feline guard
Ghosts check in
Claiming the aging wood and rugs
Floating through walls
Vaguely aware of their careers
The building's place in their lives
Earthly container

Madison Square Park

Thick red and blue ropes
Piled high
Solid walls lumbering through the park
Snaking in and out among the trees
A cancer pushing into wilderness
Separating
Surrounding
Crying out to be touched or
Hauled away
I push against the colored wedge
But someone is leaning on the other side

Taxi Buddha

The taxi Buddha rules his domain
Watching the driver
Providing good karma
Waiting for incense and prayer
He smiles
Raised above his fat belly
Sensing an accident ahead
Unaware of repulsive body odor
And bad tippers

Shoe Shine

The felt letter board says
Boots 6
Shoes five
The 5?
Fallen from its light brown box
But what of the other thin white plastic numbers?
The kit surely shipped with multiples
It is the x that is lost
Only a few of those
Infrequently used
So rare that boots cost more to shine

Box of Bones

I carry a small box of bones in my car, cramped and crumbled, stowed in my glove compartment, insulated by maps and documents, quieting its rattling. The decaying bits of calcium and marrow have been handed down to me through generations, brought over from Russia on a boat, treasured, sheltered, delivered to me from an estate. I don't know who or what the bones are, but they travel with me, always present, whispering to me, guiding, haunting.

The Law of the Swap Meet

If you go to the swap meet looking for a particular item, you won't find it. It's there, the prize you are seeking, but it hides in plain sight, wedged between plastic robots and rusted wrenches, calling your name loudly--over here!--but it is invisible to you because you're searching for it. But the same item will be yours immediately and you can't help but stumble upon it if you go without any expectations, thinking you'll find nothing, hoping you'll discover nada, as it will reach out to you, perhaps several of them, all waiting for you as long as you do not want them, think of them, know them, need them.

The Baby Has Lost His Ass

The baby has lost his ass
Two batteries instead of two cheeks
Out of energy
Frozen in mid smile
Curl atop his scalp
Turn of the head
Pursed lips
Wishing he could crawl
Even if mechanically
Two batteries ready to be
Pooped out
About to topple off a
Bobble head barnyard bank

Praise

Shall we all start praising worthy ones now
Get it over with
Put them on a pedestal
Erect a statue
And agree they are better than us
Or made the human condition better
Broke new ground
Or wait until they die to
Trample on their graves

Peanut Butter on a Spoon

Peanut butter on a spoon
Reminds me of an afternoon
When resting on an outside chair
Clad only in my underwear
While snacking from a large brown jar
And dipping fingers down too far
To scoop up brown infectious goo
Then wash it down with hop-filled brew
Music plays a sad bassoon
To peanut butter on a spoon

Scratch

Do girls itch?
Need to rearrange hanging flesh?
Find a way to scratch or move things without
People noticing?
Men must choose sides
Stack things correctly
Arrange for effect or invisibility
Binding, humidity, close quarters
Demand embarrassing and wonderful attention

Today's Poem

Today's poem won't tell you anything about me
It will remain what it is
Black marks on a page
Words strung together
Random, for all you know
If you're looking for insight into the author
You're in the wrong place
It's static prose that sits and waits
Aiming for inspiration
Finding none
You come here
Seeking
Searching for something, anything
Private challenges
Answers
You won't find that here
Here, where it's always sunny
Where it always rains
Where people pretend
Where all can hide

Sea Change

Searching for a soundtrack to my life, but keep discarding the usual suspects. I yearn for the upbeat and favorite artists, but find myself drawn to the soulful, darkness, where truth sleeps with insomnia, where lost dreams sleep and an uncertain future festers. I land on Beck's Sea Change, drawn to its disguised pain and overt quiet soul that sings of sadness and hope.

Boston

Boston grieves with relief
The dead
The fear
The audacity
Senselessness
Surreal mist covering everything
Brothers in arms
Brothers with arms
Brothers without limbs
Pressure cookers
Backpacks
White baseball caps
A thousand photographs
Surveillance videos
Healthy runners
Focused with single purpose
Cowering in homes
Looking out Watertown windows
A canvas boat cover flaps in the angry breeze