Category: Poetry

The Recluse in No.8

I’m the recluse in No.8
the bearded creep with the little dog
the sounds of wailing and rage
filtering down to you who live below
I shamble out to the brambles
watch my dog do her business
and you wonder what mine is

I see the way you look at me
the recluse in No.8
with suspicion and dark
curiosity
am I a child molester?
do I deal drugs?
why do I never leave?

Wasn’t there a girl in there
a wife or lover
of the recluse from no.8?
where did she go, when did she leave?
if I was her, married to that guy
I’d have left long ago
who’d want to live with him?

You don’t see my tears
you don’t staunch the bleeding
of my broken heart
me, the recluse from No.8,
I’ve forgotten how to be happy
and it isn’t even always my fault
and these four walls keep me in

Without the crumbling white plaster
and battered, rotten wood
my guts and brains would have oozed away
in the strong midwest wind that shakes
the walls and rattles the windows
out of which the recluse from no.8
watches the outside world

I used to stand on my balcony
watch the birds fly by
and the squirrels scamper about
I used to count the bunnies and the minutes
wait for my girl to come back home
I wasn’t always a broken man
I wasn’t always a recluse in No.8

a Villain-elle, Part 2

a Villain-elle, Part 2 (the Joker)

“He will shatter kings in the day of his wrath.” – Psalm 110:5

Never start with the head, the victim gets all fuzzy;
(The better criminal class kills the bus driver)
Madness, as you know, is like gravity.

Youʼre just a freak, complete, like me.
(I’m a dog chasing cars; a silly face carver)
Never start with the head, the victim gets all fuzzy.

Want to start taking things a little more seriously?
(Laughing, he takes the knife to her.)
Madness, as you know, is like gravity.

Do I look like a guy with a plan, really?
(I’m just ahead of the curve, not a monster)
Never start with the head, the victim gets all fuzzy

You’ll need an ace in the hole to face my Harvey.
(He blew him half to hell, a psychopathic murder.)
Madness, as you know, is like gravity.

Why so serious? Introduce a little anarchy.
(Whatever doesn’t kill you simply makes you stranger)
Never start with the head, the victim gets all fuzzy
Madness, as you know, is like gravity.

Read a villain-elle, Part 3 (Bane), here.

When We Are Alive

When We Are Alive

And just like that, the dark times are over. Oh, not for everyone, not for always, not in nooks and crannies, but light shines through now.

We used our courage, though small and frightened we were, as children staring down giants, we marched them backwards till they became tiny.

Brave we were, are, to confront the terrible face of life, stronger we grow, emerging from the valley. Never more this foe will bring us low.

After all, life is long and short, wild and calm, wonderful and terrible, bright and dark, and so much more lifey than we ever thought possible.

That is why the bitter makes us shudder, the sweet makes us dance, the shadows make us cower, and the brightness makes us roar. Life is dirty.

And life is good, full of things we never expected that make it worth the living. Pain and pleasure are the same, in the end,

when we are so alive.

Pop Culture ID

I am from a galaxy far, far away: wistful sunsets and lifeless ice cubes. I am from the Final Frontier: the SS Botany Bay and the HMS Bounty. I am from Tatooine, Vulcan, Cloud City, and the Alpha Quadrant. I’m a doctor, not a scruffy nerd-hearder.

I am from the great divide, Eureka Creek and the Five Mile: brumbies, stagecoaches, and bullwhips. I am from extended families, mountain men and their horses. The stew had turnips in it, and taters in it, and rabbits in it; well, I don’t always eat wallaby, son!

I am from the sewers of New York City: cowabunga, pizza, and turtle ninjas. I am Donatello and Michelangelo. I am from Xavier’s school for the gifted: playing cards, trench coats, and bo staff Cajun gambits. Sacre bleu!

I am from Cleveland, Jacob’s Field and the comeback kids. I am from elation, heartbreak, and all the old familiar losses. I am from the sandlot, Babe Ruth, and legends that never die. Bury my heart at Pro Player Stadium.

I am from Serenity Valley, the black and browncoats. This is a fertile land and we will call it “this land” and you cannot take the sky from me. I am from the signal that cannot be stopped, and a preacher called Book. I aim to misbehave.

I am from Sunnydale High: the life, love, and hell of high school. I am from the Powers That Be, Pylea, and the dimensions of hell. The world is doomed, but I want the dragon: I’ve never fought one before. All that matters is the fight and the soul within that yearns to be human again.

I am from the Internet, where One Must Fall and the earth is scorched. I am from the Bean-With-Bacon-Megarocket, WinAmp, Kazaa and shareware. I am from floppy disks, up-dialing, and AOL. I am from Steve Jobs, the iPod, iTunes, and iBook G4s back when tigers roared. And one more thing…

I am from Billund’s little yellow men: studs that construct worlds from the ether of imagination. I am from the baseplate, the brick, and the bi-plane. Build me up, tear me down, make me new again.

Rich American Blues

I broke my iPhone
Yeah, I smashed the screen
I won’t be texting ya baby
Broken iPhone makes me scream

So I’m singing the blues
Yeah the rich, American blues
I’m singing those blues, baby
Those filthy rich American blues

Oh baby, I’m so so so sorry
We can’t watch CSI tonight
I forgot to set the TiVo
Catchin it on Netflix just ain’t right

So I’m singing the blues
Yeah the rich, American blues
I’m singing those blues, baby
Those filthy rich American blues

I can’t believe there ain’t no 4G
The iPad still don’t have no USB
Why can’t Siri find me a job, baby
Is this the future or 1850?

So I’m singing the blues
Yeah the rich, American blues
I’m singing those blues, baby
Those filthy rich American blues

The power’s done gone out now
Lost my wifi too, oh baby
Just don’t know what I’ll do
I’m really bored now, my baby

So I’m singing the blues
Yeah the rich, American blues
I’m singing those blues, baby
Those filthy rich American blues

The Internet just won’t load now
My torrent download is crawlin’
The Xbox failed to connect, oh baby
Guess I won’t be Halo brawlin’

So I’m singing the blues
Yeah the rich, American blues
I’m singing those blues, baby
Those filthy rich American blues

Baby, I’m singing the blues
Yeah the rich, American blues
I’m singing those blues, baby
Those filthy rich American blues

Milan

standing above the square
esconced shoulder to shoulder
statuesque saints and sinners
my marbled companions
weathered and stained
white against the ribald blue

we thousands gaze down
upon the passersby
tourists people posing
confessing with a smile
their joy at finding cathedrals
where the devout still pray

traffic never ends the press
never eases its gritty grip
sometimes in that small space
between the underground
while the bicycles wait one
stands and stares wonderously

sweeping up my eyes meet
those carved in stone ever
watchful of the millions
pigeons and people that fly
around the duomo walls
I find peace in Milan

View From Duomo Cathedral, Milan Italy
View From Duomo Cathedral, Milan Italy

lightning

hot summer night
fireflies in the grass
flitting above the cornfields
lighting up the night
drifting on breezes that pass
glowing against the darkening star field
bioluminescent twinkling rivaling
Mintaka’s binary beaming
from Orion rising high
wheeling bats signal dusk’s arrival
shadows against the gleaming
I hug my lover, contentedly sighing

firefly
firefly

Against Censorship in Schools with an Eye Towards Education

Against Censorship in Schools with an Eye Towards Education

My son brought home a book
It sat all innocent in its aged leather binding
the paper pages cracked slightly with age
but the gilded print on the cover damned it
Huck Finn by Mark Twain
oh! the horror – for therein
is a black man called nigger
a slave to the white man
hideous and repulsive to modern sensibility
after all, we’ve lived through the 1960s
we marched with Dr. King, or at least learned
to share a water fountain, or a bus seat
we’ve grown beyond our racist past
surely now we can teach our kids
that niggers is no longer slaves
and that certain words debase and vilify
surely now we can teach our children
tolerance and love and acceptance
and that hatred is even more disgusting
than slave owning ever was
surely through Huck Finn
a fictional boy from our past
we can educate our children –
surely

My daughter brought home a book
It sat neglected in her tattered backpack
the pages were crisp and unbent
but the dust jacket’s lettering damned it
A Study in Scarlet by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
oh! the horror! for therein
are Mormons treated with suspicion
rank intolerance and ignorance
an old man refuses to allow his girl to marry
a member of his own adopted congregation
as if who we marry is matter of another’s opinion
but the Virginia school board banned it
the book teaches hatred of Mormons
we can’t have that in our schools
we can’t have children reading that – though
surely now we can teach our children
tolerance and love and acceptance
and that fictional characters with heinous opinions
need not be our own
surely through a STUDY in Scarlet
a fictional book from our past
we can educate our children –
surely

the Comebacker

the batter snapped his bat
and up the middle cracked
a hit. the ball screamed
towards the pitcher,
who, still reeling from his writhing,
spun, and weaved, and ducked
and in the end, kissed the dust.
the second baseman stabbed
out with leathered glove
and snagged the wayward missile
and casually tossed the ball
to the first baseman for the final out.
the pitcher crawled up the mound
and stood still dazed.
on one half of his face his beard grew still
but the other gleamed, shaved clean,
clean save for a mark, angry and red,
red like the smacked back end
of a baseball’s stitching.

(inspired by a play during the Cleveland Indians at Anaheim Angels game on 11 April 2011, with Mitch Talbot pitching and Mark Trumbo at the bat in the bottom of the 4th inning. Trumbo was out 1-4-3 on the play.)