Truth

Things recently have felt unreal, truth be told. This unreality might have something to do with the time of year. It is supposed to be cloudy, grey, and overbearing. I'm supposed to lose myself in the stark harsh mistress of winter, truth be told. Bury my self in her white cloak while my breath escapes through the angel my body left in the ground.

Except, there hasn't been any real snow. It's been a protracted Fall bleeding into what will be a early Spring. Groundhog be damned! Truth be told, I miss the Winter. It gets a bum rap. Anyone old enough to work views it as a hazard or pain. Others see it only as the long dark before spring; a mirthless time. I don't disagree with them. Not outwardly at least. A part of me does miss it though. The sharp sting to the skin. A burning in my asthmatic lungs.

When I thought no one was looking i'd walk out into those frozen nights of years past and sit down by the river reveling in the reflection of light off the Ohio's murky, disgusting waters. On those frigid nights with the water moving along like tar I would fantasize about wading out as far as I could go.  I knew i would probably freeze so I stayed firmly planted on the bench by the gazebo where I would propose.

Those were funny nights. Truth be told.

Wayward Hair

I was in love with,

my wayward hair then,

and so was he.

I would think,

looking in the mirror,

I am the Earth Mother.

“Oh damn,

I’ve got pillowface.”

I’d often remark.

I don’t care,

what face it is,

as long as it’s yours.

What if I had

the face of the walrus?

I’d ask him next.

I would be your

Koo koo ka choo

Or your carpenter.

As long as you don’t hammer

in the morning or at suppertime.

Really, anytime it’s inconvenient.

Dearest, you know

I’d bang you anytime

day or night.

I loved him

our morning routine

and my wayward hair.

When bad plots happen

Scientists have created

a trust potion,

an advertising promotion.

“Just smile, because

you know,

they’re making love.”

No, fuck you.

I know what they’re

up to. And to be honest,

without being rude, they’re

trying to control when and with

whom, we can be nude.

Odd but true, think of

the economic situation

of a monogamous relation.

What you’re thinking is correct,

we do love cheesy endings. They

should be a choice though

and not the way.

We don’t need no Number 9.

Now and forever we don’t need

no thought control.

In sickness and in health,

take your stimulus package

And rock the recession. With our one

and only weapon left, emotion.

Seasonal Affect

When it rains precipitation is at

100% and it pours though

not exactly pouring weekly as

sprinkling, drizzling, and misting daily.

It’s scattered storms and partly cloudy.

Dark with a chance of light.

My average highs have become

record lows and there’s

a small chance, 30% or so, of

good weather and sunny feelings,

a 75% chance of stormy thoughts,

dark imagery, and gallows humor as

things are no longer light and

variable. There is a severe chance

of  thunder and a flash of lightening.

Soon the local on the eights

will show my head blowing

N by NW at 108 miles per hour.

Keep The Lights On

    

I.

Tesla refused to have sex his entire life.

His sexual frustration

powering new discoveries.

His human chemistry replaced

by a body sung electric.

His high potential charging

in between the gates that separate

the coiled recesses of his mind

                        II.

Edison approaching the deadline

tries out design after design.

He knows it’s coming down to

the wire his desire to stay current

resists his  resignation at his lack

of innovation.

                        III.

As he slumps in his chair

a flash of lightening  illuminates

the child’s toy bobbing and weaving

like a butterfly about to be stung by a bee.

Promethean Franklin sparks new ideas

using the right key and filament he can 

pass the torch to the next,

he becomes the fuse for future

generations to stick their two cents in

completing the circuit.

                        IV.

Gilbert Hackathorne pockets the pennies

he finds. It insulates him from the power,

he keeps going and going surging through

life even though a fuse and man, can

burn out after extended use. After plugging in

the future, monitor lights up with the Electrician

at Corning.That same night a colorblind

technician  chains lightening together

with gray wires, frustration, and spare change.

Old Poetry finds a home.

I'm going to post some things I wrote a few years back for class. Perhaps seeing them online, (hopefully with constructive comments), will boost my creativity.

Libationer

Around my house where the Canadian Mist settles

and the Grey Goose flies Daniel tests Beam’s mettle,

set against the evening sky.

We set out a glass where an Old Crow can talk

with the Green Fairy and reveal all he knows

about Samuel Adams walk set

at Woodstone Creek.

We set out a glass where Kentucky

Gentleman sing this song of a

Bufflo Trace by a set of Four Roses

set on Black maple hill where the

heir apparent Crown Royal

of the White Horse

keeled over after drinkin’

too much Feckin Irish Whisky.

WIP Poem

A little something i'm working on.

Ode to Brachininae

Of all the species on this great Earth,

there’s one my mind often grows envious of

while watching political debates.

A lowly ground beetle, carapace shiny black,

body shaped as a violin. These maestros

are consummate diplomats.

How I wish that it could be up on stage

forleg tibiae fiddling with its miniscule bowtie.

It would hold its own in the first round.

It’s hard on pests and has a firm Not In My Backyard platform

But in the second round it comes under attack for

some recent bombings against unarmed civilians

 and retorts with a mixture of  shock, surprise,

hydroquinone and hydrogen peroxide.

The discourse dissolves into debilitated debaters.