Back and Forth

She back paddles and avoids
His longing glance
Her intentions backlit like
An antique silhouette
And a back draft of self-consciousness
Stifles her wit
He has psoriasis and sunburn

Before the doorbell

Pork chops and pasta without sauce
Litter the dining room table
Once fine china, finely cracked
Like dry winter skin,
Holds canned peas, butter.
His bouncing knee rattles
Disarrayed silverware –
He never knows if knives are
Left or right – and he
Gulps down another glass
Of pale red wine.
Maybe he was mistaken,
Today is not the day or
She never really said yes.

Shelly

We were still waiting for the bus two hours later, and Shelly kept pinching my wrist.
"Do you really need something this time?"
She innocently nodded up at me and stuck her thumb in her mouth.
"You know what patience is, right?" Another nod, as innocent as the first, but this time she wouldn't look me in the eye.
"Shelly, your mom's not gonna be happy if I have to tell her that you were bad today." Her thumb popped out of her mouth and she pulled her spine a little straighter: at attention. I felt bad threatening her, but for Christsake, she kept derailing my train of thought. Really my worry was not that Shelly's mom might growl at me after hearing about her behavior. Shelly was a great kid. No, I was worried that I might never see Shelly again.

She often reminded me of a marionette; I'd pull her strings or her mother or Carl would play with them. I hated dictating her actions, but I hated her mother's control even more. I truly believed that without me, Shelly would have to deal with the torture, too. I knew it because sometimes at night I would wake up to the quiet whistling through her night-brace when she had crept down the hall for the safety of my bed. I don't think her mom ever entered her room at night; I always told Shelly to lock her door but I think Shelly feared that she might lock the good out of her life along with the bad.
I never had a lock on my door. Shelly's mom found out I put a chain-lock on my bedroom door once and the poor doorframe splintered from her angry crowbar. I was the next to deal with that crowbar's wrath and I immediately ran to Shelly's room to unscrew the chain I had placed there earlier that day before the crowbar found it, too. That was a long time ago; I don't think Shelly could even reach that chain, but for a few hours it made me feel a little calmer.
I think I was about Shelly's age when I quit calling her mom.

Paranoia

People are easier to offend as I get older
Or maybe I’m more offensive

How long is soon?

Lost and You Found

Kiss me again for I cherish your will.
Touch me again for I train my face to
Follow your hand.
Make my will yours and yours mine.
Make more out of nothing and nothing
Out of strife.
Light white candles to symbolize love
Love light in the living room and in the polished heart
Perhaps someday I’ll open my eyes to
A wrinkled face with a starched, bright spirit.
Perhaps you will notice my grey and run
Your fingers through it.
It was a moment, sudden as snowflakes
“Maybe” will become our life, but press
On because…
Because I see more in your gestures than anyone
Because I want to welcome you to my heart
Because my eyes want to kiss your face
We will bask in the sun’s carefully laid mortar
Put others in their place and know that we
Have found our place
A home, a dog, a life, a cliché that is
Only ours.

February 18, 2006

MSU Loses Tonight

Stoli keeps me from thinking
No meaning if you write fast enough
Glasses because contacts hurt
Willingly push past the lame
Options you leave me without you
And without me for that matter

Sculpt a dream of life
Live a sculpture of dreams

Play a song that touches punks
And maddens lesser
I need a microphone to live my life

Find a true existence and ask
For more fashions
Ask for fortune and ambiance
You won’t find it because
We all tried too hard

Back off – drum away
Your sorrows – lift your
Arms and twist your fingers
I can see them in my hair and
Throughout my clothing
You stop, breathe and wish
For excellence. I wish
For more than mundane passion

This page is like a haiku
Hotel paper
It’s actually amazing that
No one else complains about
My ugly cuticles, or your
Ugly heart. We all wear
Black socks and attempt to ignore
Brittany Spears – unfortunately
We all live in the real world

The Detroit Routine

I view the broken concrete
And caked salt of Michigan winter
The grey grass peeking
Through mounds of brown
That were briefly white,
Pure as the intentions of
The boy at the bus stop
Waiting for SMART to
Dump him off amidst piston rings,
Air filters, asbestos

I see the man who sits
Everyday at Tim Horton’s with a
Pen, calculator, coffee
Scribbling, scribbling thoughts,
Or figures or brilliant
Discoveries regarding each
American-made car that
Flies by the plate-glass
Or the strays that dare cars
Near the roadway

I notice the garbage trucks
And long, low motels that
Surround my commute,
Cops who fester just beyond
The next viaduct and the
Occasional gas station with
Full service

I mourn the many hubcaps
Along I-96 and scoff at the
Perpetual orange barrels
Guarding piles of steaming
Onyx asphalt that
Grind beneath my Pontiac.
Feb. 19, 2004