Dial Tone

Music plays as I
hold
momentarily while waiting for a representative

It loops over and over
plucking out a never-ending refrain
as a robot whore tells me
"Momentarily..."

Ten minutes pass.
The drink in my hand drains
refills
"Momentarily..."

I get fed up with the computerized monstrosity.
"I get it, no one's available,"
I growl into the mic.

No response,
except,
"Momentarily..."

"Fuck this," I think aloud,
but before I can
hang up
I realize it's imperative I speak to them.

So I hang here in muzak-limbo,
momentarily...

To A Friend On Their Twenty-First

On this, the day of your birth,

there’s ample reason for cheer and mirth.

Twenty-one years passed, badaboom,

since you were expelled from a womb.

And now with us all gathered here,

here’s to you! Let’s drink some beer!

Two Ravens

Two ravens sit atop fence posts in a long, low-hilly field.
Exchanging harsh words, they argue for a little while
about bird-things of little consequence

Two ravens take flight, circling over two hats
worn by two heads, which in turn had bodies stuck under them.

Two grating squawks filled the air
as the two hats (and their heads, etc.) trudged away from one another.
About face to find the other had done the same

Two ravens land on warm-dead corpses,
their dispute now resolved.
Their souls set off on a metaphysical odyssey
Doomed to wander forever on some other plane
while the ravens clean up the skeletons.

Runaway

My dog ran away last summer
from a pair of dogcatchers.
They chased him down an alleyway,
and out into the streets.

Picking his way through the packed-tight asphalt
he made his escape.

My dog ran away last summer
and at night,
if I listen closely,
with some shamrock's luck
I hear him howl.

My dog ran away,
from fate,
from capture,
from an ever-close cage.

More Ruminations On A White Cat

A white feline appears
from behind a gravestone,

and saunters toward me unafraid.
Affectionately it rubs against my left foot.

It slinks and slithers
between my legs.

It follows
and mews.

lamenting mice lost,
and lecturing on birds found.

Diatribes it speaks to me,
professing it's love for attention.

I pluck it from the blacktop
into the safety of friendly arms.

A white feline purrs
as I scratch it's chin gingerly.

Half-Dozen of the Other

Six of one, half-dozen of the other;

The hours creep along,

the sharp edge of a century.

Left by the wayside, my ambitions,

for another time’s pick-up.

Table the motion.

Six of one, half-dozen of the other;

Days hobble like a herd of handicapped gazelle.

After how-are-yous

good-and-yous

we talk about the weather, and little else.

Wishes

It's been a while since
I felt something for you
other than contempt.

I wish it wasn't this way.
I wish we'd kept in touch.
I wish you hadn't gone,
so maybe I'd have another shot.

At least I used to wish for those things.
Now I wish I'd never met you.

"It's better to have loved and lost
than to never have loved at all."

That's some bullshit if I ever heard it.

Here's The Thing

Here’s the thing,

I know we haven’t done this before,

or at least in a while.

But fuck it, it’s worth a shot.

We’re supposed to look to you in times of trouble,

praise you in times of plenty,

and think of you as being all-powerful,

but experience says you have some powerful limits.

I can’t think of anything in particular to ask for.

I don’t want a “sign”

or anything

beyond some simple inspiration.

I haven’t seen the face of God,

And I don’t care to.

I doubt whatever-it-may-be has a face

But I can’t count it out.

I have felt the touch

of some higher consciousness

elbow-deep in a whiskey-soaked keyboard.

Don't We All...

A pre-dawn chill runs up my spine

as the black and white cat meows at the door.

Another yawn hisses out of my wide-stretched jaws.

Too early,

and a little too late.

Too late to change,

meaningfully at least.

A sign on the wall screams,

“TAKE YOUR MEDS!”

Next to a poster that begs,

“I Want To Believe,”

Don’t we all...

Upon Our Feet

There’s not all that much left to believe in anymore.

For some time I thought it was me being

jaded.

Then I took a look around

and found

that there may not be all that much left

in which we can place our faith,

that sacred trust that what we hold dear,

that motley crew of convictions

we cling to out of righteousness and habit.

There may not be much left,

with the world wreathed in hellfire

as it so seems,

But that which is left to us to do is still worth doing.

So find some good to work towards

then do that thing to the best of your ability 

because if we all take one step in the right direction,

humanity will travel miles and miles

upon our feet.

Cushioned Cell

Doing time in a cushioned cell.
Pillow bars and blanket shackles
bind me to this time and place.

Escape is possible,
but the insurmountable odds
should not be ignored.

The judge sentenced me harshly,
doomed to an eternity of straining
against comfy chains

Work release is my best shot,
ironically enough, for freedom.
I'll have to make a coffee break for it.

Another Cup

From time to time,

I have flashes of dissociation,

a third person view of consciousness

that makes me wonder:

What even is

the point of it all?

Why is it that I see what I see,

and not the sights of another?

Why did my consciousness land in someone so…

me?

Then other times,

I disregard all that metaphysical bullshit

and have another cup of coffee.

Cup of Coffee

At the bottom

of this cup of coffee,

I see reflected in the dregs

my schlubby mug.

Unshaven and saggy-eyed,

I look as if I haven’t slept right

in years.

Tired eyes stare back at me

from the bottom of the cup.

Blurry, distorted,

the out-of-focus face begs for a fresh

cup of coffee.

The Unbeliever

I could wax poetic about the loss of innocence,

the awkward-sad tumble into adulthood,

beginning at teen-age and tangling up your limbs ‘til your twenties.

I could go on about all sorts of global injustice,

about the campaign of terror being waged in the Philippines,

or the ethnic cleansing in Myanmar.

I could write tome after tome on love long lost,

a volume out of “I miss you. Please come home.”

until I rid myself of that final teardrop.

In their stead, I write the praise of the common sinner,

the unbeliever, the debauched heretic,

heir to the throne of kings of men,

ere he rises once again.

Building his kingdom atop a foundation of lessons hard-learned

No adherent of the faith is he

No dogmatic devotion to hold him back

No clergymen or handlers to cast influence

Convictions forged in the white-hot flame of a life well-lived

Does he know right from wrong?

Is there a wrong and a right?

He can tell the black from the white,

but finds life more fulfilling lived in the in-between.

Grey stone towers grasp at grey clouds,

and a grey stone keep climbs the grey horizon behind them.

Seated in the grey throne room is our friend the unbeliever,

ruling over a great grey kingdom.

Casey Jones

I'd been awake far too long,

but I hopped a train

and went for a ride.

Making all the stops along the way:

A silly game of sports ball

played on a big, glowing screen;

An outstretched hand

offered me a hand up the hill;

A friend waxed poetic about the comedic genius 

of It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia;

Another needed a hug 

more than anything;

Finally, the engine slowed down

and the final stop approached.

As the brakes squealed

against the rails,

An embrace and a kiss on the cheek

as if to say, "You are where you belong,"

caught me like a net from the sky,

and there I hung my hat.

Blind Hog

Even a blind hog

finds a truffle every now and then.

That's what the little voice

tells me.

After I string together

a word or two

or even a few,

Everyone's a critic I guess.

Kicking The Habit

It’s been a week since I gave up smoking,

more or less.

The occasional bummed smoke snuck through.

One while drinking.

One while playing D’n’D.

One during the big game.

I miss the quiet contemplation,

The thoughtful moments left only to the smoker.

Exposed to the elements

and solitude,

five minutes of uninterrupted time to the self.

I miss the light conversation with other smokers

gradually gaining weight.

The talk about the weather,

or good television,

or politics;

A veritable salon of knowledge,

high and low.

So I regret kicking the habit,

at least a little bit.

I guess I could just take time for myself,

or engage in conversation sans pretense,

but it just won’t be the same.

There’s something about slowly embracing a wheezing, out-of-breath death

that puts everything in its proper place.

Flipping The Lid

As I reach the bottom
of a yet another cup of yesterday's coffee,
I begin to quiver
like a drawn arrow.

All atwitter with thought,
overclocked,
firing on all cylinders,
I set about
laying out
some eloquent dissertation on my blunted affect
or crippling self doubt
or other such complaints.

Some sympathetic story
sans self-esteem
seems to be my wheelhouse.

What if I flipped the lid and said
that I feel okay about myself?

That I'm not the worst,
and people would care if I was gone.

That I've gained
more than I've lost,
despite losing
a lot.

That I can be resilient
even if I don't realize it right away.

Would I be ill-received?

A Prayer To No One

I've done a lot of evil things in my time.

Taken when I should have given
sold what I should have kept
sold out the ones I should've protected

Better believe I'll outdo myself
time and time and again,
if history proves any indication.

I'm not proud of it,
and it doesn't happen too often
but I'm human.

To be such is to be part sin.
Even if I don't believe in much of anything,
I think the Jesus freaks got that one right:

All people suck a little.

At least I hope they do,
so I can feel less the villain
and more the troubled hero.

So I ask not for forgiveness.
I knew what I did
wasn't good
and I did it all anyway.

I have a leaden ball of guilt
shackled to my ankles.

If we carry each other's,
could we move about easier?

2:15am

Quarter-past two and the grinding mill's still going strong

must be nice to be a Buddhist monk

knowing how to shut down that internal monologue

with little beside some quiet and discipline

I'm on empty

but my engine whirrs along

That's what I get for keeping my foot on the dead man switch

a head fulla thoughts

and nowhere to put them-

can you hire a cleaning lady for between the ears?

Malcolm Gladwell famously said it takes

ten thousand hours to master a particular task

I doubt my time opposite various shrinks, counselors, brain tinkers

meets his criteria

but you can bet your ass it gets pretty close,

considering I average an hour a week with the talker,

an hour a month with the doctor,

and a week-long stint in a funny farm every now and then.

Since around eight, in and out of offices.

Goddamn if it doesn't add up-

not ten thousand, but definitely several hundred hours.

At this rate I'll lock it down by middle-age,

if I can make it there.

It’s three AM

and here I sit,

smoking on a lit cigarette.

Two stray cats before me,

but nobody to my right.

The grasses grow tall in the empty moonlight.