When I’m surrounded by tech

Posted on Nov 23, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

When I’m surrounded by tech,
By circuit boards,
Tools, testers,
By breadboards and jumpers,
It’s much like I felt as a child,
With anything of science near to me,
Or anything mechanical;
It could be a large stash of tools
Or parts filling up shelves—
But these days, I’ve morphed
This ideal, reluctantly
From trades of the hands
To those of the mind
Sufficing stockrooms
With virtual dimensions,
Having ever-diverse labels
On long-spanning shelves
Running down rooms so vast,
If you saw them,
They’d boggle your synapses.
The stock of this trade
Is sometimes jumbled,
And though everything has its place
And there’s a place for everything,
It’s not minded so much as I’d like,
With discipline;
The labelmaker is out of tape perhaps
At times
Or I press the wrong keys.

The jolly old mate

Posted on Nov 3, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

The jolly old mate
has flown in on his sleigh
while I lie in my bedroom awake.
I hear small pitter-patter
on the roof of my cabin
as cookies and milk lie in wait.
Eight tiny reindeer
touch down, as his sleigh steers
to a stop at my chimney above.
And no matter my years
The moment I hear
My heart’s filled with gladness and love.

There are sights

Posted on Nov 2, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

There are sights dragging us places,
that could flip reality
on a dime in the space of a breath.
Brushing past with long legs
in an outfit a designer must’ve chuckled to make.
There are sights that could lean
an unchecked life filled with purpose
toward utter foolishness.
Such plots
that cause one to stop
in his tracks
and live a dream of a bubble
that pops in just moments,
or in ten wasted years.
or a life gone down the tubes.
I’ve seen it in more than a few.

The parking lot lady in orange

Posted on Oct 31, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

The parking lot lady in orange
The guy selling pies
From Redemption Academy
Who talks to every soul
Who walks by,
Peddling his pies,
And pulling in a pretty girl
Or two
As he sells
Apple and pumpkin,
Gathering funds
For something.


Posted on Oct 31, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

The mist along
our crooked sidewalk,
The morbid song
of bats that wing overhead,
of the dead.
Come visit, wary kiddies,
Trick or treating
from your cities,
Bags in hand.
Come to me,
come make your stand!
And if the door creaks
Or if my black cat
across your feet,
Be brave little ones,
And don’t retreat!

If you look

Posted on Oct 4, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

If you look beneath
the faded,
the facades,
the grayed approximations
of what once was,
the kind ghosts that walk this life,
there it’ll be,
the trick the writer plays when he ticks the clock,
so slowly—
The clock called “life.”
When he bends a thriving light
which once glowed so beautifully,
as if it were simply refracted for a time.
Our odd, little temples.
He morphs children into mothers,
So slowly, we hardly notice.
Until we catch it one day
in a mirror.
But this thief can’t be stopped or jailed.
There’s no door to lock.
He strolls right in
like family
And steals away
with a glass or a plate—
Working his way to
the jewelry,
the safe,
Everything most valuable and precious.
He looks you in the eye
just before he goes,
this thief of odd familiarity,
Carrying with him all your “stuff.”
He looks, as if to say, “you knew.
You knew it when you signed up for it.
This coming of age.
You knew that none of it
was permanent.
You knew.”

The hotel

Posted on Oct 3, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

The hotel is large.
I’ve climbed all its floors
Many a sleepy night
In my bed.
And I’ve even gone low
To its tunnels below
And wound far and long
through its depths.
The rooms are occasionally
Rented, with vacancy
With a door key given
At the desk.
But at times they’re a hospital
Where people, irresponsible
Have their limbs sewed back on
for a test.

It’s the swell

Posted on Sep 2, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

It’s the swell
and fall.
And I’ll take land and a view.
The girls walk by
in bikinis more sexy than flesh.
I hadn’t known what flush was
nor legs, knees
What were ankles and toes in those days?
Was there even a me?
How provocative an idea can be.
One which drives everything,
though no one will say it.
Come play
at the sands of the sea.
I’ll lay still,
while you trip, intentionally.
When our clothes
shed like autumn’s leaves
And in the long night of winter
we’ll make house.
Angels falling,
Others climbing.
We’re betwixt heaven and the dream
And you’re mine
until we’re dying.
And when flesh walks by
you won’t look
And neither will I.

My Facebook friend

Posted on Jul 2, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

Would you like to Facebook be
My Facebook friend?
If you’ll just click Accept,
I’ll send you a sketchy PM.
And it won’t be long
You’ll see
We’ll be rubbing against each other
Your dreams
and mine
In your News Feed
How sublime.
We’ll argue with the algorithm
For who’ll be on top
whose Like buttons
Will be pushed
And pressed.
I’ll never stop.
And I’ll guess if your About stats are true.
Don’t tell
It’d ruin it if you do.
And if it’s suggested,
But more often, even if not,
We’ll do things!
You’ll see
It’ll be a riot!
Things I’ve always wanted to do
With every girl
In this big world stew.
I’ll poke you!!!
There, didn’t that feel great?
Do I make you feel tingly?
I’ll do it early and late.
In my underwear even
From the road
Or at home
In bed
Sometimes alone.
Let’s be Facebook friends
You see
We’re Facebook meant for each other,
You and me.

A blue dress

Posted on Jul 2, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

She lies in bed
with her sadness and blue dress,
Sad from some happening not forgotten
Lost love,
long dead.
Or so she’s told herself
And everyone.
She’s wet
As are her sheets.
The curtains are pulled
Her eyes, red.
She still loves him
The scene changes and he’s with another girl
There’ve been lots of others
He only likes things that are very new.
He lies in bed
Not alone
Smiling and laughing with his secretary
The girl with cute toes
And cute everything.
The problem is,
The girl with cute toes
Hasn’t reasoned.
She’s new,
but when she’s seasoned
Just a month or two
She’ll need a blue dress