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,
fathers,
grandparents.
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
Too.

Jocelyn Zoe

Posted on Jun 20, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

She does all things right
But even if she didn’t,
the mat would still welcome her to yoga—
stretching,
fainting
beneath her form—
dizzy—
many days, forlorn.
But each touch of her hand
And bend of knee—
Each curl of a toe
brings him back a little more.

She does nothing wrong
But even if she did,
wrong would suddenly be right.
You’d see,
Religions would rewrite
their texts—
Day renamed Night.
Starting at her topmost feature
they’d start down
assigning letters to all her
fleshy parts
Ending at the ground.

And they’d write a song of passion, mirth.
A song commemorating
her happy birth.
A song of Summer and Spring
And Autumn.
Of those they’d sing.
But of Winter too.
For there’d be days when she’d feel sad.. ):
days, forlorn.
But if in those times, she reads this,
I hope it
brings her back a little more.

Happy Birthday to Me

Posted on Jun 10, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

Happy Birthday to me.
It takes just a second on waking to remember.
It’s June but it feels like December.
I roll from my bed,
spin to my feet,
stand and walk to the window
to see if anything’s changed.
Little things—
the grass is a bit longer, but not so much from yesterday.
The fence, it’s weathered,
but it’s been weathering forever.
And the street, its pavement that looked so new,
just one year ago,
now is cracked in its length—
And its full breadth—
its edges, at places, caving into the ditches.
This all reminds me of something.
Ah, but why try and remember?
It’s June but it feels like December.

My father once said,
you’ve a long way to go,
when referencing some age he’d held
like a job
at some firm,
with floor after floor rising into the clouds.
Before he climbed one floor too high,
And I never saw him again.

From this window, the sun’s rolling in,
and the breeze,
summer air,
its smells strip every care.
It’s been doing this for men
like my Dad and I,
for millions of years.

Just feet down our road
there’s a lake, carved deep in the soil
by masses of ice, which I’m positive
fanned out to the very place where I stand
Slowly cutting the world that I see,
left, right,
every feature in sight,
into being.

I imagine myself in a lawn chair,
sitting atop it,
riding this ice like a madman,
as it creeps inch by inch
Forging new reality
for the next generation of riders.

The glass

Posted on Jun 1, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

The glass slides shut
And I see gold rims on your shoes
And —No Talking— in your eyes
While your ankles
are at angles
that most men would sell their souls for
And your knees,
they’re too friendly to each other for my liking.
I could eat you.
The glass slides again and you leave
without a look
And I file you away under
“fuck”
Later.
When we’re home and we don’t talk about it
Since our breath will talk enough
And your knees will talk in different ways.

When the rain comes

Posted on May 25, 2014 in Poetry, Writing

I love it when the rain comes down
and washes away
all those feelings I had
And makes me say
things I don’t say on sunny days.
I see shadow,
grays.
with your name on my lips
I sleep the day away

I love it when the rain comes down
and carries me off
to a place of my childhood,
a place caught
in my happiest memories
that now feel like
dream.
how close they are
But how far they seem

The girl in the stone

Posted on Feb 1, 2013 in Poetry, Writing

The girl in the stone
has no seam