POEMS: Page II

Asunder

For Mom

& so it was that

when things went south

I found myself sitting on the tarmac

weeping, in Charlotte

& through the tears

I could just make out that

I was at gate C14

on November 14

& upon further recognition

I could just make out

that sliver of a moon

in a sky that might have

very well been part of a movie set

for the stage of my disbelief.

I knew then

that you were traveling

just as well

yet elsewhere & that

I had no idea how, but that

I hoped to meet you

at the baggage claim.

Tenfold

I’m not the kind of type who

Readily forgets

How steadily you

Found your own

Regress

& I’m not the type who

Gradually forgets

The miles that I traveled

For that one last smile

& I readily remember

What December meant to you…

Alchemy

& so Sir Isaac

wanted to find

the perfect solution

but what

he did not realize was

that in searching for such that

there is no perfect

substitute

for the admixture &

so much so that

the final recipe ended up

comprised of

equal parts:

grief

relief.

The Sweep

Yesterday contained fragments

composed of guilt, shame, distress, duress.

Relapse had usurped my resolve &

my hopes were dissolved, my peace

broken down to despair. I resigned myself

to permanent failure on a scale

dramatic & my panic emphatic.

My spirit was a crystal clear window

met with a brick & shards of my soul

were spread across the cold

concrete floor of failure.

I fell asleep dreaming

of hanging from a rope not dead

but distant. I awoke and reflected

on the shattered glass of yesterday &

the fragments of fear & failure.

It was a carousel I could have kept riding with

my hope held hostage in hiding.

It felt right, but I went left &

swept up the detritus of yesterday,

discarding it with abandon & considering

the failings abjectly random.

I chose to scale my soul down

to the weight of a feather &

to hope & resolve today I am tethered.

Imprint of a Sunny Tuesday

September draws near;

Scaly snakeskin memories

Still refuse to shed.

Cento for the Disenchanted Optimist

To be or not to be

that is what you would have me do,

seek for the honor of some great man

or otherwise sleep, perchance to dream?

Or, to change the form,

crawl upward, where I cannot stand alone, unwholesome

sandflats waiting to suck my treading soles, breathing

upward with sewage breath? No thank you!

But… to sing, to laugh, to dream—

Aye, there’s the rub. For in this dream

could you still, for a little while,

recall the blessing of a poetic sensibility could

you rekindle the appreciations of

your heart and listen to a

sad yet lofty and inspiring epic?

Do you think you could imagine a poem

that produces a world of objects easy on the eyes

already human by their substance

resistant but not brittle and

constructible but not plastic?

Or is there no end to how wrinkled you can get

with all modesty across your forehead?

There’s the respect that makes calamity of

a poem brushed off, dispossessed

so much the worse for me unless

the blind stir slightly, a bird chirps &

the waves break on the shore.

Works appropriated: Waiting for Godot (Samuel Beckett), Death on the Installment Plan (Louise-Ferdinand Celine), The Waves (Virginia Woolf), Ulysses (James Joyce), New Critical Essays (Roland Barthes), Hamlet (Wm. Shakespeare), and Cyrano de Bergerac (Edmond Rostand).

Glass Houses

This story's simple so skip the scansion
there was a mansion in my imagination
glass in structure that i never
thought could rupture
spiral in design and filled with spirits
like my own personal Guggenheim
filled to the brim with moonshine.
On the roof was a jacuzzi &
booze was my floozy draped
in bikinis of martinis &
gimlets & gibsons & cape cods & greyhounds
& together we were
so, so, very “cosmopolitan.”
These preservers served to help me persevere &
self-medication trumped meditation for i
had found the “perfect” alleviation.
i didn't realize
i was on a rocky path
taking daily vodka baths until out comes
bile unbelievably vile &
the dry heaves
never stopped to leave &
my soul started frowning &
my self-esteem started drowning &
shakes like body quakes
I used detox as an epoxy
to regain my moxie &
the ramification of rehabilitation was
the amenity of serenity.
I used to rise & alcoholize
with duplicity my lucidity every
morning found me mourning & any
random sober layover came in tandem
with bolder hangovers
withdrawal at my doorstep
'til I could get
more of my ambrosia &
& drink until I peaked
at aphasia & fell into amnesia &
my glass mansion cried out for stones &
my higher power was an able pitcher
I have become synonymous with anonymous &
my life is now richer
as my structure indeed ruptured &
the spirits spewed into sewers & got the rats drunk...
Now I use
my peers in recovery to gain self-discovery
my disease deflowered
by that higher power &
my soul is in flight
with just today in my sights &
no longer craving
the deleterious but rather
recovering & deadly serious with
inner peace my new masterpiece &
the wall of my alcoholic resolve
has dissolved &
surrender is my savior & H.P. my new mayor &
closing in on being viceless is much more
than priceless & I can
be seen & heard & I can
share sober words with those
with the will
to heal &
tell them that getting clean
getting clean wasn't aleatory for me
but rather a mandatory skill
I bought for free with my
newfound faith
side-betting on me.

The Elf Who Was Shelved

Boss burst through the door,

And with a gravity added by tequila,

He demanded I go up to floor four

To visit “I feel ya” Sheila.

Her bouffant had been the butt of my jokes,

As Elves gathered round the fountain

I suspected that of my antics one had spoke,

Yet of which I was uncertain.

“Elf, I feel you’re unhappy,”

Said she, with a look I couldn’t detect,

For I was too busy staring at the “!”

Atop the dome of this withering prefect.

“No, no, I’m happy,”

Said I, with considerable care, trying hard not to sound randy,

“Who would not feel dandy, color-correcting Christmas candy?

I get to stare at hues of blue and match colors to chocolate apostles!”

The fossil was jostled by this remark,

And with stark voice declared with a sneer;

“I feel there’s a dash of tart in your sweet veneer,

Least that is what I suspect.”

“Well, we are mixing coffee with the toffee,”

Said I, struggling to sidestep her perspective,

“Ghirardelli might in fact disagree,

And declare the product defective.”

“Well, I’ve also heard you’re converting,”

Said she, and I realized the fountain had cracked;

“We can’t run the risk of Jews subverting;

The Boss finds them queer and whacked.”

Fellow workers may this give you pause,

No mater your beliefs,

‘Tis best you keep them to yourself,

Lest you have a taste for grief.

For since I was fired by Mrs. Claus,

And found no joy in molding get,

I was forced into exile ‘midst inspired guffaws,

And have resorted to selling reindeer pelt.