Peculiar Pabulums

  Softly whispered no. In hopes of changing why you are here. Once more in anger. No.  Then once more is anguish. no.  It's all so sad, so slight. Yet, The whole room shudders As if being rocketed into space The air’s sucked out of the room With such instant, violent ferocity It takes all light and sound with it. Your knees falter But you stand tall Stern You were elected to do this; The party representative, Unfortunate delegate, To tell your father His wife had passed away. For mom. We miss and love you dearly.

“I love you.” You , referring to you. “…too.” ..., Referring to me. You never say the word “you”. “You” has not been remunerated In the sense that love has a value. Maybe I still need to earn it. For now, “You” as referring to me, Has been replaced with the schwa. It’s that upside down e you see in  the dictionary to know how to pronounce words. But, more precisely, in this case, It’s a mid-central rounded vowel. Like the sound you hear At the end of the word “pencil”. On the cloudier days, I’ve even been replaced With no sound at all. Instead, I am an initial unaspirated glottal stop. It’s the silent pause that we all make Before we start a sentence That begins with a vowel. One day I hope for the full “I love you.” But, that may have to wait. Because right now, Apparently, I am not worth the effort, To get all of “You”.

"Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery." C.C. Colton Sitting here Reading "Ballistic" by Mr. Collins. Watching the group that has gathered and grown With the unfortunate redhead that really shouldn’t laugh. He just doesn’t have the face for it. There are no spectacular events. Nothing worthy of crafting a timeless ode for. No spark of love or death. There’s only the murmur of five conversations From ten pairs of people, Filtering through my headphones And Aesop Rock's "Coffee" “And the last shall be the first to immerse in the pass-out heat.” The only event worth noting Was when their casual ambassador Took the table next to me. “We don’t need no walkie-talkies, nope, no walkie-talkies.” Offering the, I- know-you-cant’-hear-me-so-I-will-just-smile, Gesture of gratitude. How selfish. “Just because I don’t wanna war with you, it don’t mean go warm up the barbeque.” They already have the largest group of friends here. Why monopolize socializing, By ...

It’s never out of a need to contrive divine inspiration. I am prompted By the details, when the details appear With such intimacy, you feel some slight obligation to Kiss them afterwards Simply as a social courtesy. It’s a word when it’s used And I wish I would use that word more often. It’s a nudge from a poem which flouts tradition But, with such skill that at a casual glance, you would Have never known. It’s never clouds, kittens, or buzzing flies. It’s the weight of a smaller being’s belly Resting on your chest. It’s rows of book spines When read with a certain cadence Sound like short lines of poetry. It’s the face of a stranger in a coffee shop Reading Monday’s paper on Wednesday Silently judging you Wondering if you are writing about them.  No.  Not today. It’s slush stuck under wheel wells The smell of an empty house It’s the click of the alarm clock the second before it sings It’s the person in the other room You can’t wait to ask, how their day has been.

You could find affection in this; A vicious pet Nestled against your shoulder, You kindly rest your cheek on her. She growls and roars at the rest of the world While gently nudging you with  buffered  recoil. You feed her, Keep her safe. In return, she showers you with hot brass Purely because you were born left handed.

The world breathes deeply Inward Exhales in blooms of green It saturates hope, Abundance, and the world is right Economy Improves Wars relax Even gas and milk is less The world has come back to life And proves its strength In optimistic greenery

Grandma was always mint gum and Aqua Net, A purse filled With the pink packets of Sweet 'N' Low. I think she still believes That mom had named me Dear. In her home I would've been raised On sugar wafers a nd cinnamon disks, The ones in the fancy red wrappers.

I caught him this morning As he slipped past the glass ribbon Just as the lights were coming on. I caught him tip-toed Peeking back over the fence Ruddy faced and embarrassed. He flashed me a wink Knowing I won’t catch him again At least before next October.

I’m sitting in a church pew As old as the man For whom it was made to worship. I have my foot on the base Of my table to steady the top. Not because I care But simply to avoid spilling my coffee. At the counter someone asked if it was still snowing outside. No, it’s not. Yet, the reply was yes. It’s the cold It’s freezing whatever Moisture is left and turns It into sharp delicate crystals. Angel Dust A dual purpose euphemism The first, a cute term to take The harshness out of the cold. The second, to deny us The morality to curse the cold In saying it’s god’s will, Exercised at the hands of an angel.

They all wait patiently For the responsibility of my soul…. A small flock of red-capped Sandhill Cranes. Scholars of some obscure school, That fills their time, for now. A hawk, multi-tasking. Staying close by, in hopes of his opportunity While still searching for mice. A Great horned owl. The most patient of all Philosophically eyeing me up Pondering what it will take to ferry me off. So they all wait patiently, Just for the chance, to carry my soul away.

You are as interesting as PBS after midnite.

To go places, you have to be able to stop sometimes.

We're nothing more than fancy amoebas.

Less meat than a bowl of fog.

Uh, I lost my best superlatives...

He's biting his own teeth.

It's like you're making friends with Snuffleupagus.

We're whispering secrets to deaf people.

As people or peacocks, we all strive for the same.

I'm happy as a Bob Ross cloud.

Arrogance: "Can I help you?" Confidence:"I didn't know I needed any"

The clouds continue grow, yet they don't eat anything.

I've got feet in my shoes and arms coming out of my sleeves.

I look to get what I need, From the one who taught me, I need it. I wander through his forest To learn how to spot a few trees Of my own. Inspiration, And the switch is ticked on. The short circuitous route zips alive With its microcosmic electrical snap and buzz. Hesitancy retards the flood of flash and flicker. Tear gas and spent brass Eggshell-delicate crowns scattered and crushed Or the whore, who’s  razored  breast weeps For the 100 “ Gouds ” she  couldn ’t proffer to save her self; Are not such things people pleasure in their poetry. My lovelies of Maple and Ash Turn out to be the beasts in my belly. If I am willing and able to manage so Will remain in their eternal gestation Period.

I get caught up Sometimes Thinking about the fact That space is infinite. I send my self hurdling out there Past super novas, star dust, galaxies and moons, Struggling to conceive what that edge may be if I found one. And become overwhelmed And scared And small And wonder,  Who needs that much room? I am comforted and comfortable With my 8 and half by eleven tract of land. More than enough space to contain my self And my thoughts.

My savior, offering baskets of bread And red herring. Sophistries for picnic blankets to dine on. St. Jude hands me a towel, whispers in my ear; “A tired soul can lie, as easily sneak Angels back into heaven. But, it’s not only the devil who can smile When committing a dirty little sin. “ My choices are halos and horns for hand holds, To hang onto that which may not be mine.

I’ve done it again. I forgot to bring  A fucking pad and pen. Now I am trapped Bursting inside With fantastic shit to write. Lyrical eloquence of copious quantities A torrential flow Of piquant melodies Encumbered by my knowledge Of self- limitation, I curse inspiration. Because by the time I arrive At my escritorial haven and sit, I will be a halcyon glacier Of meter, foot, and wit.

What a curious choice This man has made When so many appropriate options Exist in its stead Armed with a delicate silver spade Fitted with dainty barbs He plunges forth Again, and again, and again Even without sweet comfort He forges ahead Against the sour and bitter Looks from others Furrowed brows and scowls Lodged against the decision To eat grapefruit on the bus

Yesterday and tomorrow will prove it’s best To think only about today. Cuffs and collars become 80grit. Everything strapped to your back Is made of brick. Corners, windows, and everything Hold your next burden of terror Or sin. Mom and dad hid the scissors and silverware After you tried to explain to them That cordite smelled like sulfur And brimstone. Your demons are hip high with wet eyes And a thousand years away From a thousand and twelve years of age. The neighbor’s help is a look of pity, And a dollar; Donated for a paper ribbon on the wall at Petco. Upon which they wrote their own name. Your help is in pints, fifths And near misses, Or that fucker at the VA. He doesn’t care or doesn’t believe But he most certainly doesn’t help. Regardless and right now, You need to focus on how To convince the hiring manager That those things which make you vomit, When they come into the light, Taught you great customer service skills. And, more Than just how To avoid getting shot.