Honey Dews

 

There's an acidic taste to unripe strawberries
that can stir up your senses
like the faint scream of a blender.

Lately I've been taking bets on
grocery store honey dew melons,
which unsurprisingly so,
have almost all come up short.

Eating a bad honey dew
is like eating wet styrofoam.
It's like eating a dry, crunchy, gypsum sponge
that has been soaking in the limelight of a
middle-aged emerald,
floating in a stale, tropical lagoon.

The absence of flavor is astonishing.

It often takes the role of iceberg's slutty cousin,
wearing nothing but a wicker rind and some
sweet, misleading perfume.

Truth be told,
the honeydew smells better than she tastes.

And when I'm exploring a buffet,
and the honey dew is outside its natural habitat,
frolicking among a cornacopia of
kiwis, pineapples
and other tropical fructose,
I always strike my throngs into her mellow bosom
and give her an equal chance.

And if she beats the odds and actually delivers,
I make it a priority to spread the word.

"The honey dew is good," I will say,
"it's not crunchy and bland. It's pretty good this time."

However, despite the occassional revelation,
most of the retail store honey dews
I've breached
have fallen flat.

And more often than not,
the words of my memory are rendered strong:

Don't ever palaver with melons that
are manufactured to please the masses.

To eat one is to absorb the curse
of mediocrity. 

The Cracker Barrel

 -------------------------------------------------------

 

Recently, I went to that restaurant
The Cracker Barrel
and ordered a barrel of crackers.

They did not have them.

That's false advertising.

That makes me want to open up a store called
The Burrito Pyramid
that only serves spaghetti.

"Sorry sir. We only serve spaghetti at
The Burrito Pyramid.
If you want burritos, you're gonna have to go to
The Lobster Coffin."

Another Day Survived

with his brittle fingers buried into the hillside,
the old man pulled himself from the crevice,
his shoulders cracking like clay bricks baking in the sun.

dirt creased the lines on his face,
and as he pulled himself upwards he clenched his jaw rigid,
grinding his teeth to chalk dust. 

with every last moral fiber
he pulled himself from the depths of hell,
looking not to the horizon
but to the ground, inches before him.

and upon reaching the top
he swallowed a thick piece of air
and gave a warm embrace to the soil he'd been under
for so many years. 

and there on his knees,
bloody and burned,
beaten and spurned,
he drew a single match from his boot,
struck it across a flintstone
and set fire to the slippery, black oil that soaked his clothing
and coated his skin.

and as he became engulfed in flames
 the oil receded from
the cracks in his hands,
and the cool wind swept o'er the hillside
and across his sallow skin.

and as the flames sparked and faded away,
shimmering, flickering, and fluttering desperately
like moths in the rain,
he stood up,
brushed the ash from his jacket,
straightened his rusty knees,
closed his eyes,

and walked away.

another day  s u r v i v e d.

Steam Engine

there are days, sometimes weeks,
when the attack hits you from every possible angle,
firing at you with the speed and precision
of a boiler room piston.

and if you're not a part of the steam flow
everything pushes against you.

until finally, used and wasted,
you're forced up through the cylinder, 

and out the stack with all the
smoke, the soot, and the embers

with not a bit of form left to you but

vapor
and sky. 

 

Umbrellas Change, Too

 

 

There are two umbrellas in my parents' coat closet
that have been there for 30 years.

And I have never seen them used.

They are tall, with red and white stripes,
and brittle, plastic handles.

They give me a false
sense of stability.

For there has not been a single moment
through the course of my life when I have opened
that closet and those
umbrellas haven't been there. 

My parents are now leaving forever.

And that closet will soon be empty.

And I suppose those umbrellas,
through no will of their own,

will finally see rain.

 

 

The Tall Grass Prairie

 My love for the prairie stems from the fact that my thoughts move too fast to ever be a part of it. It is untouchable to me. When you stand over a breathing field, unbound by rails of human fence, you are standing as close as possible to the world as it exists without you. You are witnessing the order of things.  The open prairie is a powerful allegory of a silent and still mind, and it is something few people will ever experience.


The Tallgrass Prairie Preserve in Oklahoma is the largest protected remnant of tallgrass prairie left on earth.

MAKING cookies

MAKING COOKIES

there's an underlying sense that sanity is so fleeting
that you'll do anything
that sounds remotely engaging
to forget about it all.

but a full life isn't compromised solely
of wonderful times.

it's a thick dough of nonsense
and the richest lives are lived by those that

lick the fingers,

the spoon,

THE BOWL,

and then do the work to cook the rest.

MORE FANCY KETCHUP

 

 

  • To read a book and retain its knowledge is admirable.
    But to stab someone with a book, and break through the skin,
    is down right impressive.

  • All artists dip their brush into their own soul,
    and paint their own nature into their pictures.
    Except, of course, the artists that paint pictures of fruit.
    They dip their brush in their ass.

  • There is nothing more more noble than to take a bullet for a friend,
    while pushing a child away from a speeding car,
    while shedding all material possessions...
    simultaneously.

  • What did God do on the 7th day?
    The bible says he rested.
    But I have a pretty strong feeling he was making paper mache pumpkins.

A Blur of Reflection

A BLUR OF REFLECTION

My eyes point outwards,
and so
I don't look at myself very often.
I see myself briefly in the reflection of a mirror in the morning,
or perhaps in the evening, while getting ready to attend some social soiree.

Or sometimes I catch myself passing by in a car window
or trapped inside a friend's photograph.
But even then I don't really SEE myself.

 

In the morning, I scan through the mirror,
look at the different bits and pieces individually,
fix whatever mistakes I deem fixable,
and move along.

 

But every now and then,
I glance in the mirror,
and my vision suddenly sharpens to a needle.

 

And as if time whispers past my ear,
I notice just how much I've been aging.

And it is always a surprise.

It's as if I watch my own decay
through short bursts of clarity and acceptance.

I don't decipher the slow, meticulous effects of aging
on a day to day basis.
I see everything with sudden epiphanies
like a blast of sand to the brick.

 

It is a strange thing to be human
and so grossly aware of your own decline
but with such limited attention
in which to process it.

 

It is happening now.
It is happening right now. 

 

And it is a very intense thing to witness.

Another Nightmare for the List

I opened a bag of cat food today to find it FILLED to the brim with roaches. It was like a sea of festering, crispy pecans boiling and rolling in utter desperation. I couldn't see the top of the chow. And when they came charging over the lip of the sack, I dropped it, and they fanned across the ground like grass seed. Abdomens and thoraxes crunched under my soles like dead leaves.


Just another nightmare for the list.

The Fighter

there are stentorian voices inside his skull
that brood about influence and worth
and possess a callow need for attention.

they love to traipse in, mill about, and interrupt.
and though he fights them
with his bare fists
until the skin on his knuckles is shaved and grated down to the meat
he eventually loses his footing
and drops like an empty shirt
or
a solid piece of steel.

others do not vouchsafe their opinions
when he reaches for the ropes to pull himself back up,
his arms quivering from the strain.

but as he gets older,
his progress slows to the crawl of apple mold
and most can't help but wonder, how much more
of that broken body he can lift. 

he's an aging prize fighter.

and he won't quit.

and it doesn't surprise anyone
that he's scarcely on speaking terms
with his own mind,

what with how many times it's knocked him down.

but still, he just keeps on going.
like a machine.
pushing through the day
like an auger through the grain,

all the while
nervously swinging

at the air.

Driving the Night Away

at nightfall
i roam the city more than anyone i know.
 
i drive the alleys.

i search the bridges.

i look everywhere.

i roam the city more than anyone i know.

i pass sleeping bags on the sidewalks

like old feathers at the bottom of an empty cage.

i drift by carcasses and empty buildings.

police cars and boarded windows

and shards of glass that liter the road

like cake sprinkles.

i roam the city more than anyone i know.

every night.

by myself. 

for hours.

i do not remember my dreams anymore.

i only remember the breath of the moon.

the sound of my tires on the gravel

breaking the crust of a silent, desolate world.

it is where i keep my memories,

my loved ones, my friends. 

it is where i store them. 

and they do not know this, of course.

i take everything with me on those drives.

it is where i visit them the most,

in all their beauty and glory. 

i roam the city more than anyone i know.

to visit myself.

to burn off those sleeping bags
and uncover shallow graves
of undisturbed memories.

to refract death.

and to be truly thankful
for all the birds

inside my cage.