2011 poems

2011

a cork for the collection
written on: 01.10.11

I noticed a wine stopper
working its way to the end of the
bar tonight.

End over end.
Top over bottom.
Upsetting itself like
an upset stomach.

His hand shot out so fast that the wrinkles blurred away. 
A past spent trading cartridges for kin has taught this dodger that, in life,
reflexes are a man's best friend.

Before reaching the lip of a wooden world;
his fingers grasp the plug and prop it-
end over end, top over bottom, setting it up
like a totem pole puppet.

We spoke of the liquids floating in rows
behind the bar.  "Our whiskeys do love
to reminisce whenever it's been
years since their last glass kiss."

I said this,
as I located the shot glass,

the one at the back of the rack,
on the bottom of the stack.
"A little dust
         adds a vintage touch."

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a poem for marc with a 'c'
written on: 01.11.11

The snow makes us sleepy.
The calm blankets, our stretch of apartments.
If the sun rises in the next hour
a piece of frozen steak might appear on the stove.
But you wouldn't know anything about
sunrises and frozen foods, would you?
You're too busy sleeping off the booze.
Marc was right about one thing though;
his name should end with that letter.
Creepy, cautious, crafty,
coy, cunning, and cabalistic.
Do not count the number of kisses
cautiously placed on the lips of just friends.
The importance peels away with the sun
the morning after being made.
I just can't count on things that
lose their value so quickly.
Much like a tide that won't
make up its mind about drifting.
We are people.  Marc is a person.
Make only the mistakes that might learn us lessons.

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those that send off a shower of sparks
written on: 01.12.11

When I see your name in my mailbox
I take the stairs two at a time,
and slide through the door
of my apartment.

The white paint peels
remind me of snow that
flakes from the window sills;
slowly sliding into melt.

Each winter the trees are forced to give up on their leaves.
The winter months prove their resilience by
the swelling bark and frozen branches.
As absurd as it sounds,
I grow heartened by the
flares
flickers
glitters
and gleams purchased two states over in the fall of '07.

When we first watched
those sparks form against the heavens-
an illumination that disappeared
behind smoke screens,
         producing little paper parachutes
just like the one I'll make from your letter.

A ghost, hovering above the cottages.

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slumber parties
written on: 01.13.11

she said goodnight and i said shut up
you're keeping me awake like a  biatch

then something about
sticking my thingy thing in her mouthy mouth

we tossed around a bit before
delicately sliding her finger into my nostril

she recoiled, whipping the crumbs onto
my side of the pillow

we attempted forty winks
but fled beneath the blankets instead

i let her know how great it felt to have her face against mine
she started to speak

giggled
and admitted that she spit a little in my beard

we will laugh about this in the morning
our matrimonial slumber parties.

we laugh a lot.

the computer thought i was thinking
biotech when i typed biatch

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stellar plate poems
written on: 01.14.11

Poetry should be like a snowfall.
Each competed poem a carefully
crafted frozen vapor
ready to bank on a page.

It's voice covering
your mind like a sheet
that's stretched out
just right,

a drift that settles upon you in
the middle of the night; forcing
you to race to write it down.

Take this poem home,
let it's slush linger in your living room.
A square sheet of words,
written while the winds swept
in between the buildings.
Folded in half, and then folded again.
The creases like drifts in the strokes of
a pen.

Scissor a rift and remove a few sections
from that folded poem.  While the icicles
encircling the doorknob splinter in the
sunshine,

unfold the work,
let it hang in your window-
and hold you over until
next winter.

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cold cold cold cold cold cold cold
written on: 01.18.11

I want to write poems about warm weather,
and days spent under a blanket of sunshowers.
Each year the winter really digs its nails
into this city.  A never-ending avalanche
of frozen toes and severe cold.

My collection of t-shirts counts
for nothing when I am forced to
hibernate in winter coats
for month,
         after month,
                   after dreadful
                   winter month.

This climate reminds me
of a tale someone once told me about how
eskimos only get cold when the
sunshine reminds them that they live
in frozen houses.  Beating a snow rug,
they wince at the sight of that
golden burning ball.

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we felt the sun in our eyes
written on: 01.19.11

We felt the sun in our eyes,
waking us just before the afternoon
hit Chicago like a wave.

Our cats tore through
the wrapping paper.  Their tiny
claws tapping out morse code
on the crinkly shreds

while our pupils adjusted to the light.

In my mind, just past
the reflection of a jet streaking across
the sky, I thought of you and the big
decisions that face a soldier miles
from home.

More crinkling, a few jumps,
and another plane strokes the
horizon with its wingtips.

Those honorable injuries
suffered at the hands of distance,
seclusion and homesickness
will eventually roll up in a
knapsack.  Storing themselves
securely behind a bed somewhere
in the states.

There's nothing wrong with
wishing for happiness.

To belong.
To be exactly where you need to be.
Like one of those airplanes
when they finally feel the rumble of the gears, and
the landing strip being erased beneath their weight.

Soon the sand will disappear behind you.
A shrinking desert somewhere
in the past and in the distance

a future will get bigger.
More apparent with each pull of the oar
or gust of wind.

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somewhere between aging and asleep
written on: 01.20.11

I watch the bus putter
past the double doors of
the Thai restaurant,

it's breaks ringing out
like creaky floorboards
as it pauses

to pick up a young
couple wearing
orange.

Meanwhile,
I'm marking interesting
words in an old Irish
Heritage magazine

noticing the cracks
in my fingers, the weather
beaten feel of fraying knuckles

relying on moisture
to ink up the hardened skin.
Waiting on an air current

to exhaust the lotion that
was bought one year ago
at an airport newsstand.

The candied aroma of flowers
hovered through the terminal that afternoon,
softening the tension as

Midway exhausted itself
searching for a series
of lost coins,

paperwork and
oversized-luggage-
refusing to sit on the racks

overhead.  I felt old then.
I feel older
now.

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help me sell this port
written on: 01.20.11

the architect of the contract
was a man wreaking havoc
on a spindly barback

who held posture
and prudence as
the two most important

character traits.
so much more than
a mere mannerism.

with hands chapped
from polishing an
endless amount of glass

the boy eyeballed
the top sheet
the initial clause.

something about
a wine collector
who wished to

be rid of the cellar
to fool the bank
and wager the

grapes against what
could be a stint in
the cooler, a night behind bars,

canned, a stay in the pen,
jailhouse rock, detention camp,
up the river, a solitary slammer.

fortune awarded him
the cellar and a
sports team

but
independence deserted
with sincerity abandoned.

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ink won't dry itself
written on: 01.22.11

i scattered my best
intentions into each letter.
tested the stars and pushed their
shine to elevation,

pinned a few smiles
to her lips and opened
my eyes.

morning came to life,
as it lit up the pages with luster-
leaking in between
the shutters.

they say the
ink won't dry without
a few little heartfelt breaths
spattered from above

landing like a dew
on the type.

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mementos from previous readers
written on: 01.28.11

a chill leaks through
the keyhole,

gathering up the winter months
that have huddled together
to bury the buildings.

a group of birds cluster
in the nearby trees
watching frozen breaths
collect in branches.

all they see are filthy mouths
failing to form smoke circles,
and a man cutting his strides
in half,

standing straight in a blaze of colors,
a sky blushed in hues, a prism of paints.
background for the chills
skirting through

his face.

closed fists line both pockets.
five knuckles jab up against
the Howard Hughes biography
that was purchased three
days prior.

for years now he has
found contentment in
finding bookmarks left between
crisp, frail pages.

mementos from previous readers.

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