This Place Will Never Be the Same Twice

This Place Will Never Be the Same Twice

This vast, white space is not frozen.

The tumbling sands swell across the land

further than my eyes can grasp.

The dunes wait, patiently

for visitors, for wind and time.

Momentum fuels

their constant state of travel.

A small part of the dunes resides

in the fibers of my living room carpet,

but a few grains, the crest of a wave

of particles, crushed rock and stone,

shifting slightly with every step.

They often travel as stowaways.

Cling to clothes and sweaty skin,

stick to shoelaces and water bottles.

Sometimes they travel by foot,

slipping into socks to settle

and crunch between toes.

A flurry of blisters is created.

Travel by mouth is less common,

but they sometimes find a puff of air,

fly by exhalation;

or wedge themselves between teeth,

or under tongue for long distance transit.

Many of these gritty travelers are discarded.

Stuck to a shirt or a damp bathing suit,

tossed in with the rest of the wash.

The granules are swept down the drain,

settling in the bend of a pipe.

The journey, it seems

ends here.

The Junk Bound Riders

The poem needs another stanza. Two parts don't seem to suit the topic, so expect to see hearty revision of this in the future. I'll have to schedule in another bus trip for research.

The Junk Bound Riders

A man with wild hair and a red beard

stares through thick glasses, looks unsure.

The glass doors stay open.

Cool air floods the sidewalk.

In time, he heaves his bag over his shoulder,

joins the other junk bound riders

whose tissue paper skin is smudged

blue and purple like the stamps

of cigarette butts on the concrete.

No one is alone here. In the aisle,

a thin man clamps down on a toothpick.

He is left-handed. I know this.

Marks to the right, write with the left.

He carries a lamp in one hand,

a camouflage backpack in the other.

A D.C. Comics baseball cap perched

on his head: the S is for Superman.

Revision of Notes from Arena Sports Bar and Grill

Notes from Arena Sports Bar and Grill

The corner of Fourth

and Washington;

salt lick for the wicked,

for neighbors, workers

fathers, mothers,

one and all wrong

and wronged. Loners

and runners all

nightly migrate and post.

These sad faces do little

to hide loss and nerves

and misfortune.

These people with

withered lips

suck hard on death sticks,

pretend it’s candy.

It’s warm now,

no more hands stuffed in pockets,

cigarette clasped in teeth.

These sad souls,

these snapping turtles

smoke outside with

greater vibrance than in

the gray months passed,

smelling like whisky

and wheat beer,

smoke and oak.

Now pink cheeks lift

through the haze.

A happy buzz of

voices big and small,

washed over with sweet

citrus and coriander.

They’re all here now.

Everyone has a place.

This is theirs.

They drink, smoke,

hide and forget,

yet stay together.

The 3 Rs, revise, revise, revise

As much as I had hoped weekdays would provide time for revisions, with student teaching and school, the time just isn't there.

If only I had a Tardis.

No going back in your own timeline, though. On second thought, that may not work.

Hopefully this is a bit tighter than it's previous rendition. I think it still needs some work, but we're going to start here.

Origins

I am drinking green tea from China,

bought from a Polish bulk foods store,

seasoned with cinnamon from an Indian grocer,

sweetened with Michigan honey.

I scribble with a Holiday Inn pen

from a stay in Spring Lake, Michigan,

but made in Taiwan.

I am from Grosse Pointe

and Detroit, Michigan,

but also Terre Haute, Indiana.

Not the city, but the scruff along

the edges. The dust and the single

room shanties. Ford trucks and

Larry Bird paraphernalia and

too dry summers that make

the rows of corn weep.

The stalks sag from the sun,

shiver in the wind.

I am not from the city,

or the country, but somewhere

nestled in between

where the dialects of each generation

melt to form the language

farm to city to suburb

zink, sink

sal-ary, celery

drawel, pause

nasal vowels

forgotten consonants

voices in harmony, but also

timeless, placeless cacophony.

Origins

Origins

I am drinking green tea from China,

bought from a Polish bulk foods store,

seasoned with cinnamon from an Indian grocer,

sweeten with Michigan honey

while I scribble with a Holiday Inn pen

obtained in Spring Lake, Michigan,

but probably made in Taiwan.

I am from Grosse Pointe

and Detroit, Michigan,

but also Terre Haute, Indiana.

Not the city, but the scruff along

the edges, the dust and the single

room shanties that dot rows of corn

bringing with them Ford trucks

and Larry Bird paraphernalia.

I am not from the city,

or the country, but somewhere

nestled in between.

The dialects of each generation

melt to form the language

farm to city to suburb

zink, sink

sal-ary, celery

drawel, pause

nasal vowels

forgotten consonants

voices in harmony

timeless, homeless cacophony.