freedom rings

freedom rings

the word

will never be

big enough.

the mouth

will never remain

full, no

everything must

go down,

down,

down.

a stomach gurgles,

teeth gnash.

The Day the Sky Fell

The Day the Sky Fell

It sounded like rain. That's what woke me:

the patter of bees, mosquitos

flies and gnats crackling against the sidewalk,

exoskeletons like pop rocks.

I rushed to bring the dog inside.

Dead insects smattered across my cheeks.

The clouds sinking.

A bird broke its neck on the grill.

A white haze surrounded us.

Water beaded up on my arms and forehead.

As I struggled to drag the dog inside,

a power line fell and everything went electric.

The cicadas have gone

The cicadas have gone

The air stops buzzing with

the first cool whisper of fall.

The wall of voices is silenced,

leaving only the faint scuttle

of leaves swept across the

concrete by my boots.

Gone is the throttle of wings

constant as the sound of my pulse:

usually imperceptible, but

impossible to ignore once noticed.

The silence won’t last.

The song of a thousand

drunken violins

does not simply die

with the coming of fall.

In 17 years the offspring of

this summer’s cicadas will emerge

from the dirt. They will pick up the

song where their parents left off.

Carbon Dioxide (revision)

Busy studying the science curriculum for my future students, so just a revision for today. I think it may be time to pitch this darling, but that's another story.

Fresh work next week, I promise...

Carbon Dioxide

just after its fire

has been snuffed

a small twist of smoke

winds upward from

the head of a match.

oxygen becomes CO2.

exhale.

600 muscles

rack the body.

sink toes, heels into earth.

600 will bever be enough.

exhale.

no one dies

with air in their chest,

not even bad air.

Smoke Flees the Flames of Its Birth

My first prompt driven poem in at least 2 years. The prompt was, "Someone's house is burning." I'm still sorting through the line breaks, they seem awkward long, and perhaps even more awkward as they are now, in short snippets.

Smoke Flees the Flames of Its Birth

From up here I can see

the entire west side of the city,

a great cross hatched web

of black asphalt, interrupted

with rows of green trees

and dark rooftops.

In the distance,

deep inside the grid,

a house burns.

Even nine stories up,

I can hear the sirens.

Can almost smell the

plastic melting,

paint bubbling,

the carpets that hiss

as they burn like

ribbons of tissue paper.

Smoke rises in the distance,

curls between the trees

like a hand that reaches up

to touch the sky.

On the sidewalk below,

a man with a single crutch

pushes a shopping cart

full of bottles and cans.

Wheels rattle over cracks

in the concrete. Plastic

and aluminum rubble as

they bounce. Everything

is the same, in tact.

Junk Bound Riders (revised)

Junk Bound Riders

A man with wild hair and a red beard

stares through thick glasses, looks unsure.

The glass doors slide open. Bus 12A.

Cool air floats across the sidewalk.

An oasis in the summer heat. In time,

the man heaves his bag over his shoulder

and joins the others, their tissue paper skin

smudged like the stamps of cigarette butts

on the concrete.

My neighbor has arms like black licorice.

Her soft jaw chews words without teeth.

Consonants rounded like vowels

smack between her lips like taffy.

She rides often, but tends to go nowhere.

Mouth mashing, she flutters though

conversation after conversation.

No one is alone here. In the aisle,

a thin man clamps teeth to 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.

D.C. Comics baseball cap perched

on his head: S is for Superman.

This Bar is Now Non-Smoking (revision)

This Bar is Now Non-Smoking

It’s not quite my hundredth day and

I still miss the companionship:

friends huddle in doorways until

glowing embers dance

near lips. Fingers stained

burnt umber smash

cigarette butts into a brick wall.

Conversations of importance

never happen inside bars, but

here at the fringe you can still

feel the heat from inside;

hear the bouncers laugh

and sometimes the

hard crack of a pool cue as

it strikes. Here stand

the philosophers.

The nihilists.

No denying nothing.