Poem : The Tower

The tower on the hill
With the faraway eye
Blinks red in the shadowed sky
Of early morning darkness
Like a ruby
Like a rose
Burning a thousand shades of energy
Shouting silently
Secret thoughts of serenity
With each flash
Like a beacon it calls to me
Each day’s dawn
Through the rolling fog of the faraway farmland
Falling from the end of night
I see it on the way to the factory
To the time clock
I see it glowing in the distance
As I make my way through the small town
The place of my work
Riddled with tin roof houses
And cars resting on blocks
I know this light well
Its steel frame jutting far above the forest’s canopy
Its support cables wound to the ground
With secure pulling tightness
This lighthouse of blinking
It stands on the hillside
Calling to my mind
To my memories
Through my wary bloodshot eyes of sleepless nights
Reminding me of the past and of the future
With each illuminating flash
Flashing forward and flashing back

Poem : X-Ray Moonbeams

Bitter meals in the desert
In the colored sand stone mystery of summer
Blowing in the wind
The wind did blow that night of nights
As I chewed my meal
I felt it slipping into my blood
My bloodstream it slipped in so softly it did
Slowly melting all that I saw
And I wondered
What is this strange new world that surrounds me?
A new world incased by the old
One that has always been here, but my eyes could not see
Until this night, when I was awakened by flashes from cameras
Their bright trials streaking in the air just before me
So I walked around to see what this new place had to offer
And I heard the full moon breathing just above me
Its edge moving in and out, in and out
With each breath
Its soft moonbeams of light now shine upon me
These beams look like long sheets of x-rays falling from the night
So I took refuge underneath a mesquite bush to shade my eyes
But this only complicated matters
For it shattered the sheets crashing through the tree limbs
Turning them into tiny tumbling triangular diamonds of color
My eye’s perception of this was like peering through a kaleidoscope
Melting shards splashing the air all around me
My old mind, from the old world asked, “Is this real?”
My new mind from this new world replied, “We’ll ask Alice.”
Then I think
Or maybe a rabbit with a wound watch of gold
Maybe Alice would offer me something to drink
Something that would make me a hundred miles tall
Tall enough to give the moon my inhaler
Its breathing must have been hindered by the smog of the city
So, beware of meals in the desert
You might run into Alice or a rabbit
Maybe even a moon that wheezes with asthma
All possibilities
When the moon shines upon you with x-ray eyes

Poem : A Far Away Place

Away, away, in a faraway place
My mind does often go
Drifts and dreams
With imagination
To this faraway place
Where the hills are green and flow from my eyesight
Like green waves disappearing into the horizon
A place where streams trickle with blue water magic
Where plush treetops sway against the skyline
And small creatures scurry about
Without a care in the world
A place where clouds don’t exist
Except when I need them
To shade my morning eyes from the sun
When I lay back in the meadow
And feel its warmth upon my skin
Then
In a moment
I’m brought back
Back from this far away place
By the morning grumbles of the boss man
“Production! Production! Production!”
“I WANT PRODUCTION!!!”
I guess production is the name of his faraway place
For it’s hard for big fish to flow freely
Outside of their small pond

Poem : Caught By The Wolf

Looking back and looking forward
Has always been the same for the blue-collars
For our fathers taught us well
Wise words of their teaching
“Don’t let you wants out weigh your needs.”
Sayings that kept us safe from the wolves
But the wolves were never dressed in sheep’s clothing
They were crafty and came in so many forms
They wore hardhats, and called themselves supers
They came to us in suits
With promises of bigger and better tomorrows
They said “No money down.”
“Your dreams can start today.”
The wolves now call themselves collecting agents
But still no sheep’s clothing
Each day I see so many that are struggling
Caught by the wolf
And the ones that are not caught
Are just one or two paychecks away
From his teeth gnashed waiting to bite
We’re working while looking over our shoulder
We’ve sold ourselves back to the factories
To the scratches of raw flesh infection
To the cut-saw
With its carbon tips braking off and flying like bullets
Yes we’re doing the best that we can to make a dollar
At least this is what I tell myself
As I see the workers that have managed to hold on
That start their morning with a beer in the shower
Their skin glows a light pink florescent
As they work their ten hour shifts
To make cheap rent and a case of even cheaper beer
All to burn away the memories of what once was for the working class

Democrat vs. Republican vs. Beetlejuice

One of my coworkers today broke the monotony of classic rock playing on the radio by telling me about her recent encounters with a one legged man she refers to as Charles Manson. This was a welcome story because 10 hours of classic rock mixed in with political commercials this time of year make 10 hours feel like 20 hours of hell.

My coworker, who we will call Jane, started telling me all about Mr. Manson. She said he was constantly trying to flag her down for a ride when she passed him walking the long dirt road they both lived on. Jane’s face pulled tight with disgust when she described how filthy he was. She said he never wore shoes, or a shoe, on his one good foot, and he smelled so badly it was almost impossible to stand within 10 feet of him without gagging. But topping off all of her descriptions was her saying how one day in her home town’s convenient store she saw a roach on the floor run to him not away from him like they do with most folks. This is about the time my imagination started to take over. I pondered questions in my mind all while giving an occasional nod and smile to Jane’s ramblings. How dirty do you have to be to have roaches run to you in a store? Does Manson’s wooden foot look like it was made by the same guy that made the Happy Gilmore hand? Why doesn’t he wear shoes or a shoe? Man he must have one dusty ass foot…

Jane finally finished her tale and I went back to work. Now with yet another ad playing on the radio. I had to wonder, with all these political promises being made, what would the politician do for this one-footed, roach drawing man? If he had the power to vote would Mr. Mason suddenly become part of their demographic? Each ad I hear these days the  politician sounds more and more like a used car salesman. The only difference they’re selling dreams instead of cars. I guess the easiest way do describe my line of thinking on this is, each time I hear these ads I instantly think of that commercial in Beetlejuice. You remember, the one with him riding the mechanical bull swinging a lasso, claiming to be the afterlife’s leading Bio-Exorcist.

As the day drug on, I amused myself with the thought of the politician selling their dreams sitting on a bull with a lasso dressed like Beetlejuice each time I heard an ad. In my mind I could see them approaching the one legged Mr. Manson with their best smile, “Good day Mr. Manson. What a lovely roach you have on your shoulder. Let’s get down to business. What would it take to get you in to a new leg today? I really need your vote, you see. So, if I get your support, there may be a new leg in this for you. Well, kinda new. Well, newer than the one you have now. The only real problem it’s a left leg and you’re missing your right. But think about this. How much fun would it be to leave footprints in the sand with two left feet. Folks would always know it was you. I may even be able to throw in a pair of new shoes with it. It’d be hell getting the right one on but we could grease that bad boy up and get you where you need to go. I just need your vote and we can make your new left foot a reality. So, what do you say Mr. Manson? Can our party depend on you?”

I know after reading my absurd thoughts on these political commercials you may think I’m way off base with how ridiculous I think some of these ads have become. But listen to them for 10 hours a day loading splinter filled wood and you might see that they are sounding a little more like Beetlejuice and less like people that will lead us. But what do I know, I’m only a writer with a big imagination living one day at a time…        

Poem : White Crosses

This time of year
When the days become short
And the air is dressed with a slight chill
I remember a friend I lost many years ago
For the last time I saw her
Winter was almost upon us
As we spoke our last words to one another
Our warm breath hung still in the cold air before us
But it’s not just this time of year that I remember
I remember those times through songs
Through words someone might say around me
Or sometimes certain places we hung out together
These things bring my friend back to me
If only for a moment
Like a photo flashing in the still frames of my mind
I see her and remember
Even those homemade white crosses
That look like a roadway pauper’s grave
Make me remember
But not only her, many more
That have gone on from me
Dropped away because their fire burned too bright
Too fast
I reflect today
On the good times though
That’s all you have left when they’re gone you know?
It’s been over twenty years now
And the good times still seem like yesterday
For we were reckless youth living life with no limits
I still see her
Wild-eyed like an untamed cat
Laughing
Drunk on Boons-farm
Underneath the streetlights of the city
Underneath the moonlight of the country
Most of all, I remember her saying days before she left me
You will be something special one day
Someone people will love and want to hold on to
Don’t listen to the ones that say you should be
This way or that
Do what you believe in
And good things will always follow you
All just memories now
Cherished for I know there will be no more made between us

Poem : The Lizard King The Poet

Soft was his voice
For he spoke in a whisper
Yet, a voice that rattled with rage as he screamed to the heavens
As he danced in his madness
For Jim had seen through the eyes of a blind man
Blind to the rules of the world that surrounded him
He walked where he wanted
Wrote as he wanted
Sang as he wanted
The new king who was always a poet
Writing what he saw in the next world
The land between realities and dreams
Where the Navajo cries still drift in the sand filled wind
In photos you could see this reflected
In the dark gaze of his eyes
Look close the next time you see him and you will see what he sees
Look past his stare
The same way he looked past the camera lens
Into the world of his present and future
All of his making
His terms
But sometimes living this way can be difficult
Even for a king
For when the edge is where your footsteps rest
One step over becomes far too tempting
At this point
The limelight can quickly change to no light
A place of no coming back to this world
For kings
This is often the case
But for poets of songs their words will live on
Each time you hear them played
Now the king sleeps in the old dirt of Paris
Under marble scratched and graffiti with names of fans
Obsessed with the poet and his words of song
Generations after his life