DRUG DAYS
seconds go by at normal speed
one-one thousand, two-one thousand.
irrational thought no longer darts through my brain.
my veins flow slow and smooth with silky blood.
this heart only pounds at the sight of a loved one.
my calm mind deciphers emotion.
these hands only shake with rational fear.
my sweat is saved for the hot summer.
i sleep again through dark winter nights.
these days are not like the drug days,
three-one thousand, four-one thousand,
because i've slowed down enough to feel again.
FEAR
i've been in the middle of gang fights
where my wits were firing on all cylinders
out of necessity.
i've seen guns pointed
outside of shooting
ranges.
i have recovered from an addiction
that left me feeling as bad or
worse about myself
than a life-long anorexic.
credit card companies have me
on their most-wanted list.
health care providers have never heard of me.
i delivered two of my children
with the midwife steps behind.
i raise three kids in modern society.
my fears run the spectrum of a bag of skittles
i'm afraid to eat because of i have no dental plan.
i have never changed the way i lived,
thought, treated others, and molded my personality,
more than i have for the simple, yet complex,
fear of the unknown--
my greatest fear.
could the zero tolerance policies that blanket
school codes and laws across the country
stem from this?
are we allowing individual rights to diminish?
i may stand alone on this particular hill-top.
maybe i'm the only one who has changed for
the worse because i'm scared of the unknown.
but
i fear
i'm not.
MASK
at first, it seems to fit perfectly,
like an outfit tried on in a dimly lit room.
it can be as thin and transparent as paper
with rubber bands for attachment,
the smile drawn in for effect,
or from porcelain
artistically detailed with
the smallest of brushes.
slits can even expose the eyes,
as the years go on and the skills develop,
forming a one-way mirror.
it can be made from shiny shaved metal
as hard as what's behind it.
a scary one armed with piercings, spikes,
and a painted body is tricky
because a great beauty may lie beneath.
a brightly colored one accompanied by a
happy-go-lucky demeanor
can hide painful secrets.
it could have tears drawn in that
endless amounts of sympathy
never wash away.
it's often made from fear
or
the fear of fear.
it's often made from shame
realized
or buried,
but it's always made for you.
NICOTINE CRAYON
crayons couldn't color how i feel tonight.
neither could Van Gogh.
the stars squinted upon from a Manhattan rooftop
shine too bright.
swimming beneath the surface of a swamp
would allow too much light to hit my eyes.
my nightstand floodlight excessively illuminates 3:00.
it may as well be three p.m.,
the dark night is still too distant from my demeanor.
vampire black is the closest color.
midnight blue doesn't even come near.
but i don't want to see color.
any red reminds me of the lit tip.
my sleeping wife's brown hair--
the cigarette butt i want to kiss so lovingly.
fidgety, antsy, uneasy, leg twitching.
skin itching.
whining.
needlessly complaining.
a baby embellishing.
i knew i needed to quit
when my daughter
tried to color Pocahontas
with the end of my
easily stolen cigarette.
cold body.
dark vision.
frigid and shaking.
desiring comfort.
needing mama.
night one.
NO OTHER WAY
this poem is for the poets--
the ones who maneuver through a defense
to score the winning goal.
for Magic Johnson's no looks
and Jordan's mid-air acrobatics.
for the gardener's flower display
looking like a perfectly formed stanza.
for the lawyer's argument that leaves
no question in the minds of the jurors.
for the assembly line worker who never misses
a beat so as not to interrupt production.
for the musician who teaches rhythm.
for the journalist who writes an expose'.
for the psychiatrist who weaves through
thought and feeling.
for the farmer who
is
a metaphor for life.
this poem is for the poets,
because we know
no other way.
HIGH ROLLER
seven poems in eleven days.
seven poems in eleven days.
the crap shoot has begun
so i roll the dice daily.
come on 7-11.
i play my hand in every poem
with the uncertainty of a vegas regular.
odds makers say i should get a normal job.
one with security.
but russian roulette is not my game.
so i keep rolling
7-11, 7-11
my editor is my dealer,
necessary to play but often takes the ante.
it's all part of the game.
come on seven.
professional gamblers never
show their fear,
but somebody has to feel me
before i crap out.
i ask my wife and kids to kiss the dice.
then i shake the system with every poem.
i open my hand and let 'em go.
as success or failure spins outward,
i yell out, �come on, baby! daddy needs a new life.�
THIS POEM IS GOING TO BE PUBLISHED
this poem is going to be published
so i'm going to include all the right things.
first i'm going to get my dictionary.
it must seem as if i talk in a different language
than everyone else does; otherwise people might
think that i don't know how to look into a dictionary.
our entombing faces provided no wherewithal for syntax
but i'm used to the whirligig that is you.
this poem must include a dramatic name, preferably
about a break-up.
Scarred For Life
yeah, that will work.
next comes a simile or a metaphor about my breath.
my breath and heart gasps,
my breath dissolves like your passionless words.
i must say something about a womb and definitely use
the word
lilac. everyone uses that word, and i want
to be amongst the elite,
or better yet--
my mother's womb produced a lilac that used to thrive
in the coldest winter but your icy demeanor freezes my heart.
i have to finish with a keen observation that would
otherwise
mean nothing if this poem that is going to be published
never existed
and then i can put it all together.
Scarred For Life
our entombing faces
provided no wherewithal for syntax
but i'm used to the whirligig that is you.
my breath and heart gasps,
breath dissolving,
like your passionless words.
my mother's womb produced a lilac
that used to thrive in the coldest winter
but your icy demeanor freezes my heart
to a point no breath is necessary
for this break-up.
but, before the message on your machine,
i stare at our first picture
and remember when our shoulders
brushed.
today i can't tell the difference between
butterflies and discomfort.
now i just have to sign the ten-dollar check
and re-find the address for
Pretentious Quarterly
and i'll be set.
especially because i get my ten back, plus ten more
when this poem gets published.
GABRIELLE
smooth pebbles
may be able to skip across pristine glacial lakes.
mountains displaying myriads of colors
may shape a breathtaking picture.
gemstones and diamonds
may reflect the sun and prosperity.
gravel roads may even carry loved ones home.
but none compares to this tiny boulder
that stands ground amidst
vigorous rain storms, the swirling current,
and tears of life--
the rock that
holds my family together.
a stone so precious
that her very existence
makes me wonder how
atheists get by.