Dark Blue Dress Suits

This time of year, this dark patch we have between Thanksgiving and Mid-December/Holiday stuff, always reminds me of 1989. I had just barely met Christine, yet was still seeing someone I'd seen on and off since the summer.


Dark Blue Dress Suits

She wore me like she washed her laundry,
  cold/cold, optional second rinse if wanted

I heard her friend privately whisper to her
  "Who’s this?"
"I’m just trying him on,"
   "If he doesn’t fit just let me know,"
The friend lives on the first floor in her same building

Two days later, ringing at her apartment building door,
  the friend opens her window, says
"I guess she’s out, you can hang out with me ‘till she returns,"
  Beacon Hill and our Boston Common love,
When she turned up, she sent me out for Dark Leggs
  while (I knew) she called the guy she called her boyfriend

She wanted to leave at the intermission of the Nutcracker,
I’d never seen the Second Act before,
  a balloonic tour of cultural world dancers,
After cheap eats we watched "To Kill a Mockingbird"
  on a B&W TV at her place,
She didn’t know Boo Radley was Robert Duvall

4 am, in bed, I'm lying with her and to myself,
So I rolled over and caressed her there, she woke up and said,
  "Ken, what’s wrong?"
Dark blue dress suits and purple eye shadow,
  why am I doing this?
I’d recently met a nice girl at work

　

Midnight Mouse

I began writing this last February, then our Fluffy died (early March) and I needed time off.
Now it's getting cold again, the post seems timely.


Midnight Mouse

They look with intent from their window perches,
He in the higher, crouching chin over the edge,
She in the lower, upright with her head a tilt,
There is something out the window ledge,
… moving, … doing, … what?
Their heads turn right… left… right…

For amusement, I hung
  a Winter feeder out the window, on a level where they rest,
Clear suction cups hold up a tray, where
  daily my fingers kick out the snows, and
Scoops of seed bring on the tits, the chick’dees,
  gay green and red Cardinals,
Call it ‘Cat TV,’ and 
  pouncing ensues!

Yet tonite no bird takes interest,
  none will leave it’s common roost,
They remain heaped in tree hollows, under eaves,
  warm in their numbers with the common flock

The ghostlight Moon blues on phosphorescing snows,
  cat heads right… left… again,
She pounces at the window edge, where
  glass clear of ice partitions prey from paws

‘Ha ha Cats! I’m eatin’ yer seed…"
 
  as I rise to investigate, I see
A whippy tail cliff dive from the ledge without a ‘chute,
  likely back in the hedge from whence it climbed,

And have I told you?
  I’ve seen droppings in the basement!

(I know, it's a bulfinch not a mouse. Still best pic I could steal offa the Goog!)

Black Band for a Placard

I concede, I'm 55 years old, and I've become a ranting curmudgeon.
I hold the truths of this rant to be self-evident.


Black Band for a Placard

They don’t hand out political signs anymore,
  I had to buy this one, online, $12.00 + shipping $18+ !
I put the sign up day it came,
  ‘bout a week before election day,
After we voted we stuck pur ‘I Voted’ stickers on it,
  that night, you know what happened

Now that’s near two weeks gone
  and the sign’s been up longer after the election than it was before,
Somethings, we just don’t wanna let go

She wanted to keep it in the garage, but
  I don’t wanna be reminded everytime I need a tool or the lawnmower,
I thought we should tie on black armbands,
  make a toast with the best Irish whisky, Schlanta!
Then dig a plot and lay it rest with a bouquet of roses,
  maybe ask the neighbors kid with the trumpet to pump taps 

And I go out
  and it’s gone!
Some cracker stole my yard sign,
  week ‘n a half after the election!

I’ll call the police!
  "No, we don’t investigate political shenanigans,"
I'll write a letter to the editor, all punctuation marks!
  "%$*#@(*)!",
   no, they’ll think it’s from some funny pages character,
Call my insurance, I’ll fail a damn claim!
   "No, we only insure for the current value of an object, not the cost,"
Which, two weeks after an election fer someone ain’t gonna run again, is
  butt kiss!

Is it not enough our votes go uncounted?
Is it not enough the electoral college disenfranchises all votes
  for a candidate once over 51% in a district?
Is it not enough electoral college votes cost only one third
  the number of voters in rural states over urban ones?
And today, is it not also too much,
  to be told even the tokens of remembrance,
  for the values, the progress, for the candidate, we believed in,
Have become so worthless in this nation?

Next door I hear the kid, and
   the shrill trumpet that bellows ever louder

The Pale Male Experience

2006, February, after a week in Connecticut, spent my last day in a bird watching expedition. Kinda one of those life list things that I'd always wanted to.
Somewhere in my clutter and my irretrievable jpegs there really is a picture of me, in my birdwatching camos, having a character meet & greet with The Donald (and no, not that one!).
Id'a posted it if I could'a found it.


The Pale Male Experience

Walked up 5^th Avenue from GCT,
Met Donald Duck in the Disney Store,
  had two dry martini’s with a lemon twist in an empty Oak Bar,

They served me even though I wasn’t ‘dressed,’
Maybe they thought my camo pants were military,
  maybe they thought who gives a fuck

Half an hour later. behind the boat pond,
Two men at a park bench share a telescope,
  white, yard long, on a tripod

"Heard they found the female near the Delacorte,
  believed she caught a poison rat,"

Searching not up in the night sky,
Nor in the Easts’ vast cloudless blue, but
In the Winter’s afternoon sunlight, warming
  on a ledge of sticks

"A new bitch already flown in,
  hawks bond with the nest, he won’t mind"

February’s come and mating season’s on, as
St. Valentines, lewd Cupids ubiquitous sex race-start gunshot
  commences the rapture of all raptors

He’s a handsome hawk, whiter than most,
Stout, sturdy, look at you like he has only two thoughts, 
  kill you, or ignore you / don’t care,
She's his junior, deeper colors but still paler than most,
Clean, hawkishly demure, likely born & raised in Westport, maybe Darien,
  a Connecticut girl!
He’s standing on her back

Chillin’ in the cold shadows, I wonder too,
Is Woody Allen at home? His apartment’s next door,
Writing a new movie? Has he found
  the top of his old portable typewriter?
And the Arabs, are they behind the curtains with blinds drawn,
  covering the window, under the nest?

"Lived in a condo under a fat chick upstairs,
  banged her fat man every night,
  thought they’d cave in on me!"

"Imagine fucking neighbors like these,"
   he said, looking again at the love birds through his glass

It Could’a …

I know I mentioned Ted on the Facebook link, but it's not really about Ted, or the church mouse or the organ.  More like one of those private moments you have on a Sunday morning.


It Could’a …

From over there I heard a… note?
  … a sumpin’,

It could’a been the microphone amp,
  pickin’ up AM talk radio again,
  even though no radio’s around

It could’a been the church mouse,
  who leaves sunflower shells behind the hall radiator,
  no one knows where he gets them

It could’a been the cross wind draft,
  howlin’ encore notes through the organ pipes,
It could’a been Angels in the up above,
  wingin’ in clouds, askin’, "Who? Who?"
It could’a been the horned owl, on the pinnacle cross
  atop the west wall keystone, at the roof peak,
Like the Angels the owl ain’t visible in sunshine

It could’a been the ghost of gone Ted Albin, parish albino,
  had diabetes so bad he was blind,
I once offered him a hymnal,
  "You know, I’m blind!"
  "I know, I just wanted to help…"

It could’a been that note, you know,
  the one that comes when everyone’s singin’ that hymn,
  the note that no one sings, but everyone together makes

It could’a been that thing the Unitarians say I imagined,
  I mean, it could’a …  

Flying Horses

Existential validation often arrives hand in hand with every day life. And, there are also the simple loving memories of Martha's Vineyard vacations with my Christine. 


Flying Horses

I like it,
  I’ll keep it,
Well not IT, there’s only one, and they’ll need itback for the next round,
  but the free ticket they gave me!
I wanted to, and framed it,
  to show my grandchildren

"Hon, what are they doing?"
"They’re reaching for rings. If you get the brass ring, you get a free ride,"

We mounted our steeds,
  ‘hundred plus year old wooden horses, glass eyed,
  horse hair manes, and tails, fancy old paint,

"Once some guy got upset, and getting off he kicked one of the horses,
  can you imagine, kicking one of these precious old horses?"

The gate bell rang,
  and we ran to the carnival organ,
Kids ahead reached out,
Some tried hooking a ring on each finger, to grab at more than one,
So did I, pinky, ring, middle, index,
  all were tin and I cast them in the box

Come around again, I lean out, hold on, balance
  pinky, ring, middle, index,
Four more in the box

She said "They’re getting near the end of the song,"
  and, "Sometimes they have to refill the rings,"

Pinky, ring, middle, index,
 again

She said, "We’re stopping, I didn’t see, did anybody pull the ring?"
  "Hon, hon, look!"
  "Where?"
I pointed up with my index finger,
  as Michealangelo’s Adam, reaching for God, I said,
  "Hon, hon, look!"

It was near closing, the lines were long, they offered me popcorn,
  "Popcorn, that's so impermanent,"
So that’s what that is,
  and that’s why I’ve kept it, framed on the wall

2000 O’Twenty

A similar theme to AutoVerks (see a few weeks ago), When technology puts us all out of work , who is gonna buy the crap they make?


2000 O’Twenty
(imagine; a city street pots‘n pans robot, doin’ the macarena)

I’m 2000 O’Twenty,
I was installed to save some money,
Employing people cost too much and had to go

I think in digits making widgets,
Twice as productive as all humans,
And I will never need a break to use the can

If there a problem with your gadget,
And our widgets fit your budget,
There’s a pile of them outside there by the sign

At first rich people bought our product,
Then once all humans had been well plucked,
Our auto-boss could not see we were fucked

Now we robots don’t buy widgets,
We’re just repetitative midgets,
Who it costs less to keep on running than turn off

Once monied people bought our product,
But now the boss has yet to deduct,
That with all people out of work they cannot pay

They gave us robots all the jobs,
People got poor and dressed like slobs,
And for awhile they ran around in rioting mobs

Since no one’s paid for one in years,
There’s no one left who can I fear,
But we’ll keep on making them until the end of time

It’s 2000 and twenty nine,
There’s no more people on the Earth,
The World is run by ants, and we’re all doing fine

The roof has sprung a leak,
My arms they groan and squeek and creak,
Someday I’ll rust in place but ‘till then I don’t mind

Dark Shadows

Fair disclosure, nothing here to do with Banabus Collins. Mostly a sort of Halloween hangover with a dash of self loathing and karma.


Dark Shadows

The Dark Shadow stalks, intending to usurp,
  always it steps in my shoes,
  and sits in the seat I am bowing to first,
I have tried jumping up, but then when I come down,
  it is back in my tracks once again

Nine lives past I was a cat, hated my tail,
  vexed I’d growl and scratch it at,
Bolt up runaway, only to
  hiss and slash all the more
  when it pursued me to the other room,
Cat can’t run from it’s tail,
  that’s just chasing a bad reputation

Terrible things, now
I know what I’ve done, and those tales
  still follow me too,
The sunlight of day will not burn it away,
  the cast of the sun lays it out,
Even surround me in a circle of klieg lights,
  my shadow still howls underfoot 

Scat cats, curse another,
  yet the others keep pointing me out,
It’s the ball and the chain that both waxes and wanes,
  it’s the shadow one cannot turn out

And, it’s the secret that creeps,
  back on into my seat,
And the kitten that naps,
  on my world weary lap,
When I sit with the Buddha
  and still

When I

Some years ago, while being treated for depression, a clinician told me that were I a child, they'd likely diagnose me with ADHD and prescribe Ritalin. But since I'm an adult now, they don't do that.
With the Facebook link to the poem is a link to the cartoon mentioned, if you're interested.
Please, if you go, come back and read more of my poetry.


When I

When I could not make way for tears,
The rain did that for me,
When I could not have fun for years,
The moonlight let me see

Within a world outside of me,
To others only did things happen,
I heard letters ADHD,
Never believed I was misshapen

I saw a cartoon schoolboy with,
Schoolwork papers writ in Danish,
I thought the boy shoud eat them all,
He looked so pale and famished