broken bats

on wings of bruised jeans

Steve — Mon, 20 May 2013 10:34:14 +0000

broken bats aimed a telescope inward
and a telescope outward appeared
with 3 new fragments;

broken bats baseball
broken bats splinter-savage journalism
broken bats sound

the first stop is broken bats sound
where a sort of song
made up of two previous poems is ready.

so as broken bats branches into four,
enjoy a raft of morph….

the dare us kids
spin dizzy till they drop
to earth
where eyes float like lottery balls;
connecting dots with another’s astronomy.

canadian dinner for two

Steve — Sun, 19 May 2013 12:00:07 +0000

a beaver waddles its bare tribal ass
and i follow into the graveyard
where we dine on curly fries
and share a few daring glances,
our eyes like calm chopsticks
feeling 10,000 years of separation
melt
in 3 barefoot bites.

the other side

Steve — Sat, 18 May 2013 10:58:35 +0000

aquarium desires
bubble up
behind these window eyes.
nature is such a tease.

i found one of your dreams in the public garden

Steve — Fri, 17 May 2013 10:32:43 +0000

if you happen to hear yourself
in any of these poems or
not really poems,
it’s because you provided the bricks,
mortar too.
i just spaced it all out
with that tool
whose name I can’t remember;
the rectangular spatchula thingamajig

whoops! I almost forgot the poem about
your dream discovered in the lost and found garden…..

we don’t even have to decide.
we blow seeds with every breath
and top soil words are planted
in dawn’s dead mice odor,
bus cabins,
grocery check out lines
and the tumble cycle of words
makes bouquet.
we transplanters of ensemble.

telling time in a small town

Steve — Thu, 16 May 2013 11:04:22 +0000

st. pascal’s old age home is elemental with its
hairdresser, board games, books, cafeteria, transport commune,
and toilet views of barns beside
a silver church steeple.

there are no skyscrapers,
no riding shotgun sky.
the backseat is just fine.

i`m flipping pages of a book
borrowed from the prayer room.
it’s called ”prehistoric treasures”
i get ooomphed by its cave paintings of bison and deer
by its captions saying
”souls of killed animals are
invited to reincarnate.”.

i wander the railroad tracks
and then make a horse shoe return
to where heat is a cramped circle of legs resting
and the talk is 3-alarm fires and
the vandalized cemetery.

a second round of spice pie is served.

it’s only a cup of coffee

Steve — Wed, 15 May 2013 10:13:08 +0000

the train station scoreboard
hangs down
not in winners and losers,
but in destinations of
desert sky compass
waiting for all aboard again.
even the mcdonald’s tables play along
extending like tongues into the
wide-open terminal where
strange eyes crash and
maybe i’m not in a hurry.

they stuffed cigarettes in my pack

Steve — Tue, 14 May 2013 10:18:42 +0000

the statue with no name
is three legs,
four interlocked arms,
two stand alone arms.

it reminds me that their words
were never designed to boast,
just seduce us
deeper into ourselves
so we too might know the sound of
different instruments
and play fusion one day.

supermarket silence

Steve — Mon, 13 May 2013 10:14:31 +0000

she scans grams and expiration
with one eye as taxi driver
the other a farmer;
a creation story in reverse.

the swing of milk carton
from fridge to shopping kart
is the lost majesty of an elephant trunk
bypassing tree rings of ego
to earth as an orphan,
this psychic warfare in aisle 8
is a necessary drone.

chaos in the breakfast window

Steve — Sun, 12 May 2013 11:03:01 +0000

the shag carpet shows a path
of envy disguised as bandit.
she flings plates of corned beef hash.
the regulars barely notice.

i slip a napkin poem under the sugar tower
and dream of a next time coffee
around half moon diner.

even a little while is forever

Steve — Sat, 11 May 2013 11:08:54 +0000

manabush swoops into menominee’s valley
and like all previous springs,
miller park’s box seats
become porcupine needles
of no apparent clone.
carlos gomez is a spasm
and flirting .400 is more than a number.
it’s a jamboree of beer can pyramids
stacked in talisman fraternity
with mirth and merry
treating murphy’s law
to some after hours of
impossible dreams do come true,
in may anyway.