MARCY’S OVERCOAT

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It sits staring at me.
Sprawling, cozy and secure
in its own private space
on my cushy black leather couch.

I won’t dare touch it.
Marcy’s overcoat
tan and tailored
like Bogart, Sherlock Holmes or Columbo
well, maybe not Columbo.
They all wore one
every cloak and dagger
the British had to have them.
All that damn rain
and a good place to hide a gun
during a war.

This one is Marcy’s.
No wrinkles, no stains
only the scent of her exotic cologne
from a small shop in Paris
so one of a kind.

Strands of her long, shining blonde curls cling
beaming her surrendering smile
and squeaky siren laugh.
Her petite sexy body
is a firecracker in July
kindled to burn the passion
to the tips of your fingers
moving rapid fire through your body
and charring to the core.

Sadly, she won’t return for it.
She is like that, Marcy.
Always gets everything she wants.
A first time, good time, every time
graciously letting everything fall behind her
as if she had a royal consort on her heels
every minute of every day
picking up all of her discarded victories
then suddenly, as always
transformed to total failures.

Not me, though
but her overcoat, for sure.

THE MACHINE KILLED CREATIVITY

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The machine killed creativity.
I saw it for myself.
It bludgeoned all artistic strides
and massacred the rest.

Musicians first, were bound to atoms
then cast down to synthesize.
Pouncing notes on wired keyboards
for light waves to analyze.

Painters great, were also slaughtered
by brushes of true bits.
Destined for their graphic tabs
and bland electric teats.

Sculptors once again were chained
by circuit boards and digits
building funky little trites
of solder, wire, and widgets.

Writers were then gathered up
and tortured by their software
making acronym of literature
while cleansing hard drives bare.

Movie folks were also brandished
and scattered without vision
destined for the rerun click
from the mouse of indecision.

Poets, whom of course were last
bore out the worst derision
they were left with but a hint
of electric mysticism.

The machine killed creativity.
It will show you no remorse.
Keep your wafers powered up
to wait the next resurgent force.

 

RIVETS AND BUNS (A War Story of Love)

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Her soft hands
warmly knead my flour
a precious cargo
booming to land another flawless mission.

To Paris on her smell.

He doesn’t feel the final rivet snap
blooming foreskin
shielding the butt tip of his cockpit
as it rips apart
on his final approach
to her runway.

He smells the Paris of her hands baking.

MOVING PICTURES

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You have always been a movie to me
knowing I could never touch you.
Now you sit and stare at me
from the other side of a bottle
on this table here between us.

I feel as if the magic is missing
you are not the star I dreamed of.
Once you were my shining light
in a dreaming heaven
of a momentary wish.

Now I see what I am left with
is not what I had hoped for.
And I see what I am watching
is not what I enjoyed.

You have always been a movie to me,
and now my life plays in reverse.
I never could quite touch you
and now I know.
I’ve touched too much.

 

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER COMMUNION

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They run like colts
in river beds of solid wines
flicking whatever berries

at each other
or something.

They both understand the language
wondering with each other.
Laughing,
and knowing

when they hurt each other.

Suffering for each others pain
and crying
because they dance

in each others rain.

 

DIZZY DEVON BROKE HIS STICK AGAIN

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Old Dizzy Devon broke his stick again
seems he was pumping someone to the floor
it was back behind the Cue Shot hole
beating and screaming
over some two bit whore.

I knew the bitch, yeah
what a lush
needle marks like chicken pox
Dizzy never was for brains too many
the other pimp deserved the score.

He must have sucked that gin down cold
I’m told the pimp smiled to the morgue
old Dizzy, yeah,
he sure knows how
to use his stick at night.

No eight ball, cues, or felt no more
Dizzy ain’t around to tell
no one’s seen him for awhile
it’s not the first time Dizzy’s gone
ask any fool at this damn hole
he’s broke his stick before.

LOVE ROAD

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They are tearing up the old road again.
The road we built
with sweat and blood
and paved in dreams of love.
Old man Grady died there.
Fell off the steep ridge cliff
into a mad white torrent river
clutching his pick-axe firmly.

For three days we stopped work.
His wife still visits every year
throwing colourful fresh flowers
from her lonely summer garden.
Back then we worked the mules.
And at the end of every day
the men would gather
with whiskey bottles and rye.
Women would bring cheese and bread.
We laughed and praised the road.
God would smile upon us.

Before the road
we could never get across
after the hard spring rains.
When the winter snow dropped
we were an isolated island.
No one would dare the mountain.
Every six months
we would haul our goods to town
selling our animal skins and crops.
We kept the children happy.

I hear the bulldozers coming now.
Our love will soon be paved over.
The women and children are crying.
They hit a silver vein
and the mining company is bringing
their bankers and lawyers.
Our love has been bought and sold.
They are tearing up the road again.
The road we paved
with dreams of love.

 

SNAKE OIL CURES FOR LITTLE MEN WITH SMALLER DREAM

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I heard your poem on the radio today

little children were crying and bleeding

bowing to your mighty power

I pulled my glass eye out

and rolled it down a bubble-gum sidewalk

three flies were mystically immersed in conversation

they were talking about you, of course.

How you fought off all the angry slaves

so we could all drink milk and hug when

the cheerios were no longer crunchy.

 

I stepped on a pile of you today

but my new no-stick nuclear shoes

kept me balanced and poised

for your next question.

I had to answer honestly

as all the satellites were

joyously listening

and the quiet drone

of your new found synthetic existence

filtered the last ounce of sincerity

in the world.

 

Now everything is happy blue

and darkness hides inside a solar flare

my chain keeps rattling loudly

inside this cold locked chamber.

All the hammers and shovels

were worn down to splintered oak.

I forgot what trees looked like

and when I pulled your plastic vagina

from underneath the dusty glass dome

it wouldn’t talk to me anymore

it dried out and shriveled away.

Now all I have left is a rusty nail

and two holes in my blood soaked hands.