Senseless (in memory of Ricardo Bailey who died of a gunshot while just being there for his cousin)

(November 7, 2006)

I had not worked with Ricardo for very long. He was a nice guy; had a good time at work. I closed the restaraunt with him the night he was killed. I think that's why it impacted me so much.


Senseless.
No sense.
Make sense
          of the violent,
          of violence,
          of vile, of bile
scattered on the ground;
shattered on the ground;
splattered on the grounds
          that there are no grounds;
          it's groundless
          on the ground
found
          emptied,
          unloaded;
lost
          life;
                    left behind
          life
found;
fill with sense,
          sensation,
cessation of senselessness.

Hot Tears of War

(July 25, 2006)

Suddenly,
from months of smoldering,
a day of horrors
flight of flames
smoke-filled skies
blood
thinned, splattered, exploded
veins, arteries, hearts
burst from within;
vomited
from ripped flesh,
burnt flesh,
charred, incinerated
beyond human recognition
human
man
woman
child
gravely
remember childlike
love
fear
cannot destroy.

Life In A Fishbowl

(July 20, 2006)
This poem was inspired by one of Gary Larson's Far Side cartoons.

Floating endless circles
around pretend castles
and plastic treasures;
past a helmeted figurine
of a man
bubbling air that doesn't pass
through lungs;
looking out
at a magnified world
appearing larger than life,
wetter than aerated H2O;
masticating
in personal defecation
and crud covered pebbles
thinking…
                    Should the castle burn
                    and I escape the flame
                    to flop a slimy stain
                    upon the tablecloth—
                    Am I not now more screwed?

The Faith of Science

(May 2006)

Were you there?
Did you witness the Bang?
                              or the Boom?
(If no one was there, did it make a sound?)
Was there a bystander
          to the splitting of Dark and Light?
                                        Day and Night?

Did you see
the whorling, swirling, mixing
of rocks and gases,
compacted compounds
(ta da! the energy pill)
                                        (We still have to
                                        figure out where
                                        that little sucker
                                        came from.
                                        What?
                                        It's always been!
                                        Behold!
                                        The Omnipresent Rock!)
become planets and suns.

Was it you that started the clock ticking
to decree the cosmos birthday
to be in the billions and billions?
Start the clock!
          Atomic or planetary?
But wait!
Planets unformed,
          atoms unstable.
Time unmarked, irrelevant.
Rewind.
(The speed of light is slowing
          and the rowers keep on rowing.)

And it's all unconnected—
          connect the dots,
          see the signs,
          imagination unwinds—
your “evidence” doesn't scare me.

I oversimplify?
God!
Maybe it is.

Death of a Prophet (dedicated to Ron Gatrelle; pastor, brother, friend)

(May 2006)

And the man of God was laid to rest today.
The speaker used the word prophet
     with an uncapitalized “p”
     (I don't think he dared).
     He didn't personally know the man—
          the man of God—
          the vessel that
          though cracked and chipped and scratched
               poured out
               what was poured in.
               (How could that hold water?)

Well, they said,
He's dead…
     guess we were
     wrong/right
     about him.

But Prophets die,
(they're not immortal you know)
     and occasionally another one
     comes along behind him.
     (Faster. Stronger. Better than before.)

Besides,
     does the Truth die?
     Do prophesies fade?
     The grass still grows
          after the tree is but a stump.

Anyway,
     the man of God moved on,
     shedding the cocoon of this life
     for the wings of the next.

And whether we liked
     the coarse, imperfect human being,
     (how many true prophets are really well-liked?)
     the facts of the words
          that were not his
          remain.

Field of Balloons

(December 16, 2005)

And so, he grabbed all the comic book dialogue balloons that appeared above his head and colored them with the worn and broken crayons from the box of 64 (he couldn't afford 120) and filled them with helium to the breaking point and tied them to the antennas of pre-owned vehicles in the used car lot with shoe laces, fishing line, strands of hair in hope…

And the people bought the cars and for the most part just popped the balloons, while others let them dangle and blow in the wind of 55 miles per; though a few—just a few—cut them loose to rise to the clouds and fall wherever dead balloons fall…

                                                                      * * *

Today's Farm Report has been brought to you by
White Cloud Motors—
“Seeking to Satisfy with Quality”
since 1962.

Shadow of My Shadow

(December 2, 2005)

                    Sitting on the stoop
               sipping black morning coffee,
          groggily contemplating
     the backward movement
of my shadow's shadow.

The not so early pre-noon sun
     peered over the treetops,
          reflecting my shadow
               off the sliding glass door
                    onto the dew spotted grass.

               So when my right hand holding
                    the steaming java moved right,
          the shadow's shadow's left
     moved left;
               casting a shadow on my thought process.

               Looking back at the glass,
               attempting to comprehend
               how the duplicate shadow
               (through whatever laws of light)
               could still be me.