the general, with twig in hand

drawing pictures of
ancient battles in the dirt
shifting between worlds

a moment in the present
but for only a moment
then back to glory

his glory as it was
laid out for us on the ground
battle lines and fronts

armored divisions
the trenches and finally
him, above it all

lavender

the days, though
not quite days of despair,
seem to have taken on
a softer glow

the way light looks
through a lampshade
dusted with unnoticed years

he sits on the porch
on warm nights and listens
for the muted
echo of sweet laughter

that seems to rise
from the patch
of lavender by the walk
waiting in repose
for a bit of itself
to be taken up
and rubbed together
in a young woman’s hands

courting disaster

pacing back and forth
on the patio
howling like a tenor

his mind frayed
by instinct and frustration

allowed not even
a graduated amount of access
to his desired goal

who lay just on the other
side of the glass
stretched to her full length
on the sill of the basement window

neither aware that
at that very moment
I was taking up a broom
to put an end
to all this
disruptive courting

on a branch of a magnolia tree above the mound

in some eclectic approach to
the song of mourning
the dove cooed in
counter time
with the cricket

sawing out the rhythm
of a missing hearts beat
somewhere in the grass

there
where the headstone will go

self

;

boredom overtook me
so I did a self portrait
opting to do so in
colored pencils and crayons

given my skill set it seemed
less dangerous than, say, welding
together a sculpture of myself
out of bits of abandoned cars
and fencing – a striking monument
composed of scrap –
of a youthful me
posed heroically
with one hand to brow
a musket in the other

I thought, maybe,
a collage
of my visage fashioned from
magazine ads and macaroni
would be interesting
however, there seemed to be
a lack of noodles in the pantry

so I kept it simple
using the pencils and crayons
found in a coffee can

and, while leaning back deeply
into the pillows on the couch
I captured myself
on a scrap of parchment
in hues such as
canary
rouge pavot and
persimmon

contemplating revenge

I know she was up there
lapping away at the butter
I had failed to cover again

for all of the stealth that has
been attributed to her kind
she always sounds like a ten pound
ham steak hitting the floor
when she hears me coming

I’ll round the kitchen doorway
and question sternly
a creature who’s only
response will be
nonchalant grooming with a paw
and a casual rub
on the leg of my pajama pants

as she saunters away
I get down the bag of
food to fill her dish
half tempted to lick each
piece as I do

naturally

stepping out of the
air conditioned room
to look to the quadrant

of the Florida sky that
I heard the
local meteorologist say
would be holding Mars

I couldn’t fight the thoughts of
pulling a Houdini
and staying beachside forever

every night from here on in
would be spent
with you sleeping on fresh linen
and me with my sand covered feet

on the railing of a balcony
drawing slowly from a cold beer
and squinting upward

waiting for the God of war
to make an appearance

small sketch series no. 1

ice bound hounds of
bad descent howl from
where they are anchored
in the bergs and floes of
their misanthropy

circumstance of gravity

they gather there
the pigeons
the gulls
below statues of
our cities revolutionary heroes
crowd sourcing a solution
concerning the consumption
of scraps discarded
by the lunchtime throng
that pours from
offices when the weather
deems it possible
they, both those with wings
and those without,
dance around each other
all squabbling in their own
language – until the wingless
are sucked back into
the towers
disappearing like light
succumbing to the
circumstance of gravity

you, of course

you, of course
had no way of knowing that

the feeling, from the first
moment it
took up residence
in your chest
would become
lifelong haunting