The broadsides project

fail faster

anthropologically upright
could be,
that’s one opinion,
either way, it is a bit of fortune
owed to
one particular bonding of
luck and timing
a spark that stayed
in the jar
among a trillion such
firings in early
environmental engineering
the gift
(wrapped to look like destiny)
gave us
a small nudge forward
a slight edge in a slow race
a gamble that
we
would no longer
fail faster
than all of the rest
each tugging at the
neckline of their new form
and mouthing lines
written for their roles
by an obviously drunk
and disillusioned
scribe

2012 Fred Whitehead

postman

the flag snaps in the breeze
that seems to sidestep the
neighborhood holdouts whose lungs
match that of
the sidewalks wheeze
the back alleys belch
fetid warning
and the trash
barrels roll along the gutter
bankorphaned proprietors don’t
shelvestock
anything sustaining to life
beer, cigarettes, lottery stubs
the empty remains of
which hold masses of gratitude
for the addictees,
they multiply along the rotting
clapboard storefront
along with plastic tubes
of frozen sugar water
their colors gone
sucked dry by
shoeless children who
run in happy packs as long
as the light remains
the congregants of the old church
repeat tracts of their youth
to the congregants of the new
but the choir isn’t singing
and the pipes have gone silent
and the bells
only ring at noon
signifying some divide in the day
sending little more into
the air than flocks
of pigeons
their flight tracked daily
by the postman
who may have had words
of significance for all of this
stored in the flask of forgetfulness
in his hip pocket
it’s weight offsetting
that of which he carries
but the words, if he had them
would only be lost
among the unopened envelopes
and their meaning beat into
shell shocked dogs
by the desperate and forgotten

nap

it’s easy falling in love
with the lady in the front row

wearing that same look
she always does
when riding me
about slowing down or
telling me to take
an afternoon nap

and I must say
she’s never looked lovelier

so, I’ll go ahead and submit
to her oft suggested nap
on this nice velvet lining
and the pillow is fine enough
bunching comfortably around
my stiffening ears
and as I drift into that
much sung about slumber

I can hear muted chatter
the laughs I hoped would drown
out any sobs
and the director practicing
the lines I wrote as a blanket
apology and heart felt thank you,
purposely secular
and wise-assy enough so
there will be no suspicion
of it being ghostwritten
though, in a way
I suppose it was

as the morning winds down
and the children get antsy
I wish only
to be remembered
in the quietest moments

and for at least one of the
bearers of the box to have
his shirt tail hanging out
or his tie tied wrong

bored

bored

“I am bored out of my skull”
said one
“better than I”
said the other
“for I am bored in mine”

2012 Fred Whitehead

what Gregor knew

we are
confined by the laws of
inheritance

documenting the results
of dominant and recessive traits
for ourselves
trying to decipher
coded trajectory we
sway like pods
in an Abbey garden
waiting to be
harvested and
opened for observation

watching her read Wanting To Die

the year I was learning
to master language
she was in her living

room reading
Wanting To Die

I watch her now the only way
I can, in
shades of gunmetal and dust

film of her in a chair
breathing her intension
the light

fighting to escape eyes
that catch the lens
on all the right syllables

2012 Fred Whitehead

launch

don’t take flight
into tomorrow
until you have reached
the highest point
of today

the simplest way to save the world

I wondered what exactly
that would be
on the T.V.
there was some ivy league kid
making a glorious shot
from the bunker
nine inches from the pin
he’ll take this round, easy
ensuring his investment banker
daddy a proud day up in the
clubhouse

I left it there, the crowd sending
their approval into the air as
my thoughts found their way
back to the saving of the world thing
I got up from the couch
and walked outside in my boxers
and laid down on my lawn
save the world from what?
from us I suppose
nothing simple about that
the tumor has threaded its’ way
in pretty deep

the grass felt better than
the couch so I stayed there
a while, watching an ant
that was surveying my belly
a sparrow on the telephone line
and the patchwork of
jet trails high above me

“afternoon”
I said to the shaking head of the neighbor lady, floating
disembodied, above my fence

yea, I concluded
nothing simple about it at all

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