Moving Day

Boxes and boxes
line the floor and clutter consciousness;
how simple it was for the romantics

to evaporate outside this world and into

distinct harmonies in conjunction

with other worlds living in our own.

I think of bodies I have lived in;

as each box fills with different reminders

of the same persona.

To move is to live in limbo,

between here and there

Freedom knows no better set of wings,

then the incomplete and unhoused.

Somehow,

each configuration of things I have,

always on top is a delicate reminder of a lover.

The clothes is topped with silk pajamas,

from an anniversary,

Milk crates of food holds an uncooked meal,

noodles and sauce we had planned,

pens and notebooks and paper,

topped with a black and white photograph

of us dancing.

And as I eloquently two step from one home to the next,

I mistakenly live in a plot of tulips.

My flower and her reminding pedals,

always my home.

Strange Things I Heard at a Restaurant

I was always curious why the word

music,

Had its own motion in sign language.

There is a large cosmopolitan crowd surrounding me,

The middle Ohio upper class

Clogging the essential arteries of an upscale restaurant,

I look from person to person expecting some kind of likeness.

I find nothing, perhaps a familiar lack of patience.

Complaints are being tossed at the hostess

faster then orders for T bone steaks in the kitchen,

I hear that and ignore it,

wanting nothing to do with this culture.

I see a pregnant woman and her mother,

keeping close watch over an obnoxious,

overly curious

four year old, looking disgustedly around,

motioning at the waiting bench I am sitting on.

She sizes me up and determines that I am no worthy

bench mate.

No matter,

As I am seated I hear her saying something to her pregnant daughter,

about some rude people at a table making overt hand gestures at

each other.

I am trying to overhear something useful,

compelling.

As I watch the table beside mine,

A deaf man and three friends,

Their conversation is loud: hands are quickly

Speaking about their day,

Their dinners and surely how nice the weather was.

I wonder how long it took this man’s friends to learn,

the intricate art of sign language,

And I realize there is more beauty in this man’s thumb

Then the dialogue of every other table in the place.

As I watch, fascinated at how intently this quiet conversation

Fills these four friends with smiles,

That we take our language for granted.

They are practicing singing while I self-consciously pick

at a burger.

It is music to my ears

Latitude/Longitude/Attitude

I picture ripped jeans, red and black

knee patche’d punk rock kids,

shouting at cars driving by:

fuck this!

bollocks that!

anarchy!

And I laugh.

I picture my streets slithering around,

like a snake hugging the ankles

of unaware farmers digging in fields:

My streets create their own romanticism,

their own mysteries begin to unravel like

and undone scarf,

the knit wool slowly and quietly giving way

to the pull of the near spring warmth.

They wrap around

bollocks

My childhood memories, bicycle rides

and walks, getting stares from the punks,

with their skateboards.

Setting is mapped in lots of different ways:

latitude

longitude

attitude.

I wander on,

eying my brown turned hands as a Tootsie

melts into my mouth and on my fingers;

I will manipulate then to picking up stones, sticks,

toys that fell out of trees.

My streets hide me from disasters

like being lost.

I can’t imagine a world where spring doesn’t

feel like this,

where the knot of Poland, Ohio is a tangle

waiting to be sorted out,

by young boys determined to become

explorers.

Jack White: What ISN'T Your New Year's Resolution?

Dead Weather to Release New Single


HOLY. CRAP.

-Tony

Jack White: What ISN'T Your New Year

Dead Weather to Release New Single


HOLY. CRAP.

-Tony

An Open Letter

Dear Krista,

I hope that as our relationship continues and grows, we can eventually rock this hard.




Much Love
Yours,
Tony

sleeping lessons

bleary eyed and zoned,
bloodshot bound on the uneven paint on the ceiling,
she is chewing her nails until blood trickles down into her palm;
what does the reflection reveal?

perhaps answers to pensive and tentative questions

things likes,
why is she still awake?
why are her eyes red?

things that insinuate tears, pain,
after all, pools of blood never equate to pretty portraits.

the night time air settles as the molecules of the gloaming mix
and mingle
with the dust settling in her arms,
her hair completely still tickles the small of her back.

it's been down for so long, blonde,
somehow able to keep a shine despite the midnight light;

nervous,
her nightly duet slow dance charm with sleep is delayed tonight,
perhaps by the snow falling outside the window.

she needs sleeping lessons,
before she can dance. so sleep pretty pretty girl,
wash your hands and sleep.