Last Camel

if only i could drown
suck down more of the toxins paying visit
to my chest.
would the smoke i breathe hold some answer,
would the ash slowly burn down until my searing fingers
were ready to grip a pen?

could i but cough out blood water
and something worthy enough
to clear the cloudy smokey haze
that pollutes my mind;

for i would like to see more,
less a dingy red glow,
and more an eloquent stare.
audrey smoked, why wouldn’t any
other girl,

gladly i would pass the pack,
snap the lighter,
and we could drown in the smoke.

and i cough, choking down
one last Camel.

Oh! Poetry

Quietly keeping cold evening company,
Curled up with a volume or a new collection,
How often do readers stop to view the
Laminated covers, or the fraying corners
of paperbacks.

How many colors and pictures have
Came adjacent to line after line of
Beautiful prose?

Oh Poems, everything about you
Warms my heart; your pretty evening dress,
The firm binding that keeps your insides
Cozy and complacent, thank you, oh thank you.

I am comfortable tonight. My eyes are light,
My mind is warmed, volume after volume of
verse, I have adorned.

Poem About Samantha

I promised myself long ago,
That I would not allow another head
of brown swoop bangs to steal my soul
Away from my writing, but alas,
Samantha,
You have robbed me and all the beautiful
Trees and shadows that I used to write about.

Somehow each extended metaphor leads back,
Dancing along the sticky red lipstick,
Glittering along soft plump lips,
To a smile and a kiss that no West Wind
Could confiscate, for what is the mastery of nature,
Without some blessed from to compare it to?

Nodding through my recollection,
Easily confused by the trips of isolation I have taken,
Deep into rows upon rows of morose, browning pines,
I seem to associate the color schemes to the wildly
Calming mocha-colored depths of your wide eyes
(Ah, the coffee I drink no longer sweet but still warm)
How I wish I could envy the man whose reflection He
Saw within those-
No, it is just the trees who stand tall, firm, alone with me,
Rustling and restless in the winter wind.

It is a sickness like the disease that killed Keats;
Holding hands with the thing itself that is killing me,
I lust, I pine, oh how i could reshape the ways of time
(as well as create a rhyming scheme to fit your mood)
Because, Samantha, what torments me more than
An unfinished poem,
Is the slow process of memory.

Disappearing like the sad mounds of snow in the Spring,
Strand by strand of the hair that dances atop your
Cheery body, goes to the wind,
goes to the left above your eyes;
I count myself lucky that it is the swoops that go last,
For I could never forget your kiss, your touch,
Your kiss.

Here are these words, songs and prose all
That amount back to you, I cough, I roll over in bed,
Restless and remorseful, while long stretches of road
Tear at my sides like tuberculosis.
Lovers in feverish kisses in empty corridors of the schools,
Where surely my poetry will never be taught,
Hand-holding gimmicks that result in the softest clasp,
Of fingers and soul: I am jealous, I am jealous.

Searching for some form of clarity, some form of stability,
I suppose I will continue to let my thoughts dance and swing
To the music we should have shared,
I will hold some black-dressed girl;
she will toss my heart across an empty floor,
And while new, shiny Bostonians clack underneath elegant legs,
I wake.

Dreams of trees and shadows and all the beautiful things,
You robbed me of; I do not want them back,
Just chance one more glimpse of your swoops,
before they go like the leaves.

Chalkboard, My Love, Our Mother

for my future students

No longer dreaming about
the next mornings’ courting in class,
I receive friendly advice from morning things:
my alarm clock, my comb,
the shower head, my lightly browned toast,
they all cheer me on as I put on my hat and coat,
walking out the door into an autumn morning,
they tell me the red collar biting the neck
of my knit sweater is perfect.
The sun is rising as I come to my love’s door.

Clinging tightly to my chalk rose,
I present to her my love, with my best intentions,
and kissing her softly her face brightens and fills,
and when my students, her children, walk in,
she will blush, smiling brilliantly with cheer,
she will share the love I gave to her:

like a wonderful mother
passing out hot apple pie,
in the winter cold,
the boys and girls will all be given
slices of Keats, Shelley, Byron,
With a hefty dollop of Wordsworth on the side.

Even Sillier

This is the last of new posts that will not contain poetry, I promise. I have to plug my radio life, and my Faux-Hawk....


Tune in to the Wildcard! go to wobn.net, and listen live, I have a show every weekday, with the exception of Thursdays; the show is good fun. I'll let you know when I have another solo program!

Return to Glory

Hey readers new and old, I know it's been quite a long time since I've updated, and for some reason, the cold Otterbein air has me writing lots and lots of poetry, so I have an abundance to share.

Look for updates more frequently.


Oh, and I've been growing up a lot too. I look silly now:

Free Ringers!

This is fucking awesome:

Free Ringtones