sideman…

sideman

this ain’t
no
permanent relationship
it’s
more
of
a fling
with
an itinerant lover
shaping sounds
into
passion
causing
breaths
to be held
and
hearts
to pound
with
desire
fulfilling fantasies
without
touching
the
perfect
affair

poetry session with accidental tourists…

poetry session with accidental tourists

side street jivers
small time hoods
afraid of the hood
so
hangout
in unclaimed territories
where police patrol
an unpaid protection
from
gangs
and
undesirable pimps
pimps
who bring down
land values
with women
and
men
wearing last year’s wardrobe
of broken dreams
car horns
blare briefly
requesting
newly arrived
imported products
from international labs
or
upscale suburban labs
owned by
the same
corporations
as those abroad
but
delivered without
transportation cost
to dock workers
on their way
to unload ships
full of american flags
made in china
on their way home
via dimly lit bars
barrooms
adorned with
custom-made blondes
who sway
to half-heard music
from speakers soaked
with beer
and
stale saucy fantasies
fantasies
that help to drain
your uncle’s bank account
or
the guy next to you in bed
doesn’t matter
he or she
just the state of affairs
of affairs
common sexual fantasies
played out nightly
without regard
to sexual preference
nationality
gender
race
or
religion

the physics of time…

the physics of time

i was telling
aunt bea
about
a science program
i saw on tv
they were discussing
time
whether
or not
it existed
or
was
merely
something man
created
aunt bea
smiled
and
said
honey
time exists
time
is life’s knife
used to slice
our fantasies
and
dreams
into
bite-size
chunks
of
reality

cowboy…

he lives day-to-day
each evening he adorns
the same worn leather stool
as if it were his lover
caressing the foam on the beer
as if gently kissing a woman’s lips
his dimly lit remembrances of today
fade quickly as she moves to the silver pole
the delilah his mom warned him about
but she’s just woman whose husband split
when the baby was born with a palsy
so now she’s doing what she has to do
cause hospitals will save the child’s life
but ain’t gonna feed it once it’s out the door
with no other jobs in this wind swept valley
of poverty and commercial decay
their nightly fantasies pay the bills
as he places his silver tipped boots
on the brass bar
as cold as her heart is to each of them
he breathes quickly just like ever other night
singing aloud along with redneck mother
as she removes the last fibers of their civility
he can’t imagine anything finer
and doubts she’s got a problem in the world
up there making him happy
like all women should
getting all his hard-earned cash
just for a little shake of this and that
and he wonders how such people
get to have such an easy life
how they come to be so free
not tied down to a 40 hour week
or uh eight-hour day
and why some folks seem
to care about issues
which he judges  to
      have no answers
      or any directions
yet
over beer and whiskey
he solves those concerns
yet
unasked
or of any importance
to anyone outside
the sphere of his smoke rings