Thief

I got lots of things, Mama, but I never got caught.

Choked a locomotive train
back in the black and white days,
Channeled flannel-wearing men to jack
a cold sack of gold in the north land rain.
You can tell a tall-tale from the way it's explained:
Does it feel uncontrived, is the story restrained?
If so, I've not revealed my true plot.
I got lots of things, Mama, but I never got caught.

Slick hands slip quick across rich man's hips,
wallet's in grip while his trip gets worse.
He doesn't expect it, doesn't suspect
until he checks it, if he catches me I reject it,
and just in case, I am well rehearsed.
I got lots of things, Mama, but I never got caught.

New cut designer suit,
Accountants counting countless counties' fees.
What bounty is accrued
when you take a penny or three from each deal
that you've viewed.
No more a theft than thinking's a thought!
I got lots of things, Mama, but I never got caught.

Crooners sing it:
Swing tunes and ladies beneath rhymes like Moon in June,
but none of that could make her swoon.
She was his until I made him a baboon
through comparison, yet I little enjoyed the prize
once the fight had been fought.
I did lots of things as a kid, Mama, but I never got caught.

June 26

Gypsy Hips

You do the voodoo that you do:
Shake snakes at me, take stakes and wave them bravely,
dance half in a trance
as if your body (not your mind) was free.
The smell of incense is a bit too intense,
open a window, let it out.
You're obvious right now.

Lying together on the grass making photographs,
half baking laughs,
drinking half 'n half from a hot coffee bath
Cut and dry
after the asthma attack.

Your boyfriend's a charmer, too,
he told me, "I don't want to harm her,
but it's the least that I could do."
I have to believe him,
we've been best friends since grade school,
since back when smoking cigarettes was cool,
since before he fell for a pretty fool.

You roll die real nice, chant scant incantations
for cages of white mice, feed them herbs and spice
mixed in with brown and light rice.
You curl up with a horoscope, hoping no Capricorns elope
with Sagitarius today while the pitch of your slope gets higher.

You don't mourn the dead, you say,
"We're born to get older,"
but you really don't mind when I cry on your shoulder.
Gypsy Hips, you've made my world seem less cold,
and so I move you into a less judgmental folder:
Friend.

July 22

Coffee Cowboy

Coffee cowboy beef jerky
US turkey atop the bully pulpit
No matter how you sculpt it, you lose.
Marble, clay, or imaginary way, watch it tumble
when the person says, "Pique a sage, speak Greek at this age?"
I M P O S S I B L E

Turn cows to gold.
Just how? I sold them.
Call Cool Hand Luke, he'll spool out the dollars.
Though he wants to call her, "Fortune,"
I say she's Luck. Luke disagrees even when he pays the fees.
I M P O S S I B L E

When times get rough, it's enough to blow
the storm door down.
The hurricane became an act to see how we'd react:
I say, "Rebuilding's the fun."
I M P O S S I B L E

Gulf coast wars post horror story lore
on message boards once hosted at the office.
Those silky spores explore more possibilities:
I feel ill, still others have to have their fill.
Blood and gore.
I'll nail complaints up on their doors.
I M P O S S I B L E

What do we know of kings?
They sing songs for us, fill a Las Vegas bus,
die and cause a fuss.
Don't tell me we don't love them any way.
Don't tell me we don't elect our royalty.
I M P O S S I B L E

Strange way to end it.
Send it to the editor.
What do you pay him for?
Your dreams laid out in reams on the copier's floor.
Get it? What seems obscene gleams some times.
This boils over. It's over?
Below the surface, it swims and teams.
Your scream:
I M P O S S I B L E

July 20

White Stetson Hat

White Stetson hat, you jerk. Up and down, lady.
Curtsy for you. Am I douchebag to put this on my head?
Let's see those hipsters preach America.
Let's hear our slime-filled syncophants rejoice
when consumerism bubbles.
It's not the things we buy, etc etc.
What we never use

July 20

Ears

There's only one mouth here,
it's not working for the both of us.
There's just a bit more.
We can either believe we're the ones talking
Or shut up and listen to something beyond both of us.
There are more than enough ears to go around.

July 20

I Am Here

This is not California. North or South Dakota. Illinois. Alaska. Missouri. Delaware. New Mexico.
Forget about Michigan, New York, Alabama, and West Virginia.
Not Colorado or Idaho. Washington or D.C. Tennessee. Florida.
Never even been to Nebraska, Oregon, Georgia, Oklahoma, or Texas.
Didn't mess with Iowa, Mississippi, Kansas, Montana, or Wisconsin.
Nnnnnnorth Carolina. South. Virginia. Pennsylvania. New Jersey. Arizona. Nevada. Hawaii. Indiana.
Maryland. Arkansas. Minnesota. Ohio. Wyoming. Utah. Louisiana.
Couldn't be Vermont. Maine. Massaschusetts. Kentucky. Not Rhode Island. Not Connecticut.

July 20

Delilah, Delilah

I have no idea how long you’ve been standing behind me,

running your hands through my hair.

Awake I’m hunched over my chair, writing or reading.

To count the number of promises hung on my wall:

Shakespeare’s plays, from All’s Well That Ends Well to The Comedy of Errors.

Beethoven’s symphonies, all nine numbered.

Three fantasy novels from a druggie.

Robert Frost.

The story of Odysseus in Ireland, 1904. How the West was Saved by Ireland.

Warm, bright, and balanced guitar strings.

A garbage bag filled with dusty laundry.

If when I turn around your face has followed your body

to this place, will you betray me and release my hold?

July 2

Little Arcs

You've spent years tracing neat little arcs in the sand,
Waiting to meet someone who can complete them and who understands.
The grains feel cool and smooth, weigh light, look dark.
When my hand lands down I doubt I am the first to recognize your mark --
But being where I am, as the first that you have met,
I put a finger to my lips and smile, "Not yet."

July 1