Acknowledgement

There is

Energy, drifting between two souls, as I notice her hand movements, when she scribbles a date onto a white piece of paper

I say, "I see you're left-handed," while she quickly nods and says, "Yes," speaking to me without acknowledgement

Still, she wraps her delicate fingers like tendrils around my milk tea mug and shifts it around, as if to make a statement and to recognize my observation

At my desk, a fan blows to block out white noise and I wonder what she's toying with in the back of her mind

It's like some strange sort of magic

And I wonder if it's really magnetic that we're connecting at all on some kind of level, where she understands

For you see, I want to let her know that I know what's happening; I can see right through her, yet she politely refuses without telling me

Maybe there's more to it than that

So, I shall wait and perhaps castigate or twiddle my thumbs and think on it

Until she comes running back for something more

Dad! You Swung So Hard!

I got a million ideas all running freight 'trane
espresso jazz-jamming outta
my head pouring outta my ears so smoky,
tight & intense...

Derails.

Traffic
jizz-jam jangle-dangles my collective
thoughts.

Makes 'em clear as tears
streaming down my cheeks

Christ On A Bicycle

Give me liberty
Or at least give me Christ on a bicycle,
And I'll give you the greatest Christmas story ever told to man.
The crowded sidewalks full of shoppers, staring at painted windows,
Yelling in the subways like New Year's Eve
Traffic pileups on the boulevard,
Guys dressed up in Santa suits, expecting your children to believe that the old heavyweight still exists
Just because the old legend says so.
And the Sunday papers
Lathered with extra stuffing of holiday savings galore.
And the movie channel rolls out all those Christmas delights.
But now, now let me tell you one thing:
There is no such animal
As a white Christmas
For fear of sparking lawsuits
Or racism to mingle in with the beautiful holiday cheer
That plagues us the rest of the year.
Yes Virginia, there is indeed a Christmas
But not as it used to be.
For as far as we now know
Old man Moses
Placed black roses
Upon the grave of the dear Lord,
Who died for Christmas presents
One sad and gray December morn.

At The Finish Line (For Alan Jacobson)

At the finish line, there are no beginnings.

Just loose ends that need to be tied.

Fixed.

And tidied up as if a great man had fallen and couldn't get up on his own.

I am muddled in thinking which way I am leaning toward, how I'm supposed to deal with your demise; I can see it in your eyes, so real, so true, so impending, so difficult to know and to understand, but move on I must.

When I think about you, I think about your wit, your great sarcasm that felled any man who dared try and topple you, what thread that tied you to your father, that was never uncut, how you two shared the same persona in life.

And now in death, I hate to think about you in this way, but in this defining moment.

I really don't have a choice, just a choked-up voice.

From the tears sliding down my throat.

Jim Morrison's Last Words

The fact of the matter is sweet

As new evidence rises to the top of the toilet tank, like some bad made-for-TV movie of the week.

Still uncanny, yet an amazing feat that Jim Morrison died on a toilet seat from inhaling drugs from two thugs because he feared the pierce of the needle within his skin.

So, is that the truth?

Did he take a dump after a lump of sugar with foam flowing from his nose?

Nobody really knows, except maybe for Elvis Presley, who actually took his last shit upon his golden throne before he croaked.

I wonder what words Jim Morrison spoke, as he grunted and wheezed, blew out blood as he sneezed.


Perhaps his last words were indeed,

"Oh Shit!"

And then he flopped over.

And that was it.

(I Am) William Carlos Williams

In the world's eye, I am William Carlos Williams, an undiscovered beautiful poet who works in an office with a lot of other souls who are working just to get by on bags of burlap they drag home each and every night.

There are no minds I care to mingle with.

Not here.

Not much anymore, for the man who discovered me sitting in a corner of the room, is now far, far, away; in a better frame, a better state, a better time.

And I am stuck in the salt mines, still slaving away, but like Kerouac, he found me and like Williams, I carry on writing poetry at my desk, hoping none of management will discover what I'm doing; not like they haven't in the past and take it upon themselves and ask me what I am being paid to do.

In my head I say, I am being paid to cook the books, but on my tongue I tell them I am here to work, but mumble beneath my breath, that everyone else is cooking the books including management and they're all very lucky they haven't been caught just yet, but their day in the sun is coming.

I promise!

And like William Carlos Williams, I keep writing poetry at my desk, hoping to resolve my promise.

What is a terrorist? Is there such a beast as a terrorist? How can one tell whether or not one is a terrorist? Is the word terrorist an overused word or politically-correct term invented for the current world we live in?

I've been asking myself these questions over and over and over and over again lately because I've personally have begun to wonder what a real terrorist is and no one seems to know or is able to give me a definite answer.

Are those Middle Easterners really the true bad guys like our honest president indicates they are? Or are they just trying to protect their country from invaders that just happen to come from America and are planning on overstaying their welcome?

Maybe, the real terrorists are those baby boys and girls dressed in blue or black who terrorize us in America morning, noon and night, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. You know the people I'm referring to, those little official-looking people that drive around in those official-looking black & white and sometimes blue four-door Mercury, Ford or Dodge cruisers, that go around terrorizing honest citizens for running red lights, loud mufflers, broken taillights, expired license plate stickers, do random & often times illegal searches of cars and homes and racial profiling, just because a person "looks suspicious."

It's that same kind of person that conducts business "on the level" and "under the table & through the back door," the same kind of person that sometimes uses their badge as a weapon of brutality to let you know who is in charge.

I'm talking about cops, man! The pigs! The fuzz! The police! The tough American guy and gal terrorists who pass their work time in hotdog stands and leave their vehicles running for 15 minutes wasting precious gasoline his department paid for with money allotted from the city, kind of like that Evanston copper I saw on a frigid December 14, 2005, yesterday afternoon who drove up in car number 69, (oh what a coincidence) about 3pm in front of Mustard's Last Stand on Central Street in Evanston, Illinois while I was scraping off the ice on my windshield during a terrific freezing rainstorm.

Why is it that public servants like that officer who are paid well to guard our streets and patrol our neighborhoods abuse their privileges anyway? Who do these bastard terrorists think they are anyway?

Or…

Maybe the real terrorists were those Yonegi settlers who butchered, raped and pilfered anything or anybody they could when they found that the Native American Indians imposing on their claimed territories, when quite actually it was the opposite!

The Indians never had a chance, in light of the fact that the U. S. Government took away much of their land and broke countless land treaties over the years, so perhaps they are terrorists too. Terrorists! Of all things the United States government to be! After all, that's who they claim they are fighting are the terrorists!

Strange, huh?

So how is one classified to being labeled as a terrorist anyway? Do they have to behave badly in order to be one? Do they have to have a different skin color other than Yonegi (white or off-white)?

Do they have to say terrible things about other countries; threaten its people or make long-winded statements about everything and nothing in reality and everything virtual? Do they make blanket statements about blowing up valuable pieces of properties or attempt to take people hostages or get mad over the smallest of problems?

Do these people sometimes babble on about things that make no sense to you or me and when push comes to shove, they break like an egg? When traffic is bad or someone cuts them off and the situation escalates into possible road rage, does that count too?

When a relationship goes bad between a man and woman or a man and a man or a woman and a woman, do they vow revenge and tell the other that if they can't have them, no one will?

Are the citizens of this sovereign nation we call America secretly growing or becoming terrorists as we speak? Does television, radio and media, including magazines, music and the Internet influence our decisions to become domestic terrorists whether we realize it or not?

I think so. And that's a sad, but continuing reality of our world.