Big Man in the Sky
Mother of all things Earth
forgive this day’s sins
the wasted breath
the refusal of touch
the denial of beauties;
everyday and profound.

New Age Source
Prophet of Consciousness
if you reside inside me
smaller than atoms,
Am I talking to myself?
when I say
You piece of shit.
You lazy fuck.

Or am I talking to God?

I stand at the base of the stairs
you up above, on the landing
doing the angry finger dance
winding up for the
hurling coffee cup

In a past life I was a country singer
could make sense of the sadness
with 3 simple chords
Before that, a painter
with Wyeth-esque palette
not without talent
Before that…  it gets blurry
something Renaissance maybe
humorless days in the field
meditating on the Humanities
mindless back breaking labor
full moon manias
reluctant soldier
grieving Father
buried child
pure spirit

Now,
I stand at the top of the stairs
you at the foot
clutching a broken wrist
covering your bruised ribs
How did you get down there?
I know I pushed you
but it’s like I just woke up.

Passing bass, rattles the floor
a heartbeat on four wheels.

The past is a glacier
Insomnia: Global Warming
There we are
floating through the Gulf Stream
in the backseat of that car

The past is an ice cube
Remembrance: the sun
There you are
like an insect trapped in amber
waiting to be swallowed
on the playground after dark

The past is a blizzard
Secrets: black ice
Here we go
let go of the wheel, spin
through the hotel room
rented on allowance

Recipe for Oblivion:
Do not go back to sleep!
Walk down those stairs
Pour bourbon over ice–
no longer a metaphor
just something to make it
burn less.
Sit in chair.
Sip.
Stare with glassy Anime eyes
at a stain on the carpet.
Blood?

Forget.

I didn’t write this poem.*
But it was my idea!
*So what?
Architects don’t build their own houses.

Thinly veiled, I write of our hardships
each one a tiny model sailboat
hand-launched into the dyed blue
seas of park lakes and reservoirs,
urban engineering at its Disney best.
You don’t see it do you?
Even our water is fake.

I didn’t want this poem to be about you
or us
especially (sigh) not about Me
It’s my day off from scams and schemes
and your day off from,
What exactly do you do all day?
But here we are again
trapped in midnight’s moonlit silence
before noon.

Pointing out scars birth-marks blemishes
Punching away at already bruised arms
With the Incredulity of Saint Thomas
in Caravaggio’s masterpiece
Sticking our fingers deep into each other
’s open wounds.

Come on baby love honey darling
Make it hurt like you used to;
Only you know how to turn me on.

You were so shy when we first met
asking only for anonymity
Made me want you so much more
your refreshing refusal of
the only worthy goals:
Fame, Fortune.

But you were too beautiful
too perfectly proportioned
Your body
the Golden Mean incarnate.
Sigh.
Now, like all the obedient rest,
you keep getting smaller
skewing your proven ratio
refusing all the feasts I borrow
(without collateral) to pay for.
Find you over a toilet, defaulting our
dinners, as I will my debts
Bulimia, Bankruptcy.

What were you thinking?
When? The other night
Motherly swirls across my back?
Like our old Chemistry teacher.
Yes, you do know the one.
(Stop pretending you don’t fucking
remember anything that happened
to Us, before 1998)
Yes. Yes! That One.
Later imprisoned for molestation
Asked us to stay after class
took us to the back room
Never went any further, knew it could
if you showed him a catalyst.
Still, he made us feel smart
made us feel Chosen, made us laugh
Yes, at the expense of others
but at that age, superiority our drug
Class, Caste.

Sorry, back to my intervention:
Half a bottle of Skyy your lunch?
You do remember
Your mother’s an alcoholic
loved her bottle of Bombay
more than yours of formula.
Your father, a serial entrepreneur
liked you better as an idea
than an inception.
Neither say I love you anymore
except when drunk
or as an apology.

And that guy you’re engaged to?
Wears Ed Hardy and drives a Hummer.
What’s gotten into you, old love?
Our midnight cyber-advances,
not enough to get me hard time,
still leave me feeling criminal.
Impotent, Indicted.

Companion Piece 2
Watercolor, Paint, Marker on Paper
15″ x 20″

When was the last time
I tried to write something happy?
Maybe it’s because I only write
in the mornings now-
the nights being so crowded and loud.

So it’s off to fight the good fight
every morning, your California son
incredulous to the ceaseless California sun.
Always waiting for the caffeine sunrise
never expecting its cloudy crash.

Or write something for someone?
I hide behind pseudonyms
abbreviations and allusions
under hats and thin beards
covers and blankets
characters and commitments.

What is there really to say,
Mom?
except those words said too often
and never enough
Thank You
I Love You.
Even a slice of heavenly French silk
loses some of its sweetness
if eaten everyday for breakfast.

So today, on your day
I think it best to take the literal approach
come in for a dramatic landing
out here, on display
in the open white fields
of paper plains

Without You:
I would not exist.

Give us more chalk
for the bullet filled walls
Or we will keep painting
your bathroom stalls

The neuroscientists warn
of unbridled ambition.
Imagine, they say, just imagine
a world where everyone is content
to only lead.
The hierarchy destroyed
by the world’s sudden
unwillingness to listen
to follow.
Everyone an Alpha.

Dear
Brother Banksy
Please
Ghost of Basquit
Give us more chalk
or we will use blood.

Companion Piece 1
Watercolor, Paint, Marker on Paper
15″ x 20″