Dead Places

dead places,

hidden among the rain

soaked fields,

call out like long

lost friends,

searching for days

gone by and empty roads

never traveled;

grand plans,

big ideas,

so much lost on the way

in this desolate wilderness

called home;

it scares them to know

someone sees through

their masks,

their charades,

they grow uneasy

when they see themselves

through the eyes of another,

tossing and turning,

generating huge ocean waves

among the tranquil seas;

fools,

playing foolish games

with deadly consequences,

children lost in chaos

and hopeless jungle forests;

dead places

know

.

.

Big Boys

up here,

where the big boys live,

everyone walks around

with stern looks on their face,

making it hard to tell

just where the line begins

and where it ends;

so I just walk around

trying to look sterner,

hoping  I can figure it out

when the time comes,

and as long as I keep

my mouth shut;

no one knows

the difference.

.

.

Game Show Hosts

sometimes I think I am living

life one frame at a time,

and I wonder how I can continue

to be functional,

when I have ceased to function,

is this reality?

or just a full length feature film

waiting to happen?

weekdays off are the best,

when the kids are away

at school or work,

leaving the door open

for my wife and I

to violate all forms of

common decency and be;

very loud about it;

later on,

watching the price is right,

I wonder if Bob is doing

the new girl,

he must be in incredible shape,

she would kill most men half his age,

but then game show hosts

aren't most men,

channel surfing,

I listen to the independent counsel

being described as either the pope or

satan incarnate,

depending on who is doing the talking,

republican or democrat,

I flip back to the price is right;

game show hosts

are much more interesting.

.

.

Play Ball

back at home,

it’s business as usual,

waiting for the game to begin;

looks like there will

be a slight rain delay;

a technological mind feels

clean and sharp,

with no room for rough edges or

hidden pockets of fog,

cold and impersonal,

a machine without a soul,

sometimes it gets hard to

make the transition,

there are gears to be shifted,

internal clocks to be reset,

all sorts of calibrations and

calculations to be performed,

it’s not always easy putting

the beast back in its cage

once it has tasted freedom,

you've got to keep it

on a short leash if you expect

to stop it from devouring

everything in sight;

looks like a break in the clouds

as they roll up the tarp,

and the players take the field;

PLAY BALL!!

.

.

Not Bad Chinaski

my god,

they’re still making money

off his old, buffalo ass of a hide,

he’s been dead for what now?

three, no four years, hell,

he’s becoming a regular

Jimi Hendrix of the literature world,

they’ll be digging up his manuals

for the next thirty years,

there’ll be books coming

out about:

the early years,

the final years,

the in-between years,

the lost journals,

the never before

published journals,

the secret diaries;

it’s almost enough

to make you want to puke;

especially when you know that

somewhere the old bastard is

laughing his fat ass off,

and thinking to himself;

not bad Chinaski,

not bad at all.

.

.

Cancer Would Be Quicker

cancer would be quicker;

with just a touch of

quiet lingering along

the way;

taking away some of the uncertainty,

removing all doubt while helping

to keep the focus,

as you slowly fade away,

like a ship in the

midnight fog;

never to be seen again;

instead,

we trudge along,

never quite sure when

it will all end,

packing our bags along

the way;

just in case;

taking our shots,

firing wildly at anything

that moves;

very rarely making

them count

.

.

Dog Day Afternoons

it is a sad day indeed,

when the truth is

finally realized,

when all that is held dear

is stripped away,

revealing only the dark black,

dirty little secrets

living inside;

you cannot change

who and what you are;

no more than a dog

can stop from licking himself

in times of quiet reflection.

.

.