for Comic Book Store Chuck

—for Chuck Seeley who passed away January 1, 2011

To console the inconsolable numbness, I collect
Earthworms and gravel in this graveyard’s soil.

I hold the grieving stones in my mouth
And let the sounds be my words of sorrow.

I loose myself thinking of our concrete cartoon passings.
Marvelous dreams happen in drawn nothing memories.

At the lonely end of the wooden bar at the great whisky a-go-go
Don't come the old boy scout at me sunshine; come have a drink!

Get out your black silks and a smile;
I told you, I would love going to his funeral.

The Celadon Room

To conduct this orchestra he will need help
He feels around blindly for the heaviest pen

There are empty colorful candy wrappers in the desk
His eyes are softly closed and her gentle mouth is open

He stares at the small pile of tobacco and rolls a cigarette
The computer screens glow green making the room celadon

I feel unsafe
She is alone

An orange cat is sleeping on the dirty laundry
The dogs are out hunting in the nearby woods

There is a man walking on the sidewalk
His hands are in his pockets
The police say he is dangerous

The signal is given
There is an absence of darkness
The menu means nothing

There are no second choices in this performance
How he contracted malaria is still under investigation

The waters remain untouched
The falling rain enriches the trees

The camera focus on a single silver water droplet
The backdrop is a blacker undertaking than night

The water becomes a ringing phone interrupting sex
A shooting star moves across the blackening backdrop

A young boy is holding the hand of his mother
As they are walking in a well-groomed garden

A spotlight falls over them, illuminating the pair
They look in the mirror hoping to see themselves looking back

Twenty Years On

2011-01-20

In the twenty years since we went to war we find more things to argue about.
There is a round wooden table where many old men sit recounting old glory.

Their arms are on their chins while another of their group articulates a point;
One man is covering his mouth in disbelief, holding back his need to speak.

He said, there were successes to counter the mistakes that were made.
The camera moves its focus to the toy hobbyhorse over their shoulder.

If we could forget the old men and their toys
We could go outside and play with our friends.

Plastic Lemon Trees

It was a difficult decision that leads him to the crypt
His memory was shaking as he neared the gray stone angels
He places hand on the iron gate hoping that what is inside will remain there

A mailman in an orange slicker hands the older woman a package
She is waving to him as he rides down the wet street on a bicycle
She returns to her kitchen and places the box on the table near the flowers

The shadow over the picket fence illumines the children’s playground
He tells the others of the haunted house on the heath that is over the hill
There is that strange starlike silence of wonderment that fall over their blank faces

A man with a hammer walks away from them with his head low into the white doorway
The black lion doorknocker gleams pride to the onlookers and nosy parkers
He has had enough of village life, climbs a ladder and goes back to his work

She looks exhausted from her talk and slumps into her car
She is unaware of the man in the backseat waiting for her
He is wearing a gray suit and is thumbing through a Gideon’s bible

In the classroom the young boy is blowing up a balloon
Consider this a checkpoint on the road to ruin
The pull of the underworld, under the mountains

The upsurge of water, the wonders of fire
The calm breezes of warm floral springtime

The open amusing skies of county fairs
The apple pie flakes of orange autumn

There is so much detail in real life you would think it was plastic