I used to be a little man.  Now, I’m fat

as a good pancake. 

Used to be I could slip out

of sight in a crowd of three people

in a living room; now,

everyone pretends I’m not there

but they know.  They know.

I catch them staring at my excessive gut.

I used to be a quiet man.  Now,

I’m noisy as a gas demon in church.

Used to be that when the choir sang,

I opened my mouth and only God could hear;

now, just try and speak over me.  God knows

everyone else does.  I catch them raising their voices

to drown me out: polite SOBs pretending social deafness

to the blurting heap in the corner.

I used to be a wanna be.  Now, I’m what

I thought I might end up as.

Used to be.  Now, I’m not. And

everyone’s obviously in agreement about that.

I catch them smiling once my way

and then I’m not even a memory.

What I gained in mass and volume

never developed density. 

I should have known.

From a prompt by Laura Yes Yes…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

i like my poems
like i like
my people:

twisty.

ready to back water
when necessary if the stream’s
strong and running
in circles. 

contrary
as a summer storm
in the hours after the heat’s
gone down, way down.

with perfect eyes.

with stented hearts
nonetheless faithfully
pounding their red burden
of oxygen and waste
around and around.

i like my poems like i like
my men, my women,
my children, my badger gods
burrowing flat and angry,
my beggars and socialites
sticking out in the city’s gray,
my farmer beloved of his crops,
my low tide waiting to rise:

slotted to go one way,
going another, snarling
or tranquil in turns,
staring into the dark
of crematory urns
and blowing the ashes into motion
as each word works past their lips
and stirs the past into the future.

i like my poems, your poems,
any poems by anyone,

to be the sex they choose to be,
to gender at will and to change their minds
without betraying their nature,
in fact to change their minds is to obey their nature
and if i falter before them,
if i am startled at how they turn,

i like them all the more.

I crossed the road,
punk,
because it was there.

You bought it
when someone said it
in reference to a mountain,

you bought it when
that Frenchman
walked between the Towers,

so I can only conclude
that it’s because I’m a chicken
and you’re prejudiced that you keep cracking wise

about why I did it.  Lemme
tell you something: I
can’t fly, and I enjoy

risk as much as the next bird —
more in fact: I wasn’t waiting around
to become soup or Sunday dinner.

I’ll go on my own terms,
and that road
looked as good as anything I could think of…

I made it, but the attempt,
that’s what counts.
I took a chance.  I wlll again…

so listen, punk,
think of that next time
you gnaw on a drumstick:

you are what you eat.
Laugh all you want,
but you’ll never get me.

— from a writing prompt by Curtis Meyer

Let me start by just saying it:  I love this guy.  Sure,
the music is always too loud, but I do my best
to keep the exhaust screaming, to drown it out,
but he just turns it up. He’s a man
and he needs that noise, I guess.

Even when he loads me up for a night
with friends and guitars,
I know he’s secretly lonely,
just like me.  A muscle car,
no matter how big, is really made for two;

no matter how I try,
he never sees me as his better half.
I’m just a way to help get to what he imagines
will make him whole:
a permanent passenger.

In the meantime, while he’s yearning,
he’s got a good (but randy) heart.
Always talking to lost women, trying to get them to ride.
I’m OK with that; having to carry just him on those empty runs
down Route 88 always seems a little sad, so

I can tolerate every groupie he pulls in,
him always thinking this one will do it for him,
though she never does.  Afterwards, he writes songs
about someone else. I like to think I’m the great love
he’ll never openly acknowledge, the denied Other he pines for

on those shore drives, those trips to Madam Marie’s.
Once, cruising from Freehold to the Shore,
I tried to express what I was feeling. 
“Boss,” I said (working his ego), “Boss,
you know you’ll never get anyone who purrs for you like me.

We’ll take it on the road together.
Open us up and let’s just go. Forget Wendy
or whoever else you’re thinking of right now. 
We’re born to run, baby,
you and I…”

I don’t care that he stole the line.  I don’t even care
about him calling me a “suicide machine.”  He knows
any death we might find together
would be an accident and I’d never hurt him, no matter
how I hurt. No, if there’s anything I resent,

it’s not the girls — it’s that guitar. 
I think he loves it more
than I could ever love him,
and I know it’s not the same for her:
snarly little bitch, ingrate,

making him work for it,
always taking credit for his fame —
lemme tell you: I think we all know
which Fender really
made his name.

— for Gary

Everything is being repaved.
There’s no easy way to get anywhere.
They promise it will be easier when it is all done.
They promise a smoother ride.

While you’re waiting, your hair will grow back.
You’ll take a lot of bubble baths.
Apples will bloom, lose face, harden into fruit.
Countries will go through changes.
Jobs will be lost and found and cursed and ignored.
Traffic will wax and wane like a moon full of cars.
You’ll spend more time at home.
Music will be eagerly sought and soon forgotten.
The radio will explode from the weight it is holding one Sunday morning.
You will neglect the clean up in favor of painting with the splatter.
You will throw a party so everyone can help.
Everyone will figure out a way to attend in spite of the repaving.
It will be loud and go on into the night.
The police will be called.
The party animals will scatter.
The cops will knock on your door and ask if you saw
where everyone went.

You will cross your fingers
and say yes
but because everything is being repaved
the roads are shut down
and it’s pointless to chase them.
Besides,
you could not be disloyal to the road crew
who have worked so hard
to ensure that no one gets through.

They will shake their heads and let you off with a warning.
You’ll go back to touching up your walls.

Everything is being repaved.
There’s no easy way to get anywhere
until you make one.