Thursday, May 31, 2012

Never has his heart sank
As deep as it did than when
They turned out their light.
Dreams extinguished
At this crushing depth.
Before slumber he's left
Alone, tossing and turning.

Alone, his desire is burning.
That one of the light bearers
Hears his silent screams
Because in the dark,
There's nothing but silence
And ire under his breath.

And fire from his mouth
He keeps his own light
Shinning, warding monsters
Away, or maybe beconning
Towards, his bed tonight.
A sign for vacancy flickers
With those ominous letters:
N and O

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

We build up our days only so
They can fall at night alongside slumbering bodies.
We wade through the river of life
Although ultimately, we succumb to the current.
Strengthening our minds and souls constantly,
Yet we turn to dirt and dust in the end.
Striving for accomplishments and legacies
That will mean nothing when this rock dies.

This is our preference.

To toil and suffer one day,
Only to do it again the next
Knowing that occasionally
Something will shine
Through the darkness and
Lighten our load.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Carved Wooden Hearts

Baby I don't need no flash
Or anything like that.
Maybe just a little gloss
So we can make it last.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

It's when I break free
That I set fire to the sky
With sunset kindling
And a flint in my throat
To give it a spark
Against the heated steel horizon.

We break the glass silence
With hoots and hollers
Banging our leg drums
Against the blunt night, louder.
As we stomp and jump
Hot coals from hot wood.
Our dancing attracts attention
From wildlife, beckoned by
Our primal state when I sing
My songs always at night.

This is freedom found,
Glory be to our growls and belches.

The Beast and 1/2 of Death

"ain't no pussy
      like old pussy
              what know what it want
                           and love what it get"
     - b.a. green

Three volumes of the obscure words of some dirty old man, was enough to affirm me that you can continue being a smart ass, hedonist even in the shadow of death. Self-published volumes of assorted writings in your twilight years seems to make a statement saying, "I have lived the way I wanted to live, this is how I feel, and this is what I got out of living, learn from me, or at least be entertained from me." It is kind of an egotistical, self-imposed, life-of-the-party type of mentality, but in this instance, the bastard is likable and entertaining enough that no one seems to mind, and in fact, they seem enticed. Bernard A. Green seems to combine his love of black and blue comedy, twisting his love of the crude and sarcasm, with hints of feminism and philosophy, neatly packaged in lowercase letters and vernacular from half a century ago when things were still Modern.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Live Fast For The Moment Is Fleeting

The overhead projector in the back
Of the red, four-door compact,
Missing three of its ten transparencies;
What was a ten-point plan
Now down to seven.
The overhead's thrown to the front,
Among several pocket notebooks
Filled with scribbles.
He says he likes the simplicity
And human messiness
That is preserved
Through the analog keeping of information.
One brain with many tools,
Instead of two brains in symbiosis:
Human and the machine. He says,
There is too much room for error.
But, in reality it's just a frugal budget
Keeping him afloat poor,
In the four-door compact
With his tools of the trade.

She takes in the view
As well as him.
He told her he gave speeches
And presentations
Teaching people
About a better life.
Where he keeps his things,
She keeps child seats
And a bag full of snacks,
Band aids, and moist cloths.
She saw similarities
In the fact that they both
Were lecturers in their own right.

By the time they had ended
The clouds had moved
Exposing the orange orb
Of the Moon.
There was nothing magical,
They had met at a bar.
And in jest of the situation
She profoundly spoke
Over the soft sounds of a hat
Adorned with bells,
"The problem with love poems:
They're more about the idea
Than the subject."

Monday, May 7, 2012

Sometimes I think I'm real slick.
Everything's straight, in line,
Waiting to get knocked out.
I have a plan, some idea
Of what I want to do
And what needs to be done.
But now words cannot be found,
My arms limp like rubber not taut,
And my hands as soft as movie prop rocks.

You're presence and smile
Brighten up my grey day;
The one source of light
In which I find shade.
Thank you my friend
For slowing me down,
Showing me off
And introducing me around.

So maybe I'll stay for a while,
Kick off these weary boots,
And revise my ideas and plans.
It's time to chart a course
For a new place to take root,
Now that this plant's in the sun.

Saturday, May 5, 2012

When I send you a look
Of love, I wonder if you see.
The tender gaze
With a slight smirk and
Eyebrows raised.
These eyes I give you
When you give me
An attention grabbing caress
Down my spine, letting me know
You have my back.

Pictures of your pride
Act has brilliant beacons
Attracting the attention
Of this magpie.
I can't help but swoop down
With a song and squawk.