In Between Feedings

Dad keeps the fluorescent light inside the fish-tank turned on all night. It's his nightlight so that his path from the bedroom to the bathroom and the fridge is never dark. His furniture never moves into his way, but I may have left a pair of shoes in the wrong spot or moved a chair on which he could stub his toe closer to the television. The fish-tank nightlight keeps the path illuminated. There was a stretch of at least a year where the only life in the glowing box was a thick layer of algae. Even then he clicked on his nightlight every day just before the sun went down.

Now we have four fish. They are all the same kind of fish and three of them are mirror images of each other. Their brilliant red scales only vary in slight shades and I'm sure this tells them the difference between the strongest male and the weakest. The weakest is easy to identify. The fourth fish is a pale version of the others. In the wild, he'd be dead, but in our manufactured world, he lives disobedient.

Since Dad's currently out of town, I could turn the light off and let them know the night. Let them live like their wild ancestors, at the liberty of the sunshine from the window, the same light we humans once followed. Most days I still wake with the sun and sleep with the moon, just like a farmer. Other days I leave the light bulb burning all night, like the day never really ended. I can extend a day up to four nights sometimes, like maybe I'm aging at a different rate. If so, how far can I extend one life before the sun burns out and forces me to sleep. I'll leave the fish tank light on tonight.

The fish who know only light must have trouble marking the start and end of days, like living at the poles of the Earth when the sun only circles overhead instead of dipping below the horizon. The one predictable event of everyday are the feedings that happen when Dad arrives home from work. This is a fairly consistent marker of the time passing. The feedings come at about twenty-four hour intervals, nearly the same time everyday. To the fish, the feedings come when the lid creaks open.

Now that Dad's on vacation and I'm home to take care of them, meal time has changed. It's not that I'm trying to corrupt with these little creatures' predictable lives; it's just that I've never adjusted well to predictable behavior. When I'm the one who feeds them and I forget to do the job at the proper hour, time must feel like it stretches out for an eternity to make room for more thought in between feedings. They await the creak of the lid at its normal time, but without reference, the normal time just never seems to arrive. Without reference they don't think I've forgotten; they think their benevolent master will be here soon. He will feed their starving bodies. He always does. They just need to keep the faith. When I finally drop in a pinch of food, they zoom around snagging up flakes into their little slit mouths. I know there is a hierarchy among them because they chase each other around when it seems one is getting too much.

The pale fish doesn't eat like the others. He just waits. Most times he doesn't eat. I theorize that maybe as the little flakes dissolve he just drinks them with the water. I imagine this as some sort of civil disobedience to avoid the fight for instant satisfaction and reject the hierarchy. It could be he's just not hungry. Maybe he just doesn't want the day to end every time the lid opens and he exercises free-will to keep time feeling slow.

There's always the chance that I'm oversimplifying the way in which they see the world and they aren't as oblivious as I make them out to be. Maybe they have some sort of internal understanding of time that I don't get. Or maybe they know that when Dad's home he stomps as he walks and shakes their world leaving ripples on the surface. So, more ripples means more consistent lengths of time in between feedings. These are the predictable times for them.

They don't know I'm his son, but they might notice that the boy who walks lightly changes the characteristics of time. Can they be aware of that information and still experience the joy of anticipation? I'd like to think so, that I'm not subjecting them to some kind of starvation torture, that the pale fish isn't just slowly dying from some sort of disorder. For me, it is a balance of not thinking too much about it and being aware of it.

When We Left Yesterday

We fell off the map's edge
when we left yesterday.
Reestablished home on our vessel.
Called it round, but people still find the sea
infinitely deep. Become the world that keeps
making copies of copies of copies like the City,
the world inside a world inside a world. There exist
infinitely more compact versions of the world in this world.
In this world, the new-old country will be
a strange world over worlds inside worlds.
Confusion will be chaos that the kids get.
For a tidal wave is an absurd enemy.
A Book of Truths, The Divine Comedy.
If a faulty exit is a looping Hell,
the instance before the fall
must be Creation itself.

Just a Moment

You've done nothing wrong
If you've done nothing right
Thus far. Men and women
Survive moments of pride;
Ecstasy endures. Know that
Since you've been here,
I matter.

Split the King for a Queen

On two twins tied together,
I can love in many positions.

But, this giant raft's a speck
Coupled with the open ocean.

For a queen, untethered,
I'd split the king, dumb with desire,

Give her half of what isn't mine,
Stretch love across the city limits.

A double once occupied the void.
A man I aided in breaking left it,

A homemade king, broken in two.
For a queen untethered, what to do?

Drive-Thru Window

I wait behind the wheel,
at the drive-thru window,
for my meal.

Do I look high,
blasting an INXS tape,
in my 92 Pontiac,

like I'm a few years late
for the Eighties.
A woman takes my money

looks me up and down,
disappears.
I feel high.

Turn up the volume.
Drum the wheel.
Watch the rain begin.

Twenty-three years ago,
I slid into the world
and Kick hit the charts.

The first year I ever lived,
everything that was
thought already is.

Rungs of wisdom
in every moment.
Why not climb that

see-through ladder.
Transcend power.
The window opened up.

I reached to grab my fountain cup.
Hit the glass of in between.
I put it there to block the rain.

Now I know,
I do look high.
Grab the wheel and wave goodbye.

Along for The Ride

We grew up near each other
on different streets, so we both know
different ways to the same places.
When I make turns that seem strange

take the scenic route,
you merely point it out,
a passenger in this vehicle
who rarely grabs the wheel.

Who wants to go the fastest way
all the time? Highways are efficient,
but wrong exits are interesting when
you're along for the ride.

I like where you take me,
when I'm your passenger
floating over familiar streets
that never looked so strange.

We waste our fuel on these trips,
driving fast on roundabout paths.
We could really take it slow.
Walk together instead.

Swept Away

Who are you now
but a reference point,
the north star in a faded sky,

a sunspot, a freckle.
Dots connected in our minds
really remain unrequited.

Lights left low lead
past the reconciled.
Children quiver in ecstasy,

a remembrance of the climax
that changed them from knobby kneed onlookers
to the aging populace that bore us.

Your freckles formed designs
I can’t remember. Except one that
we shared on our lips. I shaved it off.

It swelled. Now, it’s hardly there,
and I miss it
because I thought it distinguished

me from the others,
like it did you. I changed.
You became a point

fixed in memory
that I’ll recall while retracing
the breadcrumb constellation.

In my mind, I formed a path.
In yours, a mess. I’m easily
swept away.

Almost

Thank God for you,
because I learned the meaning
through you.
I almost didn't need
because I had you.

To know true love
is to receive the gift.
But givers take away.
And the given get pissed.
The guidelines for what
no one understands

exist. But the answer
remains a mystery.
We're His eyes that
can't see through the mist.
She's the treat
you must have missed.

Skeleton Jon

Some tracks that aren't complete, but were just begging to see the light of day. Hopefully, at some point, I'll record these (and others that are still locked in the closet) in a more polished way. For now, here they are. Blemishes and all.

ChapterHouse Open Mic

I participated in this reading/open mic a few months ago. Hosted by Philadelphia Poetry Collective

Video produced by Noise Soul Cinema

I Have to Live

I try my best to ignore bad decisions,
Messages that can't be unsent,
Moves that can't be undone.
So scared of the repercussions.

The trial has already begun.
The error plays all around me
And I'm not sure where to run.
Lord, what have I done?

Just then I heard a door open.
I knew he was home.
I didn't ask for advice,
But complimented him some.

I saw that his skin was flaking
Off the top of his dome.
He had been burned by the sun
In a place where he had hair once.

When I told him what was wrong,
He fed me some coincidental wisdom.
He said, “Son,
That's just something I have to live with today.”

The Doors

The fridge door keeps the cold air in,

while the front door keeps the hot air in.

The back door let's the breeze blow through,

but the side door's where the kids sneak in.

Have you ever tried to open the door

of a creator's mind? You might start saying, The Creator.

A part of you might die, but a part of you might live

like never before.

Entertain the Simultaneous

Passed down through the years, hand me downs wear thin

like a story stemmed from a bad translation. The words

highlight on the screen. We have to feel them to sing what they mean.

The timid wait till tomorrow to transcend.

                                                                                       To conquer right now,

we're all born at the same time, living stories that seem strange.

Bridge that generation gap after certainty of greener pastures

fails to bring brighter futures. You are the audience and the entertainment.

I Didn't Trip

When I walk through the pitch black
hallways, painting the invisible corridors
with my eyes. I imagine a shape on the top step,
a breathing kitty hologram, waiting in the trip zone.
A flip of the switch reveals nothing, but a return to normal.
There's nothing unexpected in this house.

The Story on This Side of the Screen

Before the film screens a window to another world, conversations in a movie theater fill the silence. This was before the trivia games and advertisements took advantage of the empty frame. You could listen to them. Couples. First dates. Budding adults. Seasoned vets. There is another single reading something. She's older. There will be at least seven more by the time the velvet curtain parts, and the light illuminates the white, an indication of the clearly marked emergency exits, and a request to turn phones to silent. The story starts without a forbidding of fruit and some smartass bites an apple. Breaks the illusion. A few feel offended and leave. Fewer reserve judgment till the end, when the stream of names wraps into a tight reel, when the curtain closes to protect the screen from accumulating dust in the interim.

That Ole Song

Oh, Billie.
Still I can't play her song.
That ole haunting melody that reads
rather than sings no matter
how easily my sheet music opens to it.
I should be able to feel it,
but my ear denies the attention
as my brain makes demands to my hands.
I try to remember, she's a lady.
She runs from too much mental masturbation;
but, on top of that, my fingers are bandaged.
I'll improve my improv, Monklike.
One day you won't know me,
under a hat that hides everything
I'll be in a world built for me.
Oh, Billie.

Gramatica Reincarnated

“To say 'lay down Sally' would imply that someone should grab Sally and lay her down. If he wanted Sally to rest in his arms on her own, the correct line would be 'lie down Sally.”
-Grammargirl.com

She never gets laid, but
she's incredibly right.
His grammar sucks.
Although, at some point
everyone comes around
when Language inserts itself
inside you. Young people
speak that forever tongue.

Why I Smile a While

I measure the passage of time through the life cycle
of my toothpaste tube. Although, you may argue, it's arbitrary;
With a wide, healthy smile, I say, no more arbitrary than the start and end of any day.
You say, one rotation of the Earth is the measurement we will use;
and I say, that's for the farmers. Enough time passes between each tube
that I can judge whether or not I've been living my life.
Toilet paper provides too quick of a cycle, and might only help me judge the health of my diet.
Shampoo provides too long of a cycle, and depends too much on the money I've had to pay for a haircut.
The toothpaste cycle, although not measurable by any device,
is fairly consistent because the same amount of toothpaste is used every day.
Even if there are variations in this cycle, they actually help me pass judgment on my life's activity.
Perhaps, I've been traveling, waking up in strange beds, drinking myself past the point of caring.
If the tube lasts long (and my teeth are still white), my life has been active and plentiful.
If the tube doesn't last, my life has been too much about work.
Too much consistency has always been a scary thing for me.
When the tube becomes a crumbled spiral from
too many steam-rolls on the edge of the counter
I've milked every last possible day from the current cycle.
It's time to smile and start over.

First Laundry Day Since We Met

I wore all my favorite outfits in the first week I met you,
all my colorful socks, all my best fitting pants.
The paint never washed off from the first ploy
to get you in my room and paint nonsense on the floor.
And the washer only made the tears worse
where seams ripped from shirts worn thin.
Thankfully, you don’t mind thrift-shop clothes someone else broke in.


Our first summer could unearth
my collection of shorts.
When the time is right, reveal the variety in my underwear drawer.

Homemade King

I lie in a bed that I made
by pushing two twins together
to form a king. I wait
for her to fill the other half.
Sometimes I sleep
on her side. If not, the sofa
swallows me up. In that place
I can hear his rumbling snores.
From a distance they form
comfortable repetition like waves
in an angry sea smacking against a dock.
My backbone aches when I sleep there,
away from my homemade king,
too many nights in a row.
Too many sleepless nights
away from her. I begin to wonder
if I have one.

Quitter

Most people know that I consistently set up shop and leave prematurely making the memorable moment the day of departure.
Most people think that's it.

That's it.

Stranger Angel

A man on the bus reminded me why
we run from wisdom we can't see.
I couldn't convince him that I believed
neither one of us completely understood
love in its current form. So we reasoned
through the logistics of selling cold air to
people in warm places. Packaging, we agreed
was the crucial element for selling nothing.
I appeared his negative image, with a sun tan,
but I'd be purple, like a people-eater, I thought,
before I understood love. I turned red,

thought he might convince me to
travel the world with him;
but, at the next stop he disappeared

into a crowd in Center City.

dishes

I want to come back as a poem
so I can live forever in the minds of men,
but first I have to do the dishes.

One Big Dramatic Curve

In the wake of fascism came fascism.
At either end of a line
each extreme found themselves
with the same problem
and the same solution

Some kept running
from the other side and
from the side they were,
without ever retracing the other's steps,
to arrive at either end
of the same circle turned on its side,

exchanging polarities like a light swinging
between red and blue

No matter how far they run
from the cross
the circle just gets bigger
like the far ends of the universe
running away from a discovery.

Kids educated on opinions,
history and subjectivity,
gave up on which way was right.
Wide-eyed at the vortex,
leaving only to escape
the current channel

only imagine the view
from outside, where Sasquatch hides.
The edge will be running away
from us for the rest of our lives.

Forgotten Sense

The majority forgot,
upon his eternal rest,
the man who said it best,
his hippie nonsense.

Yet, a few do recall
the message that he left,
high upon his grave,
spray painted love over his name.

Cycle

As the lake becomes glass looking
at clouds thicken, drops tear apart

serenity like liquid stones.
The regularity of time matters less

than how the lake reflects itself
in between glances of the heavens.

History of The Failing Safeguard

are we getting smarter,
or do we just know more?
when will stubborn intellect
realize its gone too far?
that questions of an other
reinvent the mother
over and over and over
until we're more confused than before.
one day i think we'll know,
collectively that is,
that time's just an assumption.
a circle ends where it begins.
we'll try to put a safeguard in
to make sure we don't get here again
and we'll all be fine and dandy
till resources start to thin.
some will conserve,
realizing life's source.
some will move on
and time will run its course.

Silent Treatment

You're having fun slurping at the seemingly endless last sip of your Big Gulp.
The watered-down pop snaps through the straw barrel like a machine gun,
but the sound of melted ice drowns out her eyes.

This fountain drink was a treat. From her, tomorrow's refill is free.
Milk money could buy you a sweet future full of carbonation and corn-syrup.
But, when black holes form, you'll carry false fillings in real cavities forever.