Off Center.

Crushing you cruelly,
the slippery orange sky
blazed ominous friction.

I forsook the superficial
chivalry, the soft hand
kissing that fed you.

Your feelings strewn
as scrap metal pieces,
rusted and misplaced.

I rediscovered an old
friend, found work and
read Joyce’s Ulysses.

Vivid yellow and soft
lavender, both sunset,
still you wrote to me.

Discarding the earnest
letter, envelope intact,
I made a sandwich.

Off Center. s.d.
(Note: The artwork is Mark Rothko's "White Center.")

Grey Evening (twenty minutes of twilight)

We don’t deserve a decaying summer wind
Stroking our respective backsides as we crunch
Across the pockmarked pavement.

We embrace enormous grey sweaters, hoodies
To encase our delicate shells.  We require
Woolen hats and nourishing thoughts or we’ll wither.

And even as we’re sure to find satisfaction of soul,
We remember to look up; we see
     the pale cobwebs of the upper reaches of Sever Hall.
The class is closed but our questions remain.

s.d.

My Patience for Otis Expires Tonight

My Patience for Otis Expires Tonight:

Tomorrow I surrender. Take my sword
and my badge and my cross. Pelt my
withered skin with oblong pebbles
you find scattered all along the
cracked blacktop. Forget all of
the hard times I lent you cash
(but never kept track), heard
you complain about the women
who trampled on your dreams
and showed compassion when
your family dumped you on
the street corner. Since
your rebirth and coming
of age, I see that you
have no need for this
decrepit imposter of
a friend. No longer
will I inhibit you
nor drag you down
in any way. This
is the last day
I will attempt
to care. Upon
the new dawn
breaking, a
silhouette
will veil
my once-
vibrant
flesh.

s.d.
--/
--

(Note: This piece requires Courier or similar font to display properly; it may look strange in some readers.)

A Cereal Sepulchre

This title and image grace the cover of my first poetry collection. All pieces were written and revised during 2009 September - December. I will post the complete work over the next ten days.
s.d.

Dover Thrift Editions

Sometimes my mind is a Rube Goldberg machine. This past weekend I set foot in the bookstore of a reputable university with the honorable intent of purchasing souvenirs. Before I obtained an obligatory rolled t-shirt, my eye caught sight of a table lined with hundreds of plain, thin Dover Thrifts. I gobbled up poetry collections from Eliot, Carroll, Dickinson, Yeats, and Browning, as well as a sliver of African-American poetry and a “Top 101” of American works. This nifty little seven-pack cost me fourteen dollars--before taxes. This taught me two lessons: getting sidetracked can have positive results, but giving up a career to write poetry probably will not.

s.d.