So, you like to write poems?
You sit around all day with a quill pen
Splashing ink all over the place
Writing your verses in a black,
Leatherbound volume with dragons
Embossed into the cover.
None of this pays the bills.
You are behind on your rent
And you need cash to get that new car
So you are not cited by the city again
For having a wrecked vehicle
On your front lawn.
Well, friend, you need some
Marketing skills.
You write poems, now all
You have to do is sell them.
What you have to think about is this:
Who would buy a poem?
The greeting card company might
Be a good customer, that is
If you can write something sentimental.
Are you famous?  Are you a star?
Even if you are, you will have problems
Trying to sell your book of poems.
I have gotten many books of poems
Off the remainder rack
Of various book stores.
If you really want to make money
Writing poems, get a job.
Get a good job that pays a lot
With your own office
Where you can hide
And write poems on your lunch hour.
Of course, you can always
Post your poems on a blog
And do something else to make money,
Or you can go into rap music
And get those gold chains
And diamond-studded teeth,
All paid for with your
Royalties.

I was standing there in the street
Watching a news report on a wide screen TV
In a shopping center window
Somewhere in Brazil.
A man had stood under the wrong tree.
Sticky seeds landed on his neck
And sprouted, growing roots into his throat
And pinned him to the ground
As a tall tree grew out of his chest
Growing more fruit pods.

A group of young people were standing around on the sidewalk.
I watched them shave their heads and sprinkle
Purple dust over their bald scalps.
The spores sent mycelia into their brains
And grew purple filaments that looked
Like long strands of living, waving hair.
They looked at each other and seemed to be communicating
Without speaking.  They told me they were
Telepathic, and that I should try some of the spores
Myself, as they were both useful and pleasurable.

I tried to get away from these people,
But when I ran they came after me in a pink school bus.
They gave me bottles of purple spores and clipped the hair off my head,
Assaulting me with the purple dust until I could feel
Tendrils creep into my brain
And heard the random thoughts of a multitude
As thin strands of purple hair
Floated in the breeze, writhing above my scalp.
The fungus became a part of my brain
And my thoughts were like radio waves,
Another channel of the spores.

Strap on the black leather gloves.
Bend and grip the knurled steel bars,
Taking one dumbbell in each hand.
Rise and look at yourself in the mirror.
Raise the weights to your shoulders,
Lift and hold each arm successively,
Counting all the while until you reach
The magic number of your reps.
Go through the series of your exercises.
Feel the pump of adrenaline, the burn
Of lactic acid building up in muscles.
Clench your teeth and strain against gravity,
Forcing the iron to rise at your command.
And you are finished.
Set the weights back on the floor.
Take off the gloves and bask in pain
Knowing the fibers of your muscles
Have been shredded,
Stimulating them to grow back stronger.
You are transferring the strength of iron
To the meat that hangs on your bones.

I wake up with the sunlight through my window.
Outside, the sky is full of clouds.
The geese fly in formation, heading south,
Following the sun on its trip beyond the equator.
It is November, and fifty degrees seems warm
As I walk down the driveway to get the mail.
Already the snow has frosted the grass
And the leaves have fallen from all but the oaks.
In the afternoon, darkness gathers,
Curtains are drawn against the black of night.
Soon the ice will come,
The earth will sleep with cold dreams
Waiting for the warm Spring rain.

Sky of grey cotton, day like the breeze
From a frozen lake.
Is the sun still there, filtering through mist?
I watch the trees, leafless, not moving,
Branches like fingers clawing heaven.
It is time to sleep.
Snow drifts down like feathers
Of some hurrying bird far overhead.
The grass is brown, dead for the season.
It is time to fly.
Rise up above the frozen ground
On wings of thought,
Climb the mountain of air and glide
Above the drifting clouds,
As night paints the sky a diamond black.

I did not wake up early this morning.
The sun was shining through the clouds
As I sat watching the morning news
Swilling coffee to chase away the groggy night.
After my caffeinated breakfast
I put on my jacket and got in the truck.
Driving to the elementary school to vote
I thought about what a fine American I am
Taking the time to help select our new leader.
For the first time ever I had to show picture ID
And fill out an application to vote.
Of course, I filled out the form wrong,
Signing and printing on the wrong lines
So I had to fill out another form.
Then I had to wait in line behind two other voters.
I had waited until after the morning rush,
Until all the people with jobs voted,
So there was almost nobody there.
It took a while, but I got my ballot filled out
And fed it to the optical scanner.
I drove home, laughing at myself
Because I voted for the candidate
Who most reminded me of a cartoon character.
I’m one of those responsible Americans
Who cast their votes based on shallow impressions,
Not some analysis of any contrived issues.
I spent the day reading the Internet,
Then took a drive to the park
And watched the ducks swim and the trees
Shed leaves in the warm wind.
I don’t much care who wins the election,
Because they are only public servants.
Perhaps in the future people won’t feel the need
To follow persons who style themselves leaders.
Perhaps in the future we will not fall victim
To the plans and schemes of politicians.

The waves hiss and bubble, washing the sand.
I look out on the horizon that fades to orange.
The onshore breeze is scented of seaweed.
Seagulls wheel beneath the scudding clouds.

It is a cool day.  I am dressed in jeans and sweatshirt.
The sand is cold and clinging to my bare feet.
The beach is deserted, save for a small crab.
I sit and stare at ships silently passing in the distance.

The morning sun spreads beams from behind a cloud.
A rotting wooden post leans toward the water.
Far behind me a truck passes on the quiet road.
I gaze into the endless expanse that is the sea.

Along the shore, palm trees rustle in the wind.
The sun breaks out and warms my face.
Perched on the eastern edge of America
I think of building a boat and sailing to the old world.

Waves whisper along the shoreline.
Golden sand as rippled as the water.
Foggy distance merging sea and sky.
Tomorrow as meaningless as a dream.

The light in the bathroom didn’t work.
I was just waking up.
The UPS on the computer
Was beeping its fail song.
No storm, just the power company
Working on the wires.
Out in the barn, the generator
Started right up in a cloud of smoke.
Back in the house everything worked
For a few minutes until we noticed
The light in the refrigerator was off
And the UPS was beeping again.
Had the breakers fried?  Did a surge
Burn out the wires in the wall?
No power on half the circuits.
Perhaps a breaker blew on the generator.
Trudging back out to the barn
Cursing the power company
With a flashlight and a circuit tester.
No, it was not a breaker.
Yes, half the generator was out.
Either the breaker broke
Or the windings burned.
Good thing the generator
Was still under warranty.
Back in the house I checked the power.
Edison was back online.
I switched over to the mains
Then went back out to the barn
And shut off the failed generator.
Tractor Supply traded in the broken unit
For a fresh model.
I set up the new generator this afternoon
And we are all ready for the next power outage.

It all started innocently enough.
I was at the store buying a case
Of Old Grandad bourbon.
Do you know how hard it is to transport
A case of whiskey on a bicycle?
I strapped the box to the handlebars
With a couple of bungee cords and rode off.
The booze was heavy and unstable,
And the road ran down to the rocks
Of the seashore where I was forced
To stop suddenly, spilling the case
Into the surf-swept waters of the bay.
As the bottles broke on the rocks
The waters of the sea froze into
A lake of asphalt, complete with lines.
From the lightning-flashing sky
Electric space monkeys on ten speed bikes
Descended to the sea of tarmac
And began to chase each other around in circles.
These monkeys were hostile.
They each had plastic ray guns
With which they zapped each other.
They wore blue and yellow jumpsuits
And screeched through their glass bubble helmets.
One shocked monkey dropped his ray gun.
I picked it up and began to shoot
At the nearest space monkey.
The creature was engulfed in blue flames
And twitched as it rode in circles.
Otherwise, the weapon was ineffective.
I was helpless now as the space monkeys
Turned on me and started to attack.

It is getting dark earlier.
Already, the icy fingers of frost
Have crept across car windows
Leaving their white haze at dawn.
The sun is no farther away,
It’s just low in the southern sky.
Soon, the winds will howl
And the fire will burn low at night.
Snow will come and flood the drive.
It’s not that I hate Winter,
Some of my fondest memories
Are from this season.
I like bundling up in warm coats
That keep out the chill.
It’s the ice that gets me.
Frozen water kills.
Snow is pale and dead.
Freezing rain brings down wires.
It’s good to be able to walk outside,
But that’s impossible when the wind
Is freeze-drying your lungs.
Clouds block out the sky.
A day as bland and dreary
As a white coat.
There’s little good to be found
When it’s too cold to survive
Without a house and warm fire.
I will escape this year into books.
Electric lights will be my sun.
I will live vicariously until
The summer heat returns.