They Are All The Same Kind Of Different

At the end of the day
Perforated, differentiated into little puffs of infinite sameness
The clouds stretch on to the edge of the world
Reaching to where the apocalypse is happening
Ka-Boom!
But the clouds haven't perished yet
And so they reach, on and on and on
And I can't imagine the place where they end.

Bits of the Day

-Woke up at 5:30am to (what else?) Angela Lansbury telling Mr. Todd about the sea in order to see my mom off. Went back to bed.
-Woke up again at 11:45 or so. Brekkers, shower, off to the hospital.
-Waited in the family waiting room in the surgery area. There was a man in there with a beard like Sam Beam's. He wore Swiss shoes, and had his jeans rolled up at the cuffs, exposing an inch or two of sock. On the legs was rolled up a little higher than the other.
-We (My dad, Uncle Steve, Aunt Joe, Aunt Sue, Uncle Brian, Grandma Hornbeck, me) laughed hard at one point. A lady in a black jacket sitting two seats from one of the windows that looked into the hallway gave us a withering look.
-I watched a man when a nurse pulled him out of the room to talk. I wanted to see his reaction to whatever news he was being given. Not sure what he was told. I never saw him really react--someone walked by, and then he was walking the other way.
-Drove my Grandma Hornbeck's car to pick up Grandma Shepherd. G. H. did not want to take Fuller street. We didn't.
-Dr. Daniels came out at about 7:30, I think, to tell us that the surgery was done. He was pleased with how it went.
-We watched the start of the final presidential debate. Plumber Joe is kinda a big deal, I guess.
-About 9:20, they took my mom from the surgery place to her room in the ICU. My dad, the grandmas and I got to see her go by.
-The grandma's went home.
-My Dad and I were able to briefly visit Mom about 9:45. She was groggy, but recognized us and made jokes.
-Dad and I drove home. It was raining. Talked about how Fuller is a fine street.

Proper Politics

Do You Suppose That I Would

and so, here it is again. hello, my old friend.

Magma Moon

hatchet in hand
chop chop

my legs in sand
tide rising

my hand is bland

tea drink sea
dark rain well

a bird overhead
bright feathers
red sun

look what i've done
bycycle the sidwalk
to find
this mess

oh mountain!
towering purple
crashing white snow
burying

volcano
volcano that burns
magic lava
growing new life

An Open Letter to an Internet Radio Station

Dear Pandora,
You are adorable. Let's just say that right off the bat.
In the past, when I gave the 'thumbs' down to a song on one of my Pandora stations (indicating my dislike of such a song in a certain setting), you would merely impose a larger opposable digit facing downwards over the song, and skip it. And that would be it. You would just quietly let it go.
No more.
A few minutes ago, when you chose to play Coldplay's 'Clocks' on my station built around the Irish bard Damien Rice, I naturally gave it that nearly-universal sign of disapproval. Now, you certainly did skip it and give it a digital black spot.
In addition to that, however, you popped up to let me know that you noticed. You told me that you were sorry.You told me that you would never play 'Clocks' on that station again.
Wow.
Now, I can enjoy Damien without wondering if Chris Martin is surreptitiously hiden around the corner, anemic U2 pretensions in hand.
Pandora, you have impressed me this evening. You have raised yourself in my estimation, and can look forward to being rewarded. I'm going to start spending more time with you. I know I've been absent from your intuitive musical wanderings for a while, but the prodigal has returned, and you've welcomed him with open arms.
Thanks, Pandora. You're a gem in my book.

A Fiftieth Posting

Sometimes, someone comes into your life, a someone you didn't expect, and then leaves, almost as quickly. An effervescent friendship. But, in that brief time, they manage to shake up the way you view things, and make you think through things you had long allowed to collect dust.

Thank you, Blaze.


To change gears:

A Lyric Composed on October the Second

brush the words
coax them
tappity-tap

and the tundra
is frozen

drifting down
beach shells
warm

the bower
tightens to
choke dreams

linen linen
washing time
cycle 'round
earth 'round sun
warm the sand

stained letters
form a bed
siberian wolf
on the tracks

the ocean-whale
watches
eying the clean
it all tumbles down

yellow warm light
raising the flower
seeds dry
the flesh
in order to
dine
on some cool day

drowsy starfish
swimming up
floating down
it all screams
mediocrity
chews on sleep

picnicking solves
some disorder
sown too late
under this
shaped earth

beach the thought
explode cool
pillowing
meteoric whelps

In Search of a Title

I was laying in my bed the other night and I wanted to write a poem, but nothing was pressing to get out of my fingers. Then I thought, why don't I write a poem in the style of Greg? This is the result. I'm not sure how much it follows Mr. Fox's manner. One other thing--I can't seem to title it. Help me?



city, burning
on the pavement
light bright
at night
closing the door
to smoke
ashes on the
concrete
eating the steps
of the
busy people
running
scraped roots
ramming walls
green yellow red
red
orange
blinking up
in the rain
grey over
the river
asphalt holding
this child
stroller and coffee
early alarm
fire down
the road
festering trash
dumpster home
newspapers pay
for doom
crashing down birds
enormous import of meeting
a new face
kindly, hope
spreads
green on grey
hospital laps blood
we learn
our crime
is a lack
of
...
?