The Singer Who Lost His Voice

he staples a sign to a telephone pole
hoping that anyone can help him
find it

winter is coming
and he dreads the thought of it
out there alone on the streets
in the snow

he considered reporting it to the police
but as he dialed the number
it dawned on him that
all they would hear
was an empty line

communicating
to the outside world
was now more difficult
than ever

nearly impossible

he was trapped
with a head full of music
that will never have a beat

verses and choruses
like remote desert islands
waiting for ships that never
come in

a song that is
a dirge of itself

the injured gazelle
determined to end her pain
limps to a lion

she loved a good meal
bits of bone between her teeth
she loved him no more

A Headstone on the Dance Floor

a pop songs creeps out of the speaker
like a ghost moaning through a wall

apparitions of disco lights flash briefly
between long spells of darkness
and the only thing that i can see
is backwards

the only face i can make out
is squinty eyed and duck lipped
and as soon as the corner of my mouth
cracks what is almost a smile
she is gone

long ago
vanished into the same shadow
that takes them all

but every now and then
i still go to the club
with my laces tight
and a bouquet of flowers
to pay my respects

i twist and shout to dirges
and do the locomotion like a funeral procession

for the sweat we left
in socks
and stockings
to Billy Ocean songs

for the slow songs we swayed to
as if they were angels we prayed to

for when her body dipped
and my body bopped
until Death stole the dance floor
and our bodies
just dropped

Gratitude

going to see
my favorite Irish folk punk band
was not the endurance contest that i feared
it could have been

but there were moments

especially when they sang
three "whiskey" songs
in a row

i never liked whiskey
but i thought about vodka

clean and clear
ordered by the double
with club soda and lime
served in a pint glass

the taste of so many summers
so many falls
winters and springs

i shrugged those memories off
clapped my hands and shook my ass
to the music

when the show was over
i left

now i am home
with my DVD collection
my lemongrass green tea
and my vegan tacos

i made it through another night

so
for another morning
instead of looking in the mirror
and saying "fuck you"
i can say "thank you"

Style

grey socks pulled up to his knees
and a velcro strap over the laces
of his sneakers

he takes turns
between reading his Des Moines Register
and throwing bits of his maple pecan muffin
to the robins on the cafe patio

he makes me not afraid to get old
he does it well
even if he is poorly dressed
in a vacation t-shirt
and non-descript ballcap

whoever says the clothes make the man
never looked closely enough

but i can tell
and the birds can tell
that this old man has
style

Pesto Cavatappi

eight years later
and a thousand miles away
but this seems just like our place

there is nothing special about
chain restaurants

the tables are the same
the chairs are the same

and the food...

well
it tastes the same
whether you're in Des Moines
or in Dallas

and there is nothing special about
romance

the sweet beginnings
the rocky middles

and that last kiss goodbye...

well
it tastes the same
whether you're in Des Moines
or in Dallas

we've all already been there
and we all know what we're ordering
before we even walk in the door

A Season for Reason

like a lover that won't leave
you keep wrapping your arms around
the fleeting moments of a warm Autumn
begging for her to stay

but you know
she won't

you know the cold is coming

you better start bundling up
or all that will be left for Spring
are the remains of a frozen fool
who died not letting go

Salt Water

the oppressors' tears are saltiest

but fools with no tongues 

keep drinking

deep from the cups of

privileged pity