Looped

I can’t let go.
I’m looped into
The current of
Electricity
Jangled
Burned
Helpless.

Were it
A matter of choice
I would have
Let you go
When you slipped
Your hand from mine
When you
Turned away.

But it’s not that
Easy.

If it were
I’d have let go
By now.

I can’t.

I am
Looped in.

How Swift the Arrow

You have no idea
How swift the arrow flies.
You think there’s time
To do what you’ve
Always intended.

The lie is
There’s time.

Wait to caress her
Take in
Her scent
Count the freckles
Across her breasts
Feel the ivory
Of her skin
The delicate shell
Of her ear
The way the pupil
Of her eye
Contracts with light
Feel
The blades of her shoulders
Working under her flesh
The sinew of her
Body and soul.

...Wait...

There’s yet time
To lie in the dark
Listening to her
Breathe.

...Wait...

Plenty of time
To learn her
Rhythm
Her shudder and gasp.

Just do what you feel.
There’s yet time
For tender.

Plenty of time.

But what you don’t understand
Is how swift the arrow flies.

Debris

Strange how shifting light
Alters the world
And it’s never the same.
Every moment
Presents a new observation
On an old theme.

Subtle refractions
Of light
And shadow
Change everything.

If you’re not looking
You’ll miss it.

You handed me coffee
This morning
Smiling
But the slightest curl
On your lip
Was a new take
On an old message.

I saw it.

How many things
Of great importance
Have I missed
Because I wasn’t looking?

Light falls across me
Constantly
Changing everything
From my environment
To matters of the heart.

I miss
What I swore I never would.

When all’s
Said and done
The whole parade will have
Passed
While I was looking at
Debris
In the gutter.

Hard Hours

Hard hours find me
Bent like an apostrophe
Doubled in pain
Wanting nothing more
Than whatever it takes
To take me away
Rip me from
Consciousness
Anything
To sever my neural receptors
From the transmission
Of agony.

It is not possible
To describe pain
Except to say
It is the enemy
Of kindness
And grace
The antithesis
Of mercy.

It is far easier
To say what it is not
Than what it is.

But in those moments
When pain is all I feel
All I know
Or understand
The most frightening reality
Is not the pain.

It’s what I’m willing to do
To be out of it.

Single-Space

I’m a single-space
Kinda guy.

I want you
Right up next to me
Close and intimate
Tied together
Like space between the lines
Of this stanza.

Not over there
Or there
Or anywhere else.

Right here.

When I’m in bed
It’s your heat I need.
You warm me.
It’s your scent
I desire
Your taste
I crave.

I want your name
On my tongue
Your body
Beneath my fingertips.

I want your hair
Splayed across my pillow.

I want to hear you
Hum in the dark
And sing in the shower.
I’ll soap your back
Wash your hair
Then towel you dry.

I’m a single-space
Kinda guy.

Double-space people
Annoy me.
The kind that
Are self-contained
Who want a lover
On their terms
When they’re ready
When it’s convenient
To them
When their desire is triggered.

Sweetheart
I’m a single-space
Kinda guy.

I want you near
When the time’s not right
When things
Turn inside-out
And everything’s coming apart
When I feel terrible
Or you feel rotten
When the kids are puking
When the bank’s busted
And the socks need sorting
When the sky’s falling
On Chicken Little’s head
And Humpty Dumpty’s
Shattered on the ground.

I want you
When the time’s not right
Just as much
As when it is.
I’ll pitch in
Work hard
To make it right again.

Am I being clear, dear?

I’m a single-space
Kinda guy.

Point of No Return

What was I thinking
When I thought better
Of you?

Was I confused
By passions exchanged
In seasons
Of the heart?

Funny
How you soared away
At stellar speed.

When did you pass
The point of no return?
Was it gradual
Or like markers on a highway
Did you cross the line
At a specific point?

You changed.

I am who
You knew me to be.
My heart
Is the same.
My mind
Is the same.

But what was I thinking
When I thought better
Of you?

How You See It

How strange, time.
It wends
And bends
Is a fabric
That distorts
On paper
And experimented with
In warp terms
Of quantum mechanics.

In the practicality
Of substance
Time is nothing but
Ticks of a clock
Digital numbers
Glowing on a screen
Precisely calibrated
To mark the passing
Of events
Sliced into
Observable sequence.

But to the lover
How different is time!

Time is measured
In parcels of pain
Occasioned by
Hours since
The last kiss
Last embrace
Last union
Of bodies and souls
The last time
One iris
Gazed into
Another iris.

The Astrophysicist
Understands time
As the fragmentation
Of length in travel
To the most remote
Spheres
Of the universe.

But to the lover
Time
Is corpuscles
In the stream
Of desire.

The scientist and lover
Agree
In one respect:

To both
Time is
The delay between
The beginning and end
The origin and the target
The loam and the harvest
The pain and joy
Of what was
And what is hoped will be
Again.

Time…
What the scientist
Holds
And the lover
Beholds.

The discipline of substance
And the substance of discipline.

How you see it
Determines which you are.

I’m Not the One

Not me.
I’m not the one
That let go.

I held that cord
Until my hands bled.
I put my loins into it
Dug my heels into the soil
And tugged
For all I was worth.

I’m not the one
That let go.

I wrapped that line
Around my waist
Determined to fasten
The mooring
To my body
And soul.

That cord
Looped my whole
Being
And anchored my heart.

But it broke.

It snapped like
A rifle shot.

And when it loosed
Its recoil
Was savage
Tearing both flesh and spirit.

But it wasn’t me…
Wasn’t me.

I’m not the one
That let go.

Closed

There was a long
Dark highway
Stretching between
You and me
Lined with telephone poles
Blackened with creosote
And leaning with the shove
Of storms.

Between you and me
Were endless flocks
Of barn swallows
Teetering on high lines
Draping those poles
That border the long highway.

Between you and me
Were millions
Of acres of corn
That feed the swallows
That perch on the lines
That flank the lonely highway.

Scores of weary farmers
Steer slow tractors
Raising dust
Into chambray skies
Tilling the soil
That will hold the seed
Coaxing corn to life
All along the highway once
Between you and me.

Tired laborers
Limp into
White frame houses
With leaky roofs
And tilting chimneys
Looking for simple suppers
Of Navy Beans
And corn bread
Across the prairies
Between you and me.

Lover, do you see
There is more between us
Than what we suppose?

More than miles of poles
Barn swallows
Fields of grain
Farmers, tractors
And plates of simple meals.

That which lies between us
Is more distant than horizons
Deeper than fields
Higher than wings may fly
And more simple than
Bread and beans.

There’s no longer a connection
Between us, lover.
That highway is
Closed.

My Joe

It goes down smooth
Lightly acidic
But cut with cream
And two teaspoons
Mulched and distilled from
Caribbean cane
It's my friend.

I need it.
Gotta have it.
Can’t do without it.

I can’t use
Corporate Blend
Or
Designer Drip
And don’t give me
Anything mixed with
Mocha
Vanilla
Cinnamon
Or anything else that may lead to
Unpleasantries.

I want the
Old Fashion Grind
That seeks my throat
Like a Hell Fire Missile.

If you present it
In a precious little corrugated sleeve
Or imprinted with art
From the Louvre
There will be difficulties
‘Tween Thee and Me.

Friend
Just pour it in
A chipped ceramic mug
Or a Styrofoam cup
Then place it between my
Jersey-gloved hands.

It’s simple.
Let’s not complicate this.
Brew it
Boil it
Nuke it
I don’t give a Tinker’s damn
How you do it.

Just do it.

Better yet
Get out of my way
And I’ll do it.

Then, give me a moment to
Gulp it down.

When I’m done
We can talk about high prices
Who’s doing what to who
What’s happening when
And where you’re going and why.

I’ll nod
And happily grin at
Everything you say.

But never get between me
And my Joe.

Quoteable Quote

"Now if you are going to win any battle you have to do one thing. You have to make the mind run the body. Never let the body tell the mind what to do. The body will always give up. It is always tired in the morning, noon, and night. But the body is never tired if the mind is not tired."- U.S. Army General George S. Patton & 1912 Olympian

Bitter Wind

I saw the bitter wind…
It shaped the swirling snow
Into patterns
Traced by gusts.
Crystalline windscapes
Of fine white powder
Chased a thousand etchings beyond
The restaurant glass.

I sat transfixed
By more than the simple beauty
Of snow.
Tugging at the fray of reason
I understood.

I was the snow
Chased and shaped
By the will of your wind
Forming me into as many
Patterns
As these.

I was tossed
And scattered
Pushed by you
Contorted across the fields
And roadways
Of our relationship.

Shifting and exiled
Was I.

But there was one
Glaring difference
Between the wind and you.

You are far more cold.

Marvelous

You were a dancer.
Graceful
Marvelous
And classic.

Swan Lake
Giselle
Petrushka
Your repertoire.

My eyes never saw your craft
Though I felt it in you.

When one is gifted
It is as obvious in the body
As it would be in the performance.

I knew it in you
Never having received it
From you.

A face might contain
Lines made from a thousand smiles
Though the smile not be for me.

You were a dancer.
I knew it when first I saw you.
Your grace and charm
The fluid way you walked
The way you carried yourself
Your deportment with the universe
All communicated
Dance.

It was as obvious
As is
The frailty of a butterfly
Or the tensile strength
Of silk.

In imagination I see you.
And you are marvelous.

The Question

I crawled onto this thin ledge
Understanding the peril
Knowing the scope of risk
And still determined to go.

Had I examined the complexities
I'd have gone anyway.

So, I huddle beneath the rock shelf
Sucking in cold air
Waiting for the floor to crumble.

A friend once said I flirt with danger
The way other men golf.
He was a golfer.

I sit in the fading light
Glancing at my watch
In company with the phantoms of
"Why?"

But, for me
The real question is
“When?”

Special Note

The Dashboard Poet
is in its 2nd year.
There are changes rumbling
In my spirit
That will, of necessity,
Change the fabric
From which these poems are cut.
It may be strange for a time.
I am forcing myself to go deeper
Push harder
Strain
To get to my
Core truth.

I need to get to work.
That's "Job One."
Once I drill to my gritty core
Truth will rise to the surface.
Readers willing
To walk their eyes
Down the boulevard
Of these words
Are welcome to enjoy whatever
Lights their bulbs.
I hope what comes will be
The best writing I've ever done.
Or...it could be the most tame missive
Since Hiawatha.

By this time next year the
Jury will be in.