I’m sure if we had poets, they’d be writing about the swallowing of Miami Beach by the sea.

Well Jesus I thought
just as well we dont
have poets any more
or Miami Beach might
disappear

ex cantatio

the dialogue of the wind
and the waves
written in rock and sand
scribbles harshly

Seaweed punctuation,
driftwood exclamations,
writing in codes
you can't decipher,

the message of mother ocean
we are coming

saltstained concrete
towers
will wade through
your future
guppies will gulp
your foods
and play among
the wreck of wheels

the octopi
will occupy
wall street
at last
bloodsuckers
replaced
by
just suckers

sharks will bump
and chew on
the benches of justice
tip over the
crusted rotting chairs

read the runes of ruin
and remember
we are coming

Middle Age death poems #3423245

Another building, 
another foyer, 
another elevator

another street, 
another sun, 
another parade of cars

another parade of days
all different,
all the same

until you hear your old friend
cant swallow bread any more
his throat seized with tumour
the crab nipping hard
til his doctors fashion a 
new throat from his stomach

then the whisper in your ear
next time, next time
and the days are shorter
and out of breath

and you laugh at the title
you gave this scribble
middle-age:
thats come
and gone

Corpus Callosum

The ghost in my head
is fucking crazy
of course *he* thinks
I'm nuts
it's a miracle we agree
to get both legs
out of bed
in the morning

Naturally we both
get hungry tho
so there's that.

So I says to myself,
self,
we are one fucked up reality
away
from a rubber room
but damn those eggs smell good.

Mercifully, self doesn't backchat
for once

Fairview Street

Everyone's got a Fairview street
in their past,
in their future,
somewhere

You know how life can finally be
full and sweet and right
you've spent years peeling that orange
and now you're biting in,
delight, juice, fulfillment

and a step forward,
a step back
a concrete curb
and Fairview Street

screams and blood and tears
and Fairview Street

It might be dressed
in white walls and
green scrubs
and lights too bright
its still Fairview Street

Then you're just sitting
listening to Pops growling
Old Rocking Chair
and thinking of flies buzzing
and wondering why
Fairview Street

Predictablity

Teenage love poems
middleage angst poems
oldage death poems
seems a miserable straighjacket
even if you can
wiggle your fingers

of course, it aint right
you can hardly move your arm
without hitting a teenage
angst or death poem

But it does seem to net
the butterfly of intent
fairly well

Made me think:
 but how do I
clap my hands around
twenty five years of love
my arms arent that wide
I can barely see
the boundaries
between her and me

Sunk costs

There are eyes I can see
that I never saw
staring, round, scared

Not haunting me
but there at a beckon
adding melancholy
to my soup of the day

Not that I loved her
but she was so lost
so alone, so desparate
I couldnt not reach out

And when she left
she lost her way again
I threw her little lifebuoys
of cash and care and attention

but she floundered,
foundered.

Gone far

I saw her dance
down her dark path
waving smiling shining
shimmering madly
with her own
inspiration

I never saw
what strange seas
she strode beside,
swam in,
soaked up

Just the blood dark pool
she sat down by
black end-
-less dreams
even now
lost and lost and lost

Metaphor

or meta-for
maybe meta 4
it seems to be doomed
any way you fractionate
to be taken
consumed for literal,
as misunderstood
as a teenage death poem,
punctuated with
arcane punct
or maybe just Punk'd

Energy levels
a metaphor
for meta understanding
of metataxis
or just more woo
... a book review.

Distance

I see her

every day

out of reach

not just fingertips

interstellar distances

made of miles

and years

and age

and I can never

not reach for her

even though

the best I can manage

is throw her a lifeline

keep her afloat

never to touch her

never to scent her

close and far

and always in my heart