Adano’s Bell in Syllables
A tired old jogger on beaten paths,
I scroll and stroll
through lists of words.
Letters melt lucidity,
wipe the sunscreen off my back.
Adano’s Bell in syllables
that celebrate why battles start
in search of art and backward darts.
They all end up ammonia honest
not unlike those old latrines
in campgrounds with dynamic dumps
that promise lotion languishing
in languages connected to, contorted by
the presence of dream’s rosaries.
My pen, a haunted house at times.
At others it’s a German tank,
reminding me it owns my soul.
Knuckles cup as apple dumplings
cooling on a countertop.
A graveyard for the shells of nuts,
broken shoe-lace independence,
foot paths of a ghost’s regatta
warming up for oceans crossed.
I order knowledge of myself
like rich desserts,
burning off time’s calories.
You won’t read a Pollyana treatise here.
Pain exists in cactus flowers
tucked between both swords and thorns.
You won’t see a war wrap up
and love the trash it rifles through.
Tons of warped old records stacked--
fond of notes they skid and skip.
Internal motion plays eternal.
Looking for lost jacket cause.
Steady Walls
On tails of tales
of hideous,
marriage steamed
in record-breaking
temperatures.
I was an old
hand to vows,
but new to love.
We both wore
footprints
wrought in fear.
Riding crops
of years before
in swinging doors
that kick a toddler
from behind.
Scarf promises
to tender tie.
A bright bouquet
replaces all
the sandy clay
of old briquettes
and history’s
dirty underwear.
Halos for new
moons in place.
We trade our blood
in quick IV’s--
toss sharp darts
at steady walls.
Words are only
double-knots
for pre-existing
certainty.
Scarlet Puddles
Another television war
surveyed from
our Lazy Boy’s.
Rifles filter
good and bad.
Bombs play pedals
with their tongues.
A briefcase is
a body bag
where imitation
leather rules.
We live among
unfathomed blood--
paint good layers over lies.
Cinderella’s slipper pinching
swollen feet of politics.
Macho mesmerized my blood
in harbors of a fantasy.
No one really, truly dies.
Leaves scarlet puddles crusting
on the velvet arms of richly
dreaming sitting rooms.
“Take a break”
means fetch a beer.
Where lives are lost
like corners of dry
cookie dough.
Broken Bracelets
I fell for masks of Zorro myths:
darkness donned to beat
disgrace you didn’t earn;
ways long nights had
bruised short loves.
Unemployment’s tumor grew.
I met your issues at the door--
company a woman
serves quite willingly
in prisons of respected rules.
Suns came up for witnessing
alligators combing
bottoms of a swamp--
dreaming up another batch
of almost learned calluses
I knew as well as cherished friends
and sprinkled on like
croutons at a salad bar.
All that flesh of tenderness
turned to old salami jackets
begging for retreat’s hors d’oeuvre.
Olive pits of old mistakes
became a scissored rosary.
Broken bracelets of romance,
tumors stitched excusing quilts;
realize would switch their gears
to stings of sassy riding crops.
Chastity belts of stay away
bled through cycles of dismiss--
watching someone masturbate
and longing for connected love.
Laughing gas of freedom rides,
where nerves wake up behind a drill.
Feel optimistic youth return:
that sense of surging human power
a Navy pilot must enjoy when
lift-off takes him high above
a tidal wave he can’t reverse.
A fever breaks in silent smiles;
eyes can trust the moon again.
Knowing that I’ve done my best,
owning ways I’ve iced down ice,
I fall asleep in deep, deep peace--
Apache warriors after battle
soaking off thick clot remains
and crusty paint of stolen space
with river water in their palms.
Cold War
I watch my father doze in time--
still so tall in easy chairs.
My wooden leg makes too much noise.
Its cost a toll booth adding up.
Hide ‘n seek’s impossible.
Aware of pain that weighs too much
on irritation’s cruel scale.
Exposed and frail I touch the throne,
stroking emotion as if were reason.
Confident that it is not.
Vaticans of judgment skies
do brutal things to little kids.
Limits shine like Christmas lights
that line a fence on prison camps.
The search for tweezers of a smile--
ways around a bathroom mirror.
Slivers reign and rule red art.
Splinters driven, driven in.
Every step is trial ‘n’ error--
where bloody knees win poker games.
Cold war eyes. Where fear
is hidden in the cellar.
Hot Hell skin in body casts
that wrapped my world
like wedding rings.
Popes of medicine applied
in rituals of motion’s rites.
Surgery’s stand--a necessary,
well-intended malaprop
in dubious battles for competence.
