Open Mic

Open Mic

Every Tuesday night was open mic
At the hippie, veggie, coffee shop
A few short blocks from where I
Lived when I was sixteen, in
Sun-drenched, red-bricked,
Tennessee. When I was sixteen,
In quiet, southern, Chattanooga
Tennessee, I played guitar outside
So many downtown coffee joints. But
This, my first night ever, my friend
Brought his bass guitar and I brought
My Gibson. I knew two songs, four chords.
When they asked me to play, I said,
"Where's the mike?" Every one of those
Lowdown, hairy, friendly, veggie, stinkin'
Hippies laughed at me. I came back every
Week. Summer of my senior year, they
Closed.
I want to see that chalkboard with the
Beany, veggie daily specials again.
I want to play Sex Pistols on an
Acoustic guitar, write free-form
Poetry denouncing Mickey Mouse and
McDonalds and the rest of our
Used-up, dried out, tired consumer culture.
Maybe tomorrow I'll walk down a side street downtown
And hear "Closer to Fine,"
And inside there will be a circle,
A six-string Gibson swinging, hairy,
Veggie, hippies drinking coffee from
Ceramic mugs, in that muggy, starry,
Close and friendly, Chattanooga,
Tennessee of my dreams.

Ursa Major

Ursa Major

His arms are my father's arms.
Thick, covered with hair, they
Hold the paper gently as he reads.

They were always around me,
Around my shoulders from
Above, that massive sun-
Warmed strength.

Driving to OC

Driving to OC

Driving to Ocean City to
Visit my parents, I
Remember each turn
Of the road, looking
For the sub shop sign,
Roadside custard, gas
Station, bridge, liquor
Store. Each mile is
Backwards, living and
Reading and playing
There every summer,
Four till fourteen.

Afterwards I
Speed back to
Baltimore, rocket
Into work, cook dinner,
Go out with friends,
Driving home I think
Through the next week,
Trying on my life again,
Brushing off the sand.

Failure

Failure

Over and over I stumble on the ice.
This is not skating; it's a refusal
To fall backwards. Staggering on
Hands and knees and back again, I
Can only see the next step-

that day I disappointed everybody

that day I disappointed everybody

I've been staring straight ahead for hours.
I no longer understand language, I hear tones,
Low howls, I speak the tongues of machines
And beasts. I know this is my punishment, or
At least how it begins - to wonder how
Or what has happened to me since I woke up.

Mid Afternoon

Mid Afternoon

rain drops glisten on the sidewalk
worms writhe half-cut by boots.

Sunlight glares over the suburbs
in impotent anger, drying well-cut
lawns. The air's a soupy mess.

the blocks between bus stop and home
sweat as I do, smothered with apprehension-

Bus Seats

Bus Seats

Mesmerized by bus seats, I watched
Monsters rise from wrinkled vinyl.

I stared at cracks in concrete
When I walked, a little boy
Studying geomancy in miniature.

In my heart I live in EE Doc Smith's
Vision of the future;
I believe any competent mind should
See the world in a pot shard.