Another Day On The Roof

 Another Day on the Roof

 

The cock crows

as the blinking moon slips into a dark corner.

She crawls out of bed and pulls on her faded jeans 

long stiff from the stench 

that no machine can wash away. 

 

Soon her well-worn shovel will crack the old tar and gravel, splitting it into thousands of shiny black chunks, the black dust settling everywhere. 

Fragments become tons and are hurled into a lumbering truck caked with dirt.

The roof is swept and swept again, exposing an acre of plywood and a growing mountain of debris; as the boom box drones in cadence, to

 

Shovel, hurl, sweep

Shovel, hurl, sweep

Shovel, hurl, sweep

 

The body learning what the day requires. 

By eleven a.m., the roof is sporting a black tar paper suit studded with silver nail buttons

to be finished by day's end, when it will be complete in modified bitumen torched down to create a seal.  A silver reflective coating is later rolled over it, as the sun continues its onslaught, frying her soot-soaked skin.

 

She works until sundown, and they drive to dump the debris. Then, to Safeway to buy dinner, looking like a trio of grimy vagabonds, hungry and bone-tired. Drawing curious stares as she brusquely fingers moist cash and blows black snot into wads of brown paper napkins.

 

Hours later

sinking into the couch

her feet are propped up on top of the coffee table

ten painted toes pointing and flexing

inhaling Rocky Road ice cream.

Exhaling slowly as exhaustion sets in

as she steels herself to begin again tomorrow

for another day in paradise

another day on the roof.

 

 

Send THEM To War

 Send THEM to War

Send the gangsters, 

the murderers, rapists 
the terrorists, the child molesters 
the ones with more than their fair share of piss and vinegar. 
Send the bad attitudes and the free-loaders. 

Send the ones that want to die with their boots on. 

Send the experienced ones 

A few good men
the Dirty Harry’s the Brave Heart’s 
the Rambo’s and 
the Rock’s, the ones 
with the snot-free noses. 

The ones that know-how 
and won’t think twice 
to fuck you up. 

Send the salty, the psycho 
and the drug lords, permanently stoned
on their last leg. 

Send the ones who want 
to leave this earth making 
a statement, leaving their mark 
their sweat 
their blood. 

Send Them! 

Let’s leave our youth alone 
and their wives and children 
with their minds and their bodies intact. 

Leave them to care for this country 
to bring us back to sanity 
to give us hope 
to revive our economy 
to renew our faith in humanity. 

Let’s harness those hormones to rebuild our bridges and dams 
to patrol our borders, and to forge new alliances 
without any preconceived ideas of what they can and cannot do. 

Let’s sit down and think about how we treat each other 
Reassess wants and needs 
How we teach our children 

Let’s take a lesson from history
and send the Neanderthal to fight the age-old feuds 

leave our kids to save the planet 
and send the apes-- the missing links. 

Send Them! 

 

Happy St. Patrick's Day

 

 

There was a young girl from County Cork

was rumored  six times with Sean O’Rourke

She was a strong Philly,

seduced his poor Willy

then delivered twin pickles, the stork.

…

 

You’ve shot a respectable Birdie

Applauded the sweet crone, Miss Purdy

Your score is quite good, 

But you’ve misunderstood

Save it, tweets now loud, proud, and flirty.

..

 

 

In Galway city at Kelly Greens

 

Lives a bonnie lass we’ve named Paulene

 

She has a soft shoulder

It couldn’t be colder

 

Lads, steer clear of her critical stream.

... 

 

The Earth Without Art is "EH"

 

My class, I’m told, weighs heavily on their plate; they must scale back.

The spoken word must wait.

Things may change sometime down the pike.

We could relearn history or later take a hike.

A world without poems is going to leave a hole.

Admit it, can you face the world without a soul?

So, listen, mister, please, have a little heart

And contemplate my gist; let’s save some time for art.

Because if you take the art out of the E-A-R-T-H,

all that’s left are two letters; all that’s left… is “EH”.

They want to get back to basics,

cos vinyl fencing rules, and plumbing brings home the pay.

But humans don’t thrive on work alone.

Change is a process…in this drug-free zone.

They say that art is an act

for people on the fringe,

poets, painters, performers waiting to unhinge.

But we are not all nihilists on the periphery.

We are not immaterial

or The Walking Dead in misery.

Expressing yourself clearly, as you know, is an art.

Our Slam Poets learn to frame an argument

increase their gray matter

by reimagining their unique purposes in life

thereby translating the sea of information in which their minds swim.

Poetry teaches them to reflect on their choices,

raises their consciousness

enables them to define their place in nature

not apart from it.

Self- Expression must continue to be a part of the healing in force,

because their perspectives without writing or lucid discourse… is “EH”.

 

Midnight Sun

 

I stared 

at the silent phone

listened for a footstep

beyond the doorknob

that did not move.

Outside, the sun was still up.

I waited and paced,

wearing a track in the hotel carpet. 

The luminous clock face on the nightstand flashed 4 a.m.

You left us there, without so much as a see you later.

To wait and wonder

Forsaking us to the dread that overwhelms me now.

The pimply platoon that reappears to march up and down my arms

soldiers marooned with no place to go and nothing but time and fear to kill.

I share this sad night with our twelve-year-old son, an innocent casualty of your private scheme.

Then open and close the shade in the hotel room again.

Noting that it is finally getting dark. It is July

here in Fairbanks, where nothing is fair, 

the days are endless, and we wait sleepless 

for you to return from your private 

birthday celebration. 

Deadly Sins

Place blame on the fool, 

for the cost of fuel, 

for global warmth, zealous haze,

the access gap and angst-filled days,

housing costs, tainted meat

the average household debt; good grief.

Microplastic seepage and fish mercury seasoned

Dictators murdered, and rainforest depletion. 

Melting glaciers, shifting tides, and temps. 

endangered species,  common-sense exempt.

To save and recycle waste, we attempt ethanol in corporate haste,  in the final hours, doesn’t it sting

 to develop E10 and E15 with carbon footprints for the hardworking lean.

When our grandchildren ask about what we did, will we look them in the eye 

Dare we show them how far we slid?

Pareidolia

 

It would seem

I have a severe case

Looking at my new hip X-ray

The other day

I saw a face.

 

The nurse stated

It was my colon

I was extolling

To which I replied

Well, at least I’m not backed up.

She conceded this was true.

 

Then I showed her the itchy rash on my back

You’re allergic to something

What do you think it is?

It might be the laundry detergent. I had used a Tide Pod in the wash recently. 

No, she replied, that’s a medicine rash.

You may be allergic to the antibiotic. I’ll add it to your chart.

Great, I thought. I took that for seven days. But at least it was a different antibiotic. Not one I previously took. 

 

The surgeon was backed up with another patient, so I opted to leave and see him next time.

I had such a good report that I wanted to make the staff laugh.

I promised next time to ride a skateboard down the hall,

But she was unshakeable and serious as a judge

And replied, “Don’t do that.”

I left, smirking, imagining what the heart doctors 

would say.

I think my Orthopedic surgeon would’ve smiled.

(More later)…

 

 

 

 

A Fresh impression

 

She'd said she would shoot herself in the face

except for the dog

that lost weight that winter

because he loved to dance in the snow,

the white powder glistening 

on his wet nose, Shepherd’s tail, dull fur.

 

I tried to imagine the depth.

 

Although I couldn't relate

not like that, but

I sensed that it was time

to let go, to

stop feeling like the world sat on my chest

like it was all on me

so, I thanked her but took another path.

 

I’d start fresh 

lay back 

outstretched 

into the blank page

sweep my arms and legs

out and back,

to my fragile wings

declare my somber joy.  

 

It was a new beginning.

The salt and the ice pick would come later. 

 

After Electricity

 

It is dawn,

the lights have just gone out,

the cause yet unknown.

The roosters’ crow at distant stars,

their raucous contest continuing

as the sun begins its ascent into

a cloudless blue, tinted with pink and orange. 

The palms stand stiffly at attention. 

The Ko’olau peaks loom like ancient warriors, 

awaiting the first battle cry. But the Kahuna have long gone.

 

 

After electricity, 

we will run out of supplies.

We will need to hunt for sustenance, 

our way of life will fall prey to illness, and the elements. 

 

Eventually

You will kill all of them.

All the people who have done you wrong.

Real and imagined debts burned on your personal pyre.

The evidence of their so-called crimes is long forgotten.

Existing in an altered state of your drug-addled mind.

The ancients are

Holding open the door to your doom 

Taunting you into their final dimension.

 

You were one

I try to imagine how many more are out there.

Wandering adrift, free to plunder

And we are left here in the dark. 

Good Morning America

Aren’t we great?

 

Good Morning, Starbucks!

Venti Me!

I’m going for the bypass tomorrow.

I woke up today and

all my size tens turned into fourteens

and I can’t get the zipper up.

I need EMS to resuscitate me

from the god-dammed fake news

that’s polarizing the populace

and I’m asking Mr. President

what is it all for?

I want off the rollercoaster

I want Opie and Andy

to call I Love Lucy

and tell her that

Ricky is her soul mate

that Ethel is skinny and Fred eats liver pate.’

 

Good Morning America

I need a Zen moment

a place to exhale all the garbage

from my black lungs

coughed up in the trenches

of foreign wars

because my credit 

needs a banker to 

prevent my cash from being

blown up in the chopper

in a bombed-out country

that hires kids as mercenaries.

 

 

Good Morning America!

We need a plan.

We need Mr. Spock

to beam down

and give us the logical

answer, before the Alien High Council

sends us to a frozen prison planet.

because no one here is exempt.

 

Good Morning America!

Let’s toast our Statue of Liberty

one last time, before the brute

calls in his note.

Before the polar icecap melts,

the climate stops flustering and

before Voyager reaches its destination.

 

Good Morning America

Today is the day

we resurrect GOD

meet those ancient aliens

who designed the giant stone monoliths

that litter the planet

like a Burma Shave ad for space travel.

Magnetic

to foreign collectors

from a far-off galaxy

who will surely

calculate the odds

of contracting the human infection

and inoculate their crew

for a close encounter of a shitty kind.

 

 

Good Morning America

We are being consumed by rhetoric

and our time is running out.

Pardon me

Excuse my partisan ass

Mr. Speaker but

America is Great, but fresh out of tolerance

and we were wondering

when you people on Capitol Hill

will get up off your rich collective butts

and do what you were elected for

which is to speak for the people

because we are tired of swallowing

your sovereign agendas 

and we’re not going to be quiet anymore.

Moving With The Gouda

 

I am balancing on a tightrope 

on my right leg

without a net,

circumnavigating destiny’s fork,

and betrayal’s vacant stare.

Breaking free from and the 

terminal followers

in their petrified stance.

Alone and on my own, 

with my sneakers firmly laced. 

Heeding the signs

on this blue-green maze,

driven by a brute with cheese.

 

Hemorrhoid Hilda

She is not cancerous
just a bloody, gushing pain in the ass.

She shrieks for
fiber
should
eliminate the sugar,

fried whites and browns.

Hilda needs to add green
red, orange, yellow, and
perhaps a purple
to her day.
Allowing
her
to cool down,
have fewer flare-ups.

Soothed, now                                                            
by the unflappable 

Hazel

a witch who
comes
expertly
recommended.

Rapunzel

Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!
Come on dearie
don’t be so Grimm

there’s nothing left to fear.

The big bad wolf
evil prick that he is 
is out fooling with some 
naïve Red Riding Hood on Facebook
and the wicked witch
has roared off on her broom
to Instagram a novel fashion color.

It’s okay to come out.

The bogey woman has left the building.
She got bored
went off to scare up a new Princess.
All the evil turds are gone
Rapunzel
Oh, by the way, you have netted a pink slip.

I’ll explain later.

Seriously, it’s time to escape
from your ivory tower
color those roots
get out of that frumpy dress
invest in a pedicure.

So join the group

get analyzed

and who knows

maybe in a few years

You too, can 

get a divorce

move in with Mom, and possibly
fit back into those skinny jeans.

  

I Am A Poet

Hello, my name is Cornelia

And I am a poet because

I need to condense this moment, now     the

who, what, where, when, why,  and how... of it.

I have a purpose, a tenacity, crystal clear.

Plus, I want to choose from an endless list of black and strong 

to go with my Einstein bagel and schmear.  Also, teach Kimmie how to say

Ursula (Err-sue-LA) 

 

TRULY, I am a poet 

Because it doesn’t mean a thing

If you haven’t got that zing

to people in the bayou

with alligators for neighbors

and mosquitoes as big as flying saucers

those who want to drink your blood

and leave welts the size of basketballs.

BIG...ORANGE...HARD...BALLS.

The balls that it takes

to stand UP and SHOUT 

about SENIORITY and AUTHORITY

and about the assonance and consequence

of our actions.

 

I am a poet

because of the reason and the rhyme, marking time 

Dripping off my tongue-- aged like fine wine.

Lyrical and magical 

Like ALICE

Chasing a rabbit into a hole, out of control

hanging on a cliff, with a NOTE 

high on hope, instead of dope.

Set adrift, on a sinking ship with a Fever

unrehearsed and cursed, to just be.

 

I am a poet 

because of sibilant S’s 

and because I want to weigh the wind 

on an impossible scale next to a fish tail that never pales, 

smells stale or          fishy.

I want to be shackled to a form and not mourn.

To show the flaming red dawn  like a phoenix rising from the ashes 

to give birth to the music of my faith 

Forever skewed, on strong WORDS,

RINGING in my ears, HIGH ABOVE THE HERD

until my LAST measured day, on Earth.

 

The Barber's Theater

 

He is magnificent.

Standing there in his white shirt and dark trousers, he takes slow, deliberate steps in a well-worn semi-circle.

His sharp scissors shape and clip, carefully clicking along to a favorite tune.

An eclectic mix of light and dark locks 

heap on the floor,

a bushy witness to his art.

A favored comb is well-positioned in his back pocket, ready for its cameo, then placed back as the razor continues to hum. He finishes with the Asian man before me: neck freshly shaven and brushed, cologne dabbed, and, too soon, the smock is removed and shaken.

The black and white checkered floor is swept. He pivots from the polished chrome and black leather chair to announce,

Next...

It is gripping like a one-act play,

and I am the only woman in the theater.

He smiles and looks towards me, repeating the invitation.

I amble towards him, no longer confident of the lucidity of my whim, then purposefully plop myself down in his chair to stare dolefully at my reflection. He swings the chair around so I can no longer see and proceeds to work. It doesn’t take long.

After he finishes, he hands me a mirror. My neck is quite pale above the old hairline, and I sense sunburn in my future.

I am not sure why, but I pay him.

I suppose that I am star-struck. He is Barnum, and I am not.

He nods curtly as I am dismissed, and the regulars continue to file in. 

The leather chair is still moist from my heat.

Broken Glass- ABCdarian

A

Broken Glass

Clearly

Defines the moment.

Evident in the 

Forefront 

Grabbing my attention.

How does the

Imperfect yet polished

Juxtaposition

Kill my mood

Leaving

Me

No choice

Of course, but to

Pick up my pencil 

Queue it to experience

Reflect on the moment

Savor the lost sip

Thread it into the story

Underscore the importance

Value the color

Wheel it this way and that

Xerox it, then sail off on a

Yacht and study

Zen.

The Bald Wonder

 An excerpt from The Katya Chronicles

 

 

 

 

Why must it always come down to that?

Didn’t they know he had connections with the spirit world?

 

He could fly without a machine

and higher than any human or feline.

He’d spotted the band that way

promised them that his kind did not carry off toddlers

All they had to do was entertain his boss.

 

That was when he noticed her orange hair

just like the prince, but uncombed.

A sign.

 

He would put them together. 

Perhaps she would donate her luscious mane,

to the Royals.

In exchange for sundries. 

That way, the heir could have a spare wig.

He was far too young to be spending all his extra time in the turret.

Barter worked well with the serfs. Besides,

the prince had a soft spot for young pussies.

She could wear a bandanna until it regrew.

Very stylish in upper cat circles.

 

Katya would improve her lot 

The prince would have a new kitty to play with

It was a win/win.

There was something about this one, too.

She was smarter than the rest

Perhaps he could teach her chess.

Meadow Pause

 Meadow Pause is what he called it.

But Meadow Pause made me feel like a confused,

overheated cow pausing in a meadow beside a guava tree.

A plump famished cow

Nay, a tail swatting cow

swiping a multitude of relentless flies.

Mooing in a high-pitched voice to Mother Nature about trade-wind breezes.

Causing my mood to surge from pink to blue and then see red, while sliding down a temperamental roller coaster in a pinball machine, stirring up a myopic zeal to murder Father Time.

A confused, overheated, plump, famished, moody, myopic cow, plodding down a meadow path in a sticky pasture, contemplating the change.

before my milk runs dry and I become irrelevant and invisible.

Or worse, before I cease to exist and someone turns me into a giant bag of rawhide dog chews.

The considerable dilemma of one confused, bellowing, moody, myopic, fat cow that would not go quietly through the rails.

No, indeed

This pacing, panting, drooling cow promises

to alert the other cow bitches

that are sure to follow.

Ft. Shafter Ladies

 Pacific golden plovers

Do a hopscotch dance,

Parade on dense fairways 

through sprinklers advance.

Stalked by a female tribe 

swinging metal shafts,

chasing after dimpled spheres 

of a bone-crushing blast.

 

Then, frightened by a thirsty sow 

midst eggshells littered mean,

as a pig dog lounges, on a nearby

 red-flagged green

 

Now three metal cranes stiffly survey 

from an urban rain forest in concrete dismay.

 

As this senior, giggling, practiced group 

stuff another four-inch hole,

with multi-hued and coded balls 

In measured, arthritic control.

 

They pause at the ninth to add their separate scores 

Then resumed their play to win this local Army course. 

Finishing eighteen with time to spare, the weekly game, 

And collect their winning shares. 

 Wild Catch

 

It was hot again that night,

on an isle of sea and sand.

A small wild girl sat fishing, 

scraped knees upon the land.

The tide was rushing out,

as twilight had begun,

exposing crabs and clams, 

by dinner’s midnight sun. 

She’d crouched into the water still,

while seagulls flew on by,

and waited for a tempting bite,

beneath the star-filled sky.

The prize she waited for, 

while gliding on its way,

did not surpass this small lass,

who waited in the bay,

and as it swam, she reached out her hand,

and scooped it clean away.

She took it home to show the clan

this trophy fish she caught with her bare hands

to confirm that daughters can also do

whatever in hell they set their minds to.