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)…