Wordsmith

He makes a living
Building things with his hands
But his fervent passion
Is constructing things
With words.

He is always
Talking
To himself.

Within his head
Or without.

He can be overheard
Conversing
To the air
Tumbling words
Sitting at a table
In a coffee shop
Or standing
Smiling
Somewhat pervertedly
At the frumpy girl
In the check-out line
At the local supermarket.

He has the widest smile.

Big square perfect teeth
And squinty eyes.

Frumpy check-out girls
Can’t resist him
And the turned up corners
Of his mouth.

Roy
The man
With the carpenter’s tan.

A glass half-full kind of guy.

Once in awhile
He can be found
Soliciting words
On the canal path

Late at night.

He even talks in his sleep.

Words jumping fences
One by one
In Dreamland.

How do I know?

Oh, I get it.

No.

It isn’t like that.

We were just cuddling
On the sofa
One night.

My head upon
His hairy chest.

Roy stroking
My brow
Innocently
As he was borne
Off to sleep.

We were listening
To music
On the stereo.

Barry Manilow.

“Looks like we made it…”

I could hear his heart
And his breathing
And the verbs and constanants
Adjectives, alliterations
Pronouns, prepositions
Interjections, modifiers
All spinning around
In capital and lower case
Deep within his rib cage
Like a tumble-dry high-cycle
In the laundry
Before spilling out
Of his wide
Flat
Picket-fence
Grill.

I lifted my head
To look up
At his cherub face
And closed eyes.

I promised him
Pancakes
In the morning
With Amish butter
And real maple syrup.

He responded
Sleepily
With words
And still more
Poetry.

Blackout (3/28/16)

The winds are demons tonight

Screaming

Wrathful vengeance
On an unkempt world

Parisian Garden

  

On the sunny afternoons

In the Bonne-Nouvelle Quarter

I could hear her

Singing

To her flowers

Abounding 

And lavish

Within

The old stone walls

Of her modest

Garden

Though 

Overheard

She wasn’t singing

To myself

Or anyone else

The birds

Also listened

If in the breeze

She pricked 

Her finger

On the

Delbard

Folle Courtisane

Rose

Her voice 

Did not falter

She would sing

To the blood 

Dripping 

On chartreuse

And pale yellow

The Seed Of A Mango

In my heart 
There is a brown skinned
Child
Sucking 
At the leftover flesh
Attached to a mango pit
That his mother
Gave him
Juice
Running
In great dispatch 
Down both 
Sides of his chin

The heart's sun is warm

Mouth and fingers sticky
As he runs off
To play
With the other children

The heart 

A world
Where even a feather
Found upon the ground
Holds wonder

The colors 
In a pebble
Deem it treasure

Pocket-worthy