Tequila, Jesus in a Nighttime City, Clock Maker, Life Is-Transition
Tequila (V2)
Single life is-tequila with lime,
shots of travelers, jacks, diamonds, and then spades,
holding back aces-
mocking jokers
paraplegic aged tumblers of the night trip.
Poltergeist defined as another frame,
a dancer in the corner shadows.
Single lady don’t eat the worm
beneath the belt, bashful, very loud, yet unspoken.
Your man lacks verb, a traitor to your skin.
Jesus in a Nighttime City (V4)
Jesus walks
Southwest side
Chicago nighttime city
in bulletproof vest
barefoot
broken
beer
bottles
glass,
stores closed,
blasted windows,
mink furs stolen,
a few diamonds for glitter-
old parks, metal detectors, quarters, nickels, dimes,
coins in the pockets of thieves, black children
on merry-go-rounds, Maywood, IL.
Danger children run in danger
in spirit, testimony,
red velvet outdates Jesus’ robe.
Clock Maker (V2)
Solo, I am clock maker
born September 22nd,
a Virgo/Libra mix insane,
look at my moving parts, apart yet together,
holes in air, artistic perfection,
mechanical misfits everywhere,
life is a brass lever, a wordsmith, an artist at his craft.
Clock maker, poet tease, and squeeze tweezers.
I am a life looking through microscope,
screen shots, snapshot tools,
mainsprings, swing pendulum, endless hours,
then again, ears open tick then a tock.
Over humor and the last brass bend,
when I hear a hair move its breath,
I know I am the clock waiter,
the clock maker listens-
a tick, then a tock.
Life Is-Transition (V2)
Transition, is song, passages.
291.5 pounds, age 67, 6’4′, gross as a pig waiting for
butcher’s cut.
Aging chews at my back, my knee joints, chisels, slivers
in dampness.
Legs are corn stalks burning; twist fibers, bending, late
October, Halloween night.
Good news, 67, lost 38.9 pounds this year, rocking gently
shifting my pain away.
I am no longer a beagle pup, an English cocker spaniel
chasing the bitches around,
no longer a champion bike rider, yo-yo champion, nor
Hula Hooper dancer or swinger.
Now I expand my morning stiffness with stretch rubber
bands, legs lifted high then down.
Wild mustard, wild black rice and the Mediterranean diet
have taken over my youthful dining experiences.
I no longer have nightmares about senior discounts, or
Meals on Wheels,
part-time bus driving jobs, or aerobics.
When spices are in season, I out live my postponements
to my grave.
Screech owl, I am an old buck, baby hoot on a comeback,
dancing my ass off.
Transition, shedding old loose snakeskin.
Still listening to those old hits, like Jesse Colter, Waylon Jennings,
“Storms Never Last.”
Transition is song passages.
