Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Joseph's Calm Adventure (novella--on Kindle)


Tuesday, May 28, 2013

Stripped of Being Missed

How many days
could I have the honor
of being missed before I vanish?
She lay with the
forty years
disappearing behind her,
and the world now
trapped in recurring memory.
She lay deeper and
deeper in dreams,
lastitude to keep the pain away.
Even the dreams have
abandoned memory and now
reach far away.
It's been four years
since I saw her
dense brown eyes
that gave up missing me.
I could tell as she woke.
My memory is still
as strong as my breathing.
I can still blow out candles.
Her memory started fading as soon
as she could no longer
sip soft drinks.

Friday, May 24, 2013


The white one with the long black tail
pursued by the smaller hawkish one
rushes among the trees,
heart twittering at vibration rates,
data flicking, information filters.
Dodges with frenzy, bits
of straw dangling from beak.
You think this is
romance, in the deep green of May.
Bits of blood over gelatin,
cold black eyes.

Monday, May 20, 2013

"INSANE SONGS" : An Automated Short Story

 An Automated Short Story
To read this story, visit this URL:

From Insane Songs

I'm going to start
drawing heavy lines
around my portrait.
It's time I made a
fortress to protect who I am.
I can feel the borders
weakening even now.

I think that's how
the youthful world will kill me,
not from the inside,
but by wearing down my outer edges,
making space. They need room.
They worry about latitude.

I will protect
what is left of myself
against advice, suggestions,
declarations about my
incorrectness, commands.
Those make me
turn my head this way and that,
like a hunted animal.

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

Last Night

The thought comes from a storm.
An aging tree falls into
the soft heart of sleep.
A dream grows from
the splinters.

Sunday, May 12, 2013

Whistling and Walking

When I walk I sing
the old songs and hope
the irrational
things they hope.

My walk through
the streets is a sequence of hopes
arranged like songs
compiled by my body.

My mad ghostly hopes are
lies neglecting time,
central tenant of hope,
wishes given pregnancy by songs
that came from years
when my stock of time was rich.

Saturday, May 11, 2013


I sing all day
the old songs
and hope
the irrational
things they hope.

The Old Songs Play Themselves

Some heard as his mother
stood over ironing in the 1947
summer of Hatboro, Pa..
Some of the songs
in black and white
Saturday evening television circles.
Some later, songs of folksy pretension. 
The songs persist
anchors of memory,
like the crystaline
seeds of clouds,
matrons of tribes.

Friday, May 10, 2013

Sweet Twenty

I have the same hopes
now as when I was
twenty and longing.
All I longed for
when I was twenty
have really come to pass.
But the flavor of reality is
not the same as the flavor of dreams.
As I walk through the city,
the flavor of dreams drives me.
Saturated in the honey of dreams,
I expect impossible things.

Thursday, May 09, 2013

The Senior

Many would judge
Jerry an old man,
not accustomed
to the idea of course.

He keeps
old songs in his head,
about new streets,
meeting strangers.

It never quite wore
away from his
belief-hopes that
magic amour would carrying him
to new warm shores
and thrills from pretty fingers.

Friday, May 03, 2013

Manny the Microscope Man

Manny thought the microscope is a way of stopping time. Time is irrelevant, he thought, inside that tube. It's as if time doesn't bother with things that small. When you travel through the microscope you slip away from time into silence and rest. A new inventory of mysteries situates calmly for your eyes. There is no sound, no impact, no danger, just your mind. He laughed as he thought of it. He smiled inwardly.

He saw eternity through that lens, including the buried, unhappy earth, away from the sun, separated from whatever is regenerate and warm. Unearthly markings on a moist earth toned shell are, surprisingly, also from the earth.

It could also be a return to something simple, a world of closed loops where kinks and corners weren't invented, where animals mixed and organelles slipped through each other, eating inside each other within impossible rooms of gelatin.

Out here, Manny thought, we hold the line cold and fast. We lock and crimp sharp.The circle is only an ideal we can't match. The thought came up from the great tube of body and brain.

And Manny wanted to make vows. Promises gave bones to his ameboid nature, froze him into a shape. Kept time from spreading him. He could imagine leaning back into someone he could trust, someone loyal. He would vow first, pledge allegiance, the assume it would forever be the same and equal, a stasis. Days would pass and pass, morning first judgements, afternoon fulfillments, evening muddled driftings and slow, graceful nights.

Manny took a walk. He was settled in a cul-de-sac of trees. Birds were like small novelties, flickering in and out of his vision. But their singing was always there at least in the distance. As the sun slipped into its orange-yellow phase, colors enriched. He bathed in the place he was, in his body filling in details, drawing conclusions, projecting a meaningful image to his eyes.

How cold it would be when sunlight devolved into its true meaningless nature. The birds around saw sunlight so differently from Manny. The insects who chomped on each other and grew babies inside each other, the parasites with their unimaginable lives, the small things who spent lives in rock cracks and on bubbling fissures under the sea, found their loves there ate their dinners not on tiny dining room tables or unimaginable restaurants in cold and heat without bathing suits or winter coats. Why did they live those lives? Why did Manny live his?

Everything was in colonies, even the rocks. Cousins and siblings clung together in small fortresses with tiny walls around them. It wasn't for safety. It was to maintain reality which depended so much on consensus. He could almost hear the small voices calling each other, “Are you there? Am I not alone?”

Manny trudged through the forest on the border between his and theirs.
Marian slept late today. She was dreaming about heaven situated at a beach resort where it never gets cold. She woke to an empty house.

“Are you there? Manny, are you home?” She called.
There was no answer.

Thursday, May 02, 2013

Cul-de-sac of Trees

He settles in a cul-de-sac of trees.
Birds like small novelties, flicker
in and out of his vision their singing
always in the distance.
The sun slips into
orange-yellow phase,
colors enrich. He bathes
in the place he is, his body
filling in details, projecting conclusions to his eyes.

How cold it would be
when sunlight devolves
into its true meaningless nature.
The birds around see sunlight
so differently. The insects
who chomp on each other
and grow babies inside each other,
the parasites with their unimaginable lives,
the small things who spend lives in rock cracks
on bubbling fissures under the sea,
find their loves there
eat their dinners not
on tiny dining room tables or
unimaginable restaurants
in cold and heat without
bathing suits, winter coats.

Why do they live those lives?
Why does he live his?