Departing Normalcy: Liftoff / Prologue

Flashing lights illuminating liftoff flights
     Ships dwindle to stars propulsion rocket in the night
          Slum chumps stare at the spaceport through screens
                    and steel fences. And the air screams, rent as
ascending angels tear the silken stratosphere
          galactic gamble each and every voyage
                              every vessel a missile
carrying the seeds of a mothers tears, a million fears and hopes
dreams pounded into the shapes of ancient sailing ships and set
astern. sternly surveying the whole of space. frames tense eager
     titanium birds strain to fly. built for the sky they languish inside
          only come alive when they reach escape velocity and

hang

          alive and lonely
                              slowly rotating
                                             in pure inky blackness
star splattered chaotic Pollack canvas
     insane universe of random chance where
a thousand million true tall tales have launched
               from the cracked tarmac of this spaceport.

          I grew up here, ya know
               this very planet, watching this very spaceport

although in my day, they didn’t have these electric fences.

          through the eyes of a slum child, the voice is enormous
wise, weary, worn with smoke and adventure and stardust
          a hero in a battered bomber jacket with
war insignia and a thousand patterned patches.

          in my day, you didn’t have to
                    (Snip, Snip, Snip, Snip)
               cut through a security fence, just to steal back my own...

well, lets just say it was a lot more fun back then

     and the voice slips through the perimeter like a noiseless ghost
               an illusion of cool that no one will ever believe
“like jah cowboi'd uv chatted up a durtey slum rat like ye, channi”

channi the slim slum chump slumps home to mom and pop, while
the voice slinks through the shadows, dancing in rhythm with the
security lights and camera sightlines avoiding all and
leaving no trace. to his own ship he steals, to quickly escape.

tracking collar clanks to the cracked tarmac.
          which soon heats and twists,
cracking in the heat from the retro rockets.
          rising on tongues of flame

ahem.

a creased voice crackles across the flight tower intercom.

okay suckers. you’ve had me impounded here for two weeks on
suspicion of trafficking in illegal goods.
well, i’ve got places to be and beings to see
and this state of stasis just isn’t suiting me.

sayonara, spacenerds.

and the Io points her painted prow skywards
     with a sonic boom she soars into the sunrise
               the port named normalacy dwindles to a memory while
                         the universe rises to fill the viewport

The Beautiful Game (Merry Christmas Dad)

sneakers squeak on slick hardwood reflecting
halogens overhead harsh glare. smell of sweat and
socks and shoes, soccer’s perfume on basketball courts
curly blond head floats amidst the D, bobs and weaves
in a crowded box, calls for the ball in to feet, twist, turns
away from traffic, watching, waiting for a
blindside run from the back, patience, just like in practice

curly blond bill Clinton hair tousled discretely
coach’s hands calloused by holding onto beliefs, by
a thousand hands shook. workingman’s coach teaching work
to a bunch of munchkin hooligans who just want
starbursts, or world cup, or anything but
drills and drills. drilling them in real skills
skulls filled with teamwork and respect

a thousand practices to teach a work ethic
that’s the tricky bit. taking tired little tykes
and making learning fun. class on the run
bonding exhausted little atoms into
a molecule of ferocious minnows. nibbling at
tidal waves until they grow up into
gators snapping on west side folks (7 to 7)

curly blond hair contained, headband and ponytail
eyes free to see the game. general overseeing the field
sweeper shouting commands, dominant, game in hand
playing his heart out for an audience of one. not concerned
with omission comes a mission, bitter fuel for teenage fission
belief stays strong, rooted in a rock in the stands, like feet
sunk in the sand. proving himself just because he can

transform practice lessons into a game changing man
a game can change a man, or a man can change a game
but at the end of the day its all the same. play for
love. of the game and what it means, of those who
taught you and the joy that it brings. no matter
the why or the where, when or the how
play the game for love or not at all

curly blond hair haloed on a Sunday morning, early
ball into space from the back. forward takes and attacks
overlap by the right back, laid off then quick, one two
true father son connection nearly telepathic so practiced
burst into the box, defense so static. one time sweeper
now scorer. assisted by a lifetime of lessons, dedication
dedicating every goal to the man who taught him to kick a ball.

A Home Cooked Meal (Merry Christmas Mom)

aromas waft seductively up the stairs
taking their time. luxuriating in the climb.
nose hairs tingle, thrilling in anticipation
firing neurons, overloading sensory input
exploding fireworks, raining confetti
the joy I feel when I smell mom’s spaghetti

run downstairs, just to watch her stir the sauce
anticipation so sweet, almost don’t want to eat
until I see the feast and gorge like a beast
don’t stop until I can’t see my feet.
I can’t help myself, its just too good
mom makes a meaner meal than poverty in the hood

I don’t know how she does it, maybe just practice
I have all her recipes, blueprints for ecstasy
but I can only build meals, not fountains of bliss
I think its because mom cooks with her heart
her cooking spiced with love and sweet memory
the taste of spaghetti a warm embrace of joie de vivre

Prelude: Departing Normalcy

As the rockets kicked back, back kicked the captains chair
worn faux leather boots upon the dash, a cloud of smoke
smugglers respite, the moments between here and there
the inbetween of speed, motionless moments of movement
oceans of space, bridged in an instant

a dingy display flickers, gives out. ding, ding, ding
a not so gentle slap reawakens the slacking LEDs.
lights don’t die easy around here. nothing does

nobody neither.

there are no stars
in the time between
      that infinite instant
                suspended sentence
                                    displaced dimension


a spaceship, sits? hovers?
      is cobbled together of a hundred hulks
      a million memories, lives patched into the hull
whispered confidences line the halls and

           hungry ghosts eye his skull

     the captains chair swivels to contemplate survival
          escape velocity achieved by a hair
               the space behind left scalded and bare
                    seared by searching lights fantastic
                         and inimical to all things material


          well, here goes nothing


               see ya later, space chumps...

Skull Atoll

canvas sails sigh in a stale breeze
slits in their sides smile ragged grins
dead men lie with daggers in their eyes

sun bleached skeletons hail the incoming tide
saluting those who ride the crimson dusk
darkening skies promise ill luck

fevered desires see salvation in hell’s hallowed halls
rowing headlong into an oceanic ossuary
a cove above a cathedral of catacombs

tattered sailors sought sanctuary here
shattered souls broken upon the rocks
bones scatter as they reach the dock

blood beaked gulls scatter, screaming
hurling insults they rise into the rusty sky
leaving their meal to its eternal rest

flesh hangs loosely on gaunt frames
a sepia trio scoured by scurvy and storm
washed ashore on rocks devoid of mercy

the gull cloud rises, white against a black noon sky
former oar slaves despair. paradise turned abattoir
sanctuary seen on the horizon. carpeted with death

corpses crunch beneath their steps
as the rain begins to lash the wrecks
seeking shelter slaves can never rest

lighting flash, thunder crash, a cleft ahead
dark grimace in the rocks, lined with jagged teeth
refuge glimpsed for fugitives at the end of hope

in a fugue they flee the unfurling hurricane
scattering warning signs in their wake they run
heedless of headless omens. headlong into the breach

the cave swallows them whole.
the sea claims its toll
the end credits roll

cigarette blues

sandbag eyelids heavy with dust
braced tight defenses stay squeezed shut
frustration hyperventilation desperation
clenched fists jaw taut teeth grind
the brick’s kiss bruises knuckles
nicotine hypodermic clamped lips
flaming injection of addictions prescription
inhale focused mind
exhale man on a mission
looking for a cold meal on a rainy night
insatiable appetite of the bottomless abyss

Go hit the bars, gut not looking for food
one scotch two scotch rotgut door
moving on implacable can’t stand still
dowsing for whiskey with dollars spent
trying to drown in his element
some kind of sick atonement
self martyrdom is an ugly mask
self flagellation is a thankless task
self destruction is good while it lasts

at the third fifth, unexpected breath caress
a tendril of smoke seduces fingertips and lips
twining, lounging, laying languorously lethal
dangerous dame wicked eyes and a smoky voice
drifting away spiraled, stretching, showing beckoning
incredible whorls worlds lost in the folds and curves
oblivion when the first taste hits the lips

ash is the bastard child of smoke
a broken home flicked into an ashtray
the coal remains, naked pain creeping closer
desperately draw down desire, lovers are liars
lying, alone together in the remains of the fire

a return to the form

two words
captured in
thick ink
brush strokes
coarse horse
hair dipped
dark oil
well drawn
deep stain
tip tracery
tattoo engraving
hearts blood
inked sins
battles soak
rich paper
black paths

dear pain
you will always
have my love
sincerely
the poet
the mute

imprisoned in the pen