Memoirs Of A Dirty Dish

(Reader of poem clears throat, takeing dramatic pause)


I am a dirty dish
Not a worthless dish
Have been used, then forgotten

All I need is soap and love
Wont someone wash me?
Be gentle, try not to break me.


I AM A DIRTY DISH

But I am not a worthless dish.

Please don't make me a worthless dish.


(Reader of poem weeps gently, openly, exposed)

Curated Show

If my life were a curated show,
Your art would set on a wall of its own.

If my life were the length of a crane,
You'd climb up that crane, people'd call you insane.

If my life were held inside a fence,
You would stay in my fence, though it'd make little since.

If my life was just one grain of sand,
I would be the one that stuck to your hand.

My life is my life, is the real truth, though.
And you don't bother with non-curated shows.

Vagabonds Wife

great granny was a vagabonds wife,
and grandmother was the same.
mother tried real hard to be,
but it didn't work out in the end.

i'm speaking now to women about,
who think they are ready to try.
a life that makes no since to the head,
a life with a vagabond in your bed.

first there are the logistical things;
how to live out of a sack,
with perpetual lack,
and not looking back.

then there are the practical things;
making makeshift door mats,
where to hang your hats,
how to keep away rats.

for a decade or so,
you will be bothered with where you go.
though as time slips by,
you will learn to follow without a sigh.

days start to seem shorter,
though cold not much colder.
an end can seem far
when you don't know how happy you are.

i can't imagine a life other then this,
though i never thought much of eternal bliss.
you might think you can change him, or find compromise.
let me just stop you, let me advise:

do not be a vagabond's wife
less you love the vagabond's life.
you may well love him more then you dare,
but i promise you'll soon rather have a reclining chair.

The Bridges

Send your shadow out to coffee for an hour
The man has secrets that only you may hear

He can tell you how to climb the strongest bridge in all this city
And show you how to love atop the great arch of the Brooklyn

Send your shadow out to coffee for an hour
Be alone with the man who has the keys

To service doors that keep the Queensboro out of reach
And rif-raf off the the Williamsburg's steep

Send your shadow out to coffee for an hour
So you can see what it will take to claim this city as your own

The man waits inside the spheres of the Manhattan
He will give you what you never knew you'd need

That shadow that you carry holds its homeland
If you won't send it out to coffee for an hour,
I doubt that you will ever see escape.

I'm Late To An Appointment

I'm late to an appointment,
An interview of sorts.
With a fellow you may know of,
Known as "Time" to most of us.

A Craigeslist post that caught my eye,
"Time's assistant, needed sourly!"
Stranger yet was typed in bold:
"Only serious candidates implore me."

I tried sending my interest with hast,
Had it written up nice, proof read it twice.
Yet, Time responded before it was sent.
"Come interview in an hour, I'll be at Trump Tower."

So I've scurried and scampered to catch the train,
Resume in hand, and my shirt without stains.
Despite having heard stories that Time was insane,
I'm excited to meet him on Trump Tower Lane.

In the gold plated lobby, a man asks me my folly.
In my hurry I ignore his inquiry, asking:
"For the price of a dime, would you send me to Time?"
He looks away wisely, refusing to guide me.

From a woman with a cane, I ask direction to Trump Tower Lane
She points to the ceiling and states, rather unfeeling:
"Vertically walk, horizontally talk, and try not to follow the side walk chalk."
This woman is crazy, I quickly surmise, deciding she's telling all sorts of lies.

So I exit the lobby to search for a sign, an arrow, or the end of a line.
Outside all that I find is a youth, drawing chalk pictures on a shoe shines booth.
"Has Time been through?" I ask, not knowing what else to do. Responds the youth:
"Yes, of course, a moment ago. Though now he's off to a matinee show."

O, dear, I think I need a drink.

(to be continued)

late to dinner

everything is off

the birds should not be flying that way
the water runs old and decrepit
the grass and the clover are at odds with each other
and the fruit has got rot overnight

everything is off

my friend reads a book on the roof in the rain
as his lover rides away on a europe bound train
somebody sleeps in a hotel tonight
though fate wanted them in the gutter

everything is off

the phone wont stop its ringing
my apple pies burning
this kitchen is empty
while the artist search elsewhere for jesus

everything is off

I should be at a meeting
but i've given up thinking
of what need be done, where i ought to go,
and why you are three days late to dinner.

A Song: "To be, To be"

They are playing proper folks
Playing all these proper folks
To be, To be


Jack is hanging by a rope
Jill is telling silly jokes
To be, To be
Ben has lost his old guitar
Derick's selling motor cars
To be, To be

Stop this scene, I've seen enough
Why can't the world be keen enough
For me, For me

Rachel got a weeding ring
Tyler found the old porch swing
To be, To be
Andrew lost his voice one day
His bitch still tells him what to say
To be , To be

They are playing proper folks
Playing all these proper folks
For me, For me

Debby lost a couple kids
Eddy never found his shit
To be, To be
Nicky's gone as far as mars
Mimi makes love to metal bars
To be, to be

Stop this scene, I've seen enough
Why can't the world be keen enough
To see, To see.

The End

Then the smoke will drift into the sky.
Then the blood will soak into the dirt.
If someone where still alive, they would ask:
"How did this happen?"
And the dead will all answer the fool:
"It was love."