Conversation

The clock on the wall delivers its’ single note
whether I’m here or not.
Soon I’ll be gone.

The wind pulses constantly
shifting the house that way and this,
making the laundry room all chatty
and it makes the  dry branches of a bush
claw the front window like it wants to get in—
a terrifying sound if you didn’t know what it was.
Early morning light diffused by the blue bed sheet hung over the window
competes with a single new fangled lightbulb
hanging in the middle of this room, humming its’ modern whine.
A rope of smoke from a cigarette rises to the tiled ceiling
impossibly throwing its’ shadow on this writing book in my lap.
Beyond the book, in my peripheral,
the repeating pattern of small black triangles on white linoleum
that, from this vantage point, covers the ground
from here to China.

I’ll miss sitting in this uncomfortable chair
at the 1950’s salmon pink kitchen table
in the mornings, conversing with it all.

gh

Willing to the Taking

All I’m saying is
there is a huge difference
between Those that got ‘em
and Those that don’t.
And Those that don’t,
need ‘em.

‘Cause they are the only thing
that’ll pull you from a funk.
The only thing that can
bring you outside of your self.

They are the highways on which
a Terrifying Love bears down on you
like a jackknifing  tanker.

And you won’t know it,
not then,
but that creaming mass of moving metal mess,
(piloted by an unsub,
who is currently having difficulties of their own, needless to say)
towing a shitload of ka-boom!
will pass right through you
like you, or it, were a ghost.

Just like in the movies.

You’ll stand in the middle of the highway
with you arms covering your face in lame protection,
surprised you’re still standing,
heart hammering.

What you won’t know,
not then,
is bits of that almost oblivion, that wild mess,
will have melded with bits of your own wild mess,
your own catastrophe-in-the-making.
And you are forever changed
in a way impossible to be changed
by your own hand
at your own heart’s request
or your pleading prayers to the Universe.

That is their gift.
If you’re willing to the taking.

gh

Found Writing 1

I found what I thought I had lost.  And, like most always, the finding wasn’t as exciting as the losing.

Here’s what I panicked over the thought of losing:

I have everything I want right now
In this world;
a coffee, a cigarette, and a girl;
a job that I can walk to
and blessed silence here to talk to
in the mornings.

Deals to negotiate, I regret
A little give, a little take, a little get
The facts are like this kitchen floor—
slanted, uneven—
Never mind the truth,
I am wishing for
peace.

Found Writing 2

Withe the gargantuan television dead in the corner of the bedroom, and the only reading material in the house a telephone book—local, at that—I dragged my guitar out of it’s leather gig bag and into the bed in the early morning.  I croaked out a few new songs, three quarters lying down and a quarter twisted on my side, propped up a tad.
The first time I’d touched my guitar in a month and a half.  Its’ tone was mellow and welcoming and I was surprised that it didn’t judge me for ignoring it for so long.
It lays there on the bed still as I write this down a kitchen away.  Lays there not quite like a spent lover, but close.

Bloems

I’ve never been comfortable with term “poem” as it applies to what I write, here or anywhere else.

I was once introduced by a prominent radio host on a prominent radio show as a poet, then I proceeded to torpedo the interview when he asked a question that contained a word I didn’t know: pejorative.

A “poet” would’ve known that word.
I am not a poet. I don’t write poems.

But I have come up with a word that combines “blog” and “poem”:

Bloem.

“Bloem” i can get behind.

gh

Lost Writing

I just realized I lost a piece of writing.  Written in pencil on a piece of looseleaf the morning November 10, I think.  Up north.  I’m in the south at the moment.

I’d promised myself to transfer it to my book, or to here.

It looks something like this:

I have everything I need in the world
A coffee, a cigarette, a girl

________ silence here to talk to
A job that I can walk to

__________ ….

If anyone finds the rest, please contact me.

gh

Morning Mourning in The Kitchen

No poetry here but silence.
Not the poetic kind of silence, either,
but the kind fashioned out of
panic and
retreat.

I broke my own rule last night:
talked in bed.

I am gobsmacked—truly amazed—
at my ability—my utter willingness—
to disobey myself.

Needless to say I did not get laid.

gh

Come Spring

There is a garden
beside this house I’m in.
I didn’t plant it.
It’s not mine.
I’ve never tended it.
I just got here.

It is deep November
and the garden is a square
of twisted fingers;
long, bony, and brown.

It looks ravaged.
It was ravaged, though “harvested” is the term we use.
Balls of red lay nestled in the ruins;
tomatoes that, for whatever reason, never made it
to a salad or crock-pot.
Never invited to dinner.

It looks like death
but we all know
it’s temporary.

Come spring
the garden will be brought back to life
by the stranger who put it there
in the first place.

I take comfort in that.

gh

2 B Open

Here I stand
Just outside
The kitchen door

Of my heart’s obsession.

Very soon
I’ll lay upon
Her kitchen floor

And make my confession.

The cup of trust, the cup of sex,
The whip that tastes of tenderness…
This is what waits for me.

If you’re gonna
Fall in love
You better pray
To G-d above
Waiting for
The kitchen door

2 B opened.

gh

Architect

You have to hand it to the Architect
Of such a love unique
That it left the spirit wrecked
And the body weak.

gh