Discounted Poetry

Please select correctly. You think the tilt-o-whirl A slowing creature, But you're simply acclimated To the rush. The trick is to unfocus And relax your eyes. The ghostly patterns in the blur That smear the neon air Reveal the objects in a minute. Even at your age, One door will always hide a tiger. And the other? Please select with utmost care. - 2/19/26

You can skip the fancy appetizers You can pass the plate of canapés. Forgo the sour drinks; no one's the wiser. There's a pleasantness in the company. You've lived below the ground too long, Your sad and strange submersion. An open window can work wonders. Please stop your constant circling about the Persian. People wait and rooms appear And simple steps are all it takes To peel away the dour wallpaper. Can you smell the aphrodisiac fumes Just above your head right here, My friend? - 2/18/26

He flung the rope to me And pulled another through the rigging, Relishing the salty mist and seafood scents. He smiled like a patient father As I fumbled knots and stumbled over coils. He received this favor once, Once before when love had torn him open. Once an older man showed him the route Across the ocean, down southern coastlines To the island where men retreat to lick their wounds Until they find their feet and stand stronger. You learn to love the smell of heavy rot. You lose your shoes to yielding sand, The hot and soft embrace of being lost Aside a certain escape of sea. You scrape the wood into the roughest planks And lean them on each other for a temporary stay, A field of flimsy sheds About the beds of coconut tree leaves. There's hidden in the bushes past the shacks A stash of bottles, Medicine for sick and battered men . It takes a slab of shells from eaten crabs And countless days beneath the clearest blue Before you start to realize The tourists are residents now Up...

Today, The world's an open wound From severed legs, A broken glass of blood-red wine, A message on their phone You never should have left. You never should have left. This room, The bed, The injured couch, Are not your final destinations. Days unborn are yet gestating. There are mouths And there are lips, And some will smile bright, And some will scowl, And some will kiss And others will say no. For months or maybe years They'll sit in black and white. The days are just before you When the scarlet color blooms return. You never should have left. The chilly grey and blurred cascade Of faces breathing ghostly smoke In winter airs That burn within your chest Have not left you. One day You'll rise From bed and couch And tread The slivered glass That mines your floor And step outside Your latch-locked door And go. - 2/13/26

I left the car Out underneath the acid sun Between the road and bleach blonde sands. The miles press down heavy, But eased a bit with every shaky step. You pump the gas And pour the oil, Wipe the glass And vacuum every penny, wrapper, and hair tie. You empty everything To fill it past the brim and past Just like the unexpected sight of your beloved On cold and lonely winter nights, And yet, eventually you are putting in Too much for not enough. I can't afford another vehicle. I've found my footing. I am an excellent pedestrian. - 2/12/26

You poked until You cracked the speckled shell And pushed the brittle fragment Till it slanted and fell And you emerged Unfolding, Slick and raw and new. I pierced the earth And rose, Unbalanced and askew, Fresh and fumbling, Dangerous and new. - 2/11/26