Awaiting Fulfillment

your modern life consists

of the destruction of feelings

by taking pills each day

to prevent your daily existence

from satiating with

teardrops.

you come undone when you go

deeper into the movies of your mind,

stepping across the frozen boundary of time

you fade into your past to the empty bedroom where

you’re waiting for mother to call you for dinner.

try and sing a soothing song.

the charm of your voice readies for

action till the kiss of no one’s lips

falls upon your forehead

right between your eyes,

chanting your mantra

with a closed throat

gasping for air

in a cloud of smoke.

on a new day you rise

and discover it’s a sunny one,

so you fake a bigger smile

brush brush brush those teeth

shower real clean eat a bagel

do the whole daily routine

then come home to fancy furniture

to find your bed unmade

and take a quick long nap.

in your nightstand you have diamonds

for generations and in your thoughts

you have grating noises like the buzz saws

used to slice the fine timber that built

your big respectable home;

in your heart your have cynicism

and in your soul you have a black dot

growing larger each day like a

tiny globule of pus readying to burst.

A Place Formerly Called Home

step inside the house,

months after yr last visit,

but it’s no longer a home.

her only company

is the tv blaring lifetime

movies or alternative music.

you used to sit

in yr room on the internet,

block it all out

and smoke a bowl.

yr sister would

play with her friends,

loudly knock on

yr door until you’d

come out frustrated.

the vodka you used

to steal shots from still

sits in the cabinet where

it always sat.

the room reeks of

cats’ urine and the

couch and the carpet

display their hair.

the dog anxiously

scratches at himself,

removing clump after

clump of fluff from

his bare red back.

you think of the times

she wandered in

drunk and slept with

her obnoxious boyfriend;

the times her and yr

sister would scream at

each other over nothing;

the times she slept

till well into the afternoon

only to wake up with a moan,

sorry to be alive.

the love is gone

and the peace was never there.

home is not a place;

home is inside of you.

Poetry as a Person

You see me, the sentence fragments.

You want me to be complete thoughts.

But I’m more than just the words that shape my unusual frame.

I’m your thoughts.

Your every day feelings.

I am you.

You see me, the rhyme scheme.

The beat of the day.

Thumping around.

You want me to be steady.

But what in life is constant.

I’m the unusual – the objects, people, places you encounter.

I am you.

You see me, and you see yourself.

Going through the motions, living, breathing – a living word.

You want me to tell you how it is going to be.

But you’re the one who is going to tell me.

I am you.

You see me, poetry, as an outlet.

The sanctuary!

The freedom that lets you run wild.

You want me.

But I need you.

Grand

Glassy eyes beneath black framed windows,
Your bright stare fixed upon me,
The life of a man reflects into my soul.
I would sit on your lap,
Peppermint leather, tobacco armchair,
I’d study your thin silver hair
And you’d teach me to love and care.
Head of the table, cornerstone of a name,
The family would gather around.
You would lead a triumphant Hail, Hail,
The Gang’s All Here, and I would ponder the
Emotions of Heart of My Heart.
Now as we sit here, speechless,
We try to speak what we know,
How to feel, words we struggle to say.
They are bittersweet, yet inevitable.
With jovial laughter, and strong Irish brow,
You’d call me your baby, you were, you are, my baby.
And I’d say you’re the greatest man, and inspiration.
But I see that you’re tired, and I want you to rest
You’ve always been strong,
And now you face your last test.
I wait for your last song, but the true song
Is one unsung, in the heart of my heart,
One I can’t even start, for I’d choke if I tried.
I’d choke, and I’d cry.
Your tired, glassy eyes.

Clint Eastwood or Bust

by Jonathan Luczkowiak

I ponder how it felt,
for Kerouac to set sail across the states.
to end at the end of manifest destiny.  The west coast
promises of easy living, bountiful wine and crop,
and even unrelenting sunshine.
The Joads sought a better life in Bakersfield.
I seek one too.  Mine though,
less for sustenance and more for abundance.
I think myself a fool, that the west
will please me in all I desire.  From stories,
I think of people making fictions in Hollywood.
The prettiest people of rural Dakota and Oklahoma
scraping together pennies and favors
for the golden greyhound ticket to the City of Angels.
A brawn drain of the Midwest.
Hopes so high with chances so low
of placing their hands in the wet cement
before Grauman's Chinese theater.  I imagine
eating in an LA diner a tenuous ordeal.
Failed actors pestering vacationing patrons
for the Terminator turkey wrap
or the License to Thrill grilled hamburger.
While I sit there, waiting to be served
my 2001 A Space Odyssey Spaghetti,
with a Wonderbread roll and a single serving
of margarine on the side.  I ponder,
yes maybe I too desire what they do,
an easy life, without caution and care.
But thoughts like these are much to bear,
while watching a blond haired Omaha child
spill a tray of Diet Coke on two out-of-towners.
Is the West truly all it promises,
or is life filled everywhere
with the good, the bad,
and the ugly?