Author Archives: presssendpoetry

Author and editor for Press Send Poetry. Marketing for Barcoding, Inc. #Baltimore #Poet

life just is

We’ve all but forgotten the heartache
jon
cause life just is–
the days dwindle from when I spent
warm evenings with you,
the weeks slip and slide
and before long
I won’t have a good clear picture
of your face
only a haze from something that was
so overwhelming once
to see our best friends carry
that heavy casket
to see only pictures lining the room
to have the unspoken
hanging heavy fear that
we won’t remember you
jon,
I still have your photo on my desk
our triumphant return from the Keys
in your broken car
I remember your eyebrow raise
your voice laughing
“shut up jody”

with headphones on

wrote this little piece during my first job out of college, sitting in a cubicle, working on a task…. actually “pre-iPod” but still relevant, maybe more so now. since I’m “working” on this Sat morning, I thought I’d post!

with headphones on

a lucid dream
where legs in blue jeans 501 walk by
in time to the drumbeat in my head
and the carpet has a twinkle
and the lights a wilder state of white, pulsing
one gray shirt circles and pirouettes
unaware of his own awkward grace just being
in a hurry
the music crescendos and although there are walls
i am not alone but with you
while something of a fevered world, those
conferences and committees, i see
him and her
move those fat cat lips
but there is no sound but me
hustle and bustle on by you world
i have my colorful Thelma and Louise escape
where my wheels are the heavy rhythm
and the sky is
my eyes filled with blues

Man, City, Sky

a similar feeling
of sky darkening and quickening breath

outside clouds gather and puff their chests
as if to say with a roar
I am here
outside the smell of rain perfumes my lungs
and soon thunder drives
dangerously close

tires grip the Jones Falls
that last turn
underpass by Penn Station and
the sculpture of woman and man as one

the feeling you get
right after the city skyline opens
and there skin prickles, shivers
waits
a storm a man
a city that boasts many
dangerous charms.

Vegas Tattoo Blues

Admittedly, this one is a tad* dark (written several years ago, revised today) but I imagine some of you who’ve have spent too much time thinking in Vegas like I have may understand the concept….

Vegas Tattoo Blues

Brown carpet is a
worn threadbare path
rough against my arches.

False air blows brown curtains
cooly, such a drag.

My hands so slim and tender
are steady.

Despite the night,
that mascara running, fishnet talking,
suited pusher, blinking neon,
jackpot empty promise of a night.
It stings.

Pills help, booze too
but nothing compares to this.

My eyes bead with water
like the rows of cars on
Las Vegas Boulevard, every
solitary mark belongs.

I gaze out the window.
Casinos blink approval
and bloat their bellies full
of quarters.

Portrait of Baltimore on a Rainy Day Rush Hour

Sitting in pouring rain
Cars like mine wait for their turn in the
Fort McHenry tunnel

We are worn out in our cells—
Outside the city
Wistfully waits for us
To find a speck of beauty in
That otherwise dreary face.

Around me smoke stacks make their way
Through low weeping clouds
And piles of salt and coal and dirt
Seem like shadowy mountains
And the train tracks are run with weeds
The buildings are rusted
Their windows cracked like the dim twinkle
In the eyes of a man
Who works hard for his family.

We are stubborn, strong,
And the steel is in our veins.

dreaming of Turkey

Today my head is in the clouds. I’m hoping that all this day-dreaming leads to something productive but I remain doubtful. This, below, just had to be jotted down before my caffeine-adled brain skips to another beat….[and if you have ideas for how I can actually get to Turkey, write me!] By the way, ever noticed how some of the most interesting people in the world aren’t the ones writing it down. Man, I wish some of these people would write their stories down!!

dreaming of Turkey

people like
you and me
we don’t need plans
we need dreams
of Turkey
and my hair unwashed
from days on a dusty bus
imagine old buildings
from that cradle of all cities
born, first we see the colors
then the people
their faces familiar despite
miles and years of difference.