one asshole at a time

I Stand (on a blue) Wave

Crunch, crunch, smack
repeat potato chip
bamboozling wooden

clothes-pins pinching
light-faded drawings
on construction paper.

"hey mama!"

Thrown away- throw away
clocks- dog days- sidewalk cracks.

"don't
yank
my
chain!"

Dinosaurs and bric-a-brac,
what's vital, you lapped
at my wet and muddy socks.

Adulthood still arms
length from us- both of us.
Swimming sideways yet steadfast.




BK
October 2015

crickets were a big part of my summer

Out-lines

The trees of Pennsylvania are

turning

dark by night- and

filling with the summer air

of cricket song taking

up all the room

in the musty sky.

All that is left are

the spaces in between-

the fringe of the pined

needles squiggling velvet

lines into triangle shapes

for me to peer through.

The crickets raise

their roar,

and the triangles fill in.

BK

September 2015

Will

Will

Will today. Be like yesterday.

Crickets, fans, shadows.

A dry brown leaf, wispy

enough to have blown across

my path, then, askew,

tried to go back- the

other way, again.

BK

Aug 2015

W.A.I.T.

Why Am I Talking?

A stone dreams of

light beams- tired

arms outstretched, holding up

bridges- drilling

swollen knee-

caps, backs of

legs sticking to vinyl

car seats,

red.

BK

August 2015

things

A Sobriquet

Through waxen slats

and rocking we

looked out.

You had more up your

sleeve than I.

But I, I was

counting.

Pennies, shells, rocks, clovers.

Pieces of fur.

The amassed

heads and tails. To

see- to measure.

The tarnished

treasures.

Order -separate

congregate.

BK

August 2015

home sweet home

thine eyes

weird freaking sack 

(of shit) crocheted

bottle stopper stripped

town to fur on face

base-coat of paint

the walls, flocked

squawking- "what did

you do when you

were waiting for 

nobody?"

BK

summer 2015

another poem with coffee in it

No Filter

Today I made coffee

as my grandfather showed

me. Heartily boiling the loose grounds 

in a small sauce pan and 

pouring it through a strainer. 

My son still sleeping.

The key is to let a crust

form that you then puncture

and stir. And to let it 

steep before drinking.

I can still picture him in his patterned robe-

the belt tied below his belly-

a smile - his kitchen perfectly

set up like a doll house. As he explained

the nuances to me. 

When he showed me, though too young to

even drink coffee, I marveled

at his morning routine, a secret,

it seemed, just for me. 

June 2015