The death of small towns

Strange habits of brew overkill
studs the patter like
buttons on the coat sleeve
that cut the nostrils
in a full winter climes’
descending scale
of hot items.

All the things about
how needed surgery
destroyed her capacity
to get the words in the right order
without sounding as if she’d
been riding to another water shed
with another boy
named Jason or John or Jake
as it maybe who had
a hobby of spearing rats
with his buck knife and
skinning them for wallets
he’d sew together and sell
at the drug store on Sundays,
after Church.

Seeking some kind of refuge
with the regulars who been
irregular for many twisted years,
seeking an easy place to sit
and read the paper,

there I was,

Drinking ‘though not
thirsty at all
as the sun set and the
light in the bay window
dimmed until the room
was gold toned, then sepia?
and then a fine dark ash
that was perfect for
falling asleep in or
breathing your last
as a final memory crowds
out every deadline I might fail to meet,
or merely continue for hours
drinking in the dark
in the same old chair
listening to faint music
and the late hiss of tires
on the street roll by
until it seems that
there are no doors
or windows in the room
and things are exactly as they always will be,
alone and lost in themselves
in various suggestions of dark vapor.

i am not a crow on a power line

there are so many dimes
in the universe that want
to leave my palm and fall
into empty soda cups
held by grizzly men
in need of a shower and a steak.

there are so many grizzly women
leaving pennies on the sidewalk
because there is nothing
less to settle for, nothing more
to stoop to.

stoops full of scrubbed
and shaved men glistening
with soap, pink as rug burns,
cracking their knuckles
and rubbing their necks.

plastic cups with traces
of orange juice along the bottom
litter the street in front
of what was once a hotel
when rooms were rented
until check out time
the next morning.

stacks of Tiffany lamp shades
fill the back of the truck
and block the skyline
that tries to reach higher
that the loftiest power line
in the city where every lazy crow
comes to rest in the daylight
just to watch us cross streets,
go into buildings, write checks,
cry in the chair that faces
the street,
getting up again
and rubbing our grizzly chins
and the back of our necks
as if we knew what we were doing.

Shoes on a wire

Shoes on a wire
Originally uploaded by Ted Burke.

i am not Bob Dylan

nothing jangles except
keys in my pocket,

there are no
ghosts around
the light switches
in my kitchen,

they cannot read
my passport
at the border
as it drips with
Farmer Brown's paint,

i was under
the yellow sun
today dreading
avian flu,

why are my sheets
covered with
with chalk crop circles,

my friends from
medical school
won't tell me
what's in my mailbox,

even my girl friend
tells me what
my wife couldn't admit,
i am not bob dylan.

Four Scenes Set to Country Music

1.

Too long after the sun
has set do you dare me to tackle
something that sends
you running through the French doors
holding your nose,
there's something about the phone
bill
I wanted to ask you about, but
then I'm distracted by you on the patio,
back turned,
waving your hands, shaking your wrists,
an orchestra of flowers
below your feet
to do your bidding.

2.

You unfolded the newspaper
to where you
found me on page three,
under the obituaries
and next to the ad
for the Sunday specials.
My mouth was open,
I was shaking my fist,
the world around me
was leaning to one side,
yet only my hat was flying
off in that direction.

3.

You want to die
and I want to dance.

I want to sleep
and you want to
talk something through
until natural light
fills the room.

You want to
get real
and I'm always
in the mood
for amore
or at the mechanics
of it all.

Both of us feel like
Chinese tonight
and neither of us
have asked
why there's a grotesque
onion loaf in the middle
of our table,
next to the flowers,
which are dying.

4.

Chances are that some
of the things that I might say
will save someones life,
provided, of course,
that this is a cartoon
we are living in.

Nights are cold in the canyon

Cross your arms when hearing
your wife and her phone calls
in the night on the porch,
sobs and crickets carrying on
until sunlight comes over the garage,

Bless yourself again
for having a family
whose eyes saw you falling,
whose arms caught you
and laid you in a bed
until another morning
came and the sun emerged
from behind night and morning low clouds,

Give a man a quarter
for what he needs to drink,
nights are cold in the canyons
where you lost flashlights
and pocket change,

Stop speaking of
former loves
and open every window
and listen to noise
that does not come
from inside your cranium
buzzing like electric shorts
in an old house at the end of
an ugly, washed out street,

Kneel when BB King
plays his guitar
or someone reads
a Frank O'Hara poem
about being stunned
because the lights have changed
and the whole city waits for him
to cross the street
and have his breath taken away,

Play your harmonica
until your lips start to bleed
at which time you'll be ready
to kiss all the invisible gifts.">Slate Magazine: "Nights are cold in the canyons

Cross your arms when hearing
your wife and her phone calls
in the night on the porch,
sobs and crickets carrying on
until sunlight comes over the garage,

Bless yourself again
for having a family
whose eyes saw you falling,
whose arms caught you
and laid you in a bed
until another morning
came and the sun emerged
from behind night and morning low clouds,

Give a man a quarter
for what he needs to drink,
nights are cold in the canyons
where you lost flashlights
and pocket change,

Stop speaking of
former loves
and open every window
and listen to noise
that does not come
from inside your cranium
buzzing like electric shorts
in an old house at the end of
an ugly, washed out street,

Kneel when BB King
plays his guitar
or someone reads
a Frank O'Hara poem
about being stunned
because the lights have changed
and the whole city waits for him
to cross the street
and have his breath taken away,

Play your
harmonica
until your lips
start to bleed
at which time
you'll be ready
to kiss all the invisible gifts."

cafe_windows

cafe_windows
Originally uploaded by Ted Burke.