Racing

Pole to pole
out of control screeching
into and out of each turn
rubber burning
wheels gliding
clouds of dust and wiping your eyes

these crazy racers
bi-polar heads
bi-polar minds
bi-polar visions
bye polar regions
the desert beckons

it's well-furrowed tracks
never having to look back
only looking to get back
around, dried out ground
cracks so deep they can keep
the light from shining
but the foglamps
made for blinding
do their jobs expertly

Pole to pole
the only goal
to get around and then
to get back.

Disappointment, Expectation's Sister...

Just what is this dead thing I find in me?
Like some poor roadkill beast, pathetic and flat...
it smells of disappointment,
it reeks of expectation and it feels like wet clay in my mind.
It seems "I" won't be getting what "I want".

Are these the legs of this thing?
Not able to carry me anywhere,
not indicative of the path forward...only pointing stiffly at me.

Yes, words get spoken,
we say things that we hope to make good on
but then comes the world, running over these and making lies on
this stinky tongue of unfulfilled longing.

Bittersweet it could be, this self-pity and self-loathing,
if not for the odor of carrion that infuses it's very being.
The ambivalence of the tugging of emotions
to decide who I will see
when I look deeper into it's mirroring eyeballs
disappointing disappointed me.

And worse still, the thought that all of this
is caused by me, poor baby in actuality,
not by they whose words are left incomplete,
irresolute between speech and act
intentions paving a familiar road
of disillusion leading straight to the pit
to climb out of on the back of this dead beast.

The matted hair, once a mink coat of luxurious hopes
now dried up, hard and spikey,
as my expectations...
revealed for the folly they are.
Ears that no longer hear
are the deafness that brings
me here to this place of
slowly clearing blindness
now that my muted voice seeks return

So I write this and then I write that
scratching claws
trying to decide whether to eat this dead thing, crap on it
or to toss it to the winds and let the vultures have it.
Luckily the words take the form of bat-winged arrows
and I, bowed before them, launch disappointment
out the window to patrol the roadway
looking for some other
poor fool to antagonize
beak and claw and tooth.

Waiting

Waiting

is not

what it

appears to be.

Waiting is not the

empty space,

the presence of absence,

the longing and yearning

of her place filled by

the being of her body

the void

devoid of any sense

whatsoever.

Waiting

for her is filled with the memories

of time spent together

the smell of her rose skin and sweetness of her voice

the mystery of her whispers in the dark

the embraces and kisses and caresses

shared

My arms

locked tight

around her torso

the way she likes me

our tongues pressing

to discuss the depth

of our love and passion

her heat sweating me to a puddle

Before she comes to my side, while she is underway

she is a fullness almost unbearable

an extension of myself to the furthest reaches

of the universe

pales

by her expansion of my very self to

the limits of loving.

Waiting

for her

is not a hollow

it is not a space of doubt and need

I wait for her in gratitude and will wait

until she seeks my hands again

ending our waiting.

Unimaginable...

My wife passed away from leukemia on the evening of July 4th. 2017. It took her almost no time to die. We raced through the night in the Red Cross ambulance, but to no avail. My wife was too far gone from all the efforts made to diagnose and treat her cancer. I am devastated. I had no idea how sick she was and she refused to give the slightest hint of what she had to know was coming with horrible speed.

I will ALWAYS miss her presence in my life, but I rejoice in the life we shared, the time spent in loving company, the respect that had grown from our crazy arguments to the mellowness of just letting our opinions differ. I have learned a great deal about men and women in 42 years. I am a better man for having been married to my sweet Carla.