Archives for posts with tag: Who Can Resist A Guy Who Laughs Like That

His face is distorted—look at how the
guy stretches his mouth as wide as he can
and ROARS it out, expelling his breath in gales
of sound, slapping his hand on his brown double knit cuffed
bending back and forth from the waist
pounding the green rippled linoleum table top
the golden suds in the fluted beer glasses shaking in symphony.
Who can resist a guy who laughs like that?
Everyone is laughing.
Old men’s eyes crinkle into olives gleaming with tears;
young guys in black T-shirts, bearded, bedraggled, hug their beers
chuckle, check out their friends, compare laughs,
start to guffaw—slowly, near noncommittal grunts at first
that stutter, then roll over into rousing brouhaha;
three guys, they look like plumbers, joiners, or tapers,
hold big fat beer guts, wear baseball hats, grin gleefully,
look around the room with obvious satisfaction,
making sure everyone gets the joke;
the waiter grins a glassy chesire cat grin
that is nothing less than a lazy laugh—but hey—
I’ve never seen the waiters in this joint smile before—
who can resist a guy who laughs like that?

(This marks the end of my third book “Who Can Resist A Guy Who Laughs Likes That.” Tomorrow I start my fourth book “The World Is So Poetic.” Thank you to followers readers both!)


is not a trick. It is wrapped about
the source of meaning and truth. It
exists to convince us these things do
exist. It is a picture of the moment, the
exact tally of what is said and what is
thought, dreamt and felt; it poses side
by side with the real, the tangible, the
visible, to convince anyone it happens;
it happens all the time.
It is the poet
who takes this raw stuff and consumes it,
makes it part of body, transforming
self. Heart becomes crucible, hands
hammers, fingers molten pots of lead,
lines of type effortlessly trench paper
until it bleeds ink.
                                       The poet’s voice
sings “It was always like this, long before
you or me.” Perhaps I found this song
scrolling on a mantelpiece. It happens.
People can’t believe it, but it happens—
it happens all the time.

I am standing at the mantel of the fireplace
my grandfather built and I am correcting
the time on a digital clock. The figures
tumble past, little connect-the-dot people;
I think about 9 pin and 12 pitch type,
OCR characters, bar codes. I know
some people think digital fonts are ugly,
but any alphabet is beautiful, any scratch
conceives for us mathematically, if not
immaculately; the letters illuminate the
source and claim it as kind. I am leaning
on something that leans on itself. The rock
is steel from which my matrix is cut, and
I am writing in time on my inheritance.

I dream of being perfect, perfect in every way
lover, dreamer, warrior, farmer, poet, priest
I ceaselessly sing, sing neon digital exclaim
because I seek, seek a return to the heart
and I confess, confess to every crime
whether it be thee or thine, you are my only crime.

Trace a line of surf in the sand
the ridge of ripple or grain
caught between defining each
find the stipple of love, of hate.
I wash in sand, I wash in flame,
I wash at the river’s edge.
I cannot ignore the basket floating there
the king asleep, the lost child drifting.

There is but one drink, drink with me.
This is the only time, time enough for both.
one kiss, kiss me, kiss us both, kiss thee,
let it start, let it end, end me now, let me breathe,
let me know, if you live, you will live with me.

Writing in the dark
I attempt to recapture
the pleasure of ciphering.
Scratch unseen dialogue
on a mattress
that ‘s heard it all. My
lines wander, mouth mates
mutual glottals, tongue
wrapped couplets, I parade
sheet after sheet of posery
through time immemorial
(on the page what time isn’t?)
I wrestle with tempo and foot
trying to find the sense within
each. Clichés renewed,
my Braille talks back with
out tearing, no breeching,
the night births unattended.

I do not push it away, hasten;
urge it into light, compel;
I do not fear the dawn—what
the revealed words might tell.

I look for a picture of myself
so I can picture me as you do.
flipping through the photographs,
I look for the one that will explain
me to me in a language I can understand.
Eyebrows, noses, hair and ears
of generations parade before me,
sepia print, kodachrome grey, colours and all that
dangle a key about me, an interview
in my spare time on the family radio
—speak to your ancestors now Ward—
fumble to the microphone, mumble
“hold on a moment, there’s a picture here
that will explain everything, just let me find it.”

engraved in light
clear spring waters
made milk with silt.
swirling dancer
cast into translucency,
what delicate device
will not serve art?
fragile promises suit love
like cut flowers;
we look through them
seek a taste of immortality
only to discover
brittle beauty

I am attracted to many things,
bound and repelled by forces equal to mine,
I cannot deny their gravity. Released,
then renouned, I am encased, profound,
fossilized and found in amber ’round your neck,
nestled ‘twixt planets that beckon and inspect,
my hands set spinning moments that intersect.

Surrender to my kisses, I am not circumspect.
Sing to me of the spheres, of rents in arrears,
I know you are sent to instruct me in the music
that was made tonight before you arrived. You fell
into me and aroused a room I had rent as empty.
No one bought. You signed me.
I sold and you danced into a line
that I followed though I could not believe
it was you. You found me and claimed me, led me over the plain,
I followed the lines of the horizon until I found day again.
You washed my mouth with clean water, fed me with dew,
whatever strength I have is that which spins in you. In you,
I am renewed. In you the water is clear through. I drink
and find myself in your waves, you gaze back at me and kiss
with depths untrolled, I cannot resist. I swim controlled,
settle and rise, bound to thee, oh contrary pole.

when I think of the kick
drum, I hear a funeral
in a foreign land.
mourners dressed in
exotic imagined raiment
march to a small orchestra
of flutes, guitars and one old
drum, strung with rope, hung
from an old and fading leather
strap. It is beat with a mallet
and the beat goes like this:
boomph, boomph, boomph, boomph.
the mourners dance short shuffling
steps, slow and full of langourous
dignity, the feet, heels, toes
touch, tap, step in intricate
rhythms traced ‘cross cobble
stones, braced between white washed
walls. Shadows become vivid veils.
Women’s feet, brown and hard, shine
twined with flowers, beads or bells
about their ankles,
and the beat goes like this:
boomp, boomp, boomp, boomp.
The guitars strum a wirey rhythm
that buzzes and tinkles against
a lone bone flute
that skirls from bier
to azure rung mountain sky.
The sun pulses
in a frozen blue heaven
and the beat goes like this:
boomph, boomph, boomph, boomph.
The beat binds each one
to their souls through their feet,
it passes into
the cobblestones and defines
the street and the name
of the street and the name
of the place and the fact
of its existence
and the ceremony is one
with its creators’ intentions.
Now a funny thing happens
within my poem—the beat of the drum
changes and it sounds like this:
bomp, bomp, bomp, bomp, bomp, bomp.
Faster, stronger, vital, more
insistent. My imagination provides
something for me: a riddle,
a reason, a moral.
I see feet fly faster,
faster, the funeral marchers
dance feathered, jewelled, fantastic
and the drum beats faster, louder:
bom, bom, bom, bom, bom, bom, bom
I see mourners laugh and raise
their skirts above their knees,
men push their hats over their
brow, wiggle their elbows, do
the chicken walk, laugh,
and I know it is the sound
of the drum that makes them
dance, the kick is the heart
of the procession, the pulse
that drives blood to love or war
and my heart sings a simple song;
my imagination provides a drum
a reason, to beat upon, to march to,
a kick that beats like this:
bombomph, bombomph, bombomph, bombomph.

I adore children
for doing one thing
adults cannot do—
play in the shadow,
laugh ring a rosy
as the earth splits
beneath them, their
smiles their bridge
across the abyss.


(This is my 99th post. First, thank you for reading, second thank you for following (if you do—and if you don’t, please do!), and thank you for taking a look—I am really enjoying the blogging/ poetic experience and hope you will stick with me—9 books to go.)

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