Cold rain falls in the river, flows down to the sea, gets into the skyline, circles endlessly. Same old rain on the wind, same old pain in my soul.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009


before asteroids,
before space invaders,
before X-Box-
there was a sloped table
on four chrome legs.

the top was filthy
and cigarette burned.

the kid,
what he could do
with it!

a pull with a twist
and a knock of the knee
and the little steel ball
was in play.

up and bend
groovin the paint
smirkin the move
all brass balls

the kid would push
at just the right time
and the ball would
bonus X500

a bump to the side
and the ball would
fall in the hole
with a ding! ding! ding!
as he cracked his knuckles
in well, fuck yeah!

the ball would try to escape
maybe down the side alley,
but he was too good
and could bump it back into
siderail torment.

by now,
the ball was weary,
as the knock
told the score
and the games piled up.

it tried to race for the exit
down the middle,
but that only played
to his power
and once more
the ball was sky rocketed
in sideways cacophony
bing! bing! bing!
bip! bip! bip!

I’d like to hold that steel ball,
that cold little steel ball,
in my hand.
rub it warm
like a wounded bird.

I’d like to carry it to an ocean
and bathe it in my palm,
with a one finger stroke.

maybe it and I
would share chardonnay
on a Paris balcony,
laughing to the headlines.
I'd show it the moon,
I suppose,
and roll it
through soft
easy meadows.
or maybe,
just maybe,

I’ll just carry it
in my pocket
til we’re both free
from our glass encasement
and the games
of another’s quarter.