day by day
day by day, i dig the hole.
i tell myself the exercise
will earn the prize.
i tell myself the strength i gain
is worth the pain.
day by day, i dig the hole.
i tell myself the stronger i become,
the quicker i’ll be numb.
i tell myself it’s for the best
i need the rest.
day by day, i dig this hole
deep into my heart, a tomb
to hide this memory.
day by day, i dig this hole
waiting for the perfect time
to put you in it.
© Mark E. Dougherty
Monday, September 21, 2009
days
they march past in single file
right to left
then farther back, break rank,
spilling out into a funnel.
those in single file
are fresh-faced, with uniforms bright and crisp,
their voices strong with purpose,
their polished shoes in lockstep
driven by an unseen clock,
orderly and focused.
farther back,
just past the funnel's stem,
the rhythms break apart,
most uniforms look worn and tattered,
faces become fuzzy
and voices become noise that doesn't matter.
they mill about
with nowhere else to go
until they fade
into oblivion.
oddly, though, a few stand out
among the crowd, still recognizable,
each different but somehow connected
by details still so visible
from this far away.
they are better than the rest,
and not just their clothes
or their voices still discernable,
no, it's this: the best are those
with you in them.
soon enough they too will fade
and now you've guaranteed
no more like them will be made.
© Mark E. Dougherty
they march past in single file
right to left
then farther back, break rank,
spilling out into a funnel.
those in single file
are fresh-faced, with uniforms bright and crisp,
their voices strong with purpose,
their polished shoes in lockstep
driven by an unseen clock,
orderly and focused.
farther back,
just past the funnel's stem,
the rhythms break apart,
most uniforms look worn and tattered,
faces become fuzzy
and voices become noise that doesn't matter.
they mill about
with nowhere else to go
until they fade
into oblivion.
oddly, though, a few stand out
among the crowd, still recognizable,
each different but somehow connected
by details still so visible
from this far away.
they are better than the rest,
and not just their clothes
or their voices still discernable,
no, it's this: the best are those
with you in them.
soon enough they too will fade
and now you've guaranteed
no more like them will be made.
© Mark E. Dougherty
2/5
i try
but clichés keep spilling on the screen,
i am wearing out the backspace key,
pounding it as if it is preventing me from healing.
i try
but when i see you it’s the same routine,
nothing i can do can make you love me
and just knowing that is such a helpless feeling.
i try
but i sneak glances at your picture
ten or maybe twenty times a day
now every feature of your face is wired in my brain.
i try
but the lack of you is torture
two is way too many days away
memories alone are not enough to keep me sane.
i try
but every path before me is uphill
i’d take my chances if they were only slim
it’s just the “none” part i find impossible to do.
i try
but fighting this ache has drained my will
and i know i can’t compete with him
because what he has that i will never have is you.
© Mark E. Dougherty
i try
but clichés keep spilling on the screen,
i am wearing out the backspace key,
pounding it as if it is preventing me from healing.
i try
but when i see you it’s the same routine,
nothing i can do can make you love me
and just knowing that is such a helpless feeling.
i try
but i sneak glances at your picture
ten or maybe twenty times a day
now every feature of your face is wired in my brain.
i try
but the lack of you is torture
two is way too many days away
memories alone are not enough to keep me sane.
i try
but every path before me is uphill
i’d take my chances if they were only slim
it’s just the “none” part i find impossible to do.
i try
but fighting this ache has drained my will
and i know i can’t compete with him
because what he has that i will never have is you.
© Mark E. Dougherty
Sunday, September 20, 2009
pendulums
like the time i was drunk
when the fat-eyed cop
made me walk the white line...
(the white line that kept moving backandforth,
when sober i'll swear to it still),
or the time i was a wide-eyed boy
when i went to see
the tight-rope walker...
(those pretty pink legs kept teetering, tottering,
threatening to fall to one side),
or better yet the time
i double-foot-faulted in the third set
and gave my serve away...
(i didn't step on the line, he said it because
my tennisshoes were green),
i am now treading a fine line,
the one they say exists
between insanity on one hand
and genius on the other
(i sometimes know which side i'm on but then
knowing makes me cross again)
and i really wish i could stay in the middle
where they say i belong, where most people are,
but real pendulums never stop
(tick - tock).
© Mark E. Dougherty
like the time i was drunk
when the fat-eyed cop
made me walk the white line...
(the white line that kept moving backandforth,
when sober i'll swear to it still),
or the time i was a wide-eyed boy
when i went to see
the tight-rope walker...
(those pretty pink legs kept teetering, tottering,
threatening to fall to one side),
or better yet the time
i double-foot-faulted in the third set
and gave my serve away...
(i didn't step on the line, he said it because
my tennisshoes were green),
i am now treading a fine line,
the one they say exists
between insanity on one hand
and genius on the other
(i sometimes know which side i'm on but then
knowing makes me cross again)
and i really wish i could stay in the middle
where they say i belong, where most people are,
but real pendulums never stop
(tick - tock).
© Mark E. Dougherty
graduate advice
i've looked, looked, looked, and am thoroughly convinced
there are no secrets left in life
only stunning realities - and ever since
kant killed off god
there are no miracles left in life:
all magic is a hoax
redeemed by awe
and reality stands stark naked
laughing at life's awkward jokes
and life, a joke in itself
(who mustn’t laugh at something so sacred)
envies death, who laughs so hard he cries.
© Mark E. Dougherty
i've looked, looked, looked, and am thoroughly convinced
there are no secrets left in life
only stunning realities - and ever since
kant killed off god
there are no miracles left in life:
all magic is a hoax
redeemed by awe
and reality stands stark naked
laughing at life's awkward jokes
and life, a joke in itself
(who mustn’t laugh at something so sacred)
envies death, who laughs so hard he cries.
© Mark E. Dougherty
Thursday, September 17, 2009
the brass spittoon
1.
light knifes through a crack
in faded curtains, an Excalibur
which splits the musty room in half:
dust dances through the golden blade,
its tip buried in the left arm
of an old salvation army sofa.
stabbed this way a thousand afternoons
the sofa's arm bleeds yellow foam
which dribbles to the hardwood floor.
the register whispers...december.
2.
in the opposite corner,
an old man lives in a rocking chair,
rocks back and forth, back and forth.
the chair squeaks, the floorboards creak.
stale air is thick with the stink of age:
everything in the room looks worthless.
the old man's face ought to be on canvas:
piles of wrinkles surround a buzzard nose,
charred caterpillars hang
over caverns hiding his eyes.
he blinks, moves his one good eye.
the other, made of glass, stares straight ahead.
3.
a jellyfish of a woman
with mammoth breasts starts up the stairs.
two stumps tattooed with varicose veins
thump in white tube sox and splitting slippers.
she climbs with care by creak of stair.
gray threads half-gathered in a bun on top
float about her face like cobwebs.
her dress of faded cotton roses
twists and wrinkles, struggles to keep up
with her arms, the size of thighs.
her cheeks hang from her face, puffing.
her breasts hang from her chest, bouncing.
she brings the old man his food and mail.
4.
when the children, bundled up like socks,
came around in late december
singing very old carols as if they were new,
he invited them inside to visit.
he had nothing at all to give them;
he just wanted to show them his brass spittoon.
they stood politely expecting some shiny coins,
their eyes curiously terrified.
he pointed to the corner with his finger,
gnarly and brown as a branch from a tree,
and told them it was a grecian urn.
they shut him up with peals of laughter
then scampered out the musty door
which clicked shut like a suitcase.
he rocked three times, then spit,
missed the urn but hit the floor.
5.
a thousand stories he could have told them,
none of which they would have understood.
his favorite was how he lost his eye,
a long tale full of sound and fury
about WW one and a piece of shrapnel.
he never told it twice the same
but it had fared better with age.
the whippersnapper of a medic
who patched him up would be proud -
though the old man never recalled his name,
he always remembered who gave him the eye,
and an extra one as a souvenir.
he knows it’s around, somewhere.
6.
one day after the holidays,
she found him in his rocking chair,
mouth drooped open in an eternal yawn,
cold as the new year’s wind.
he was wearing the only suit he had,
which needed to be cleaned and pressed,
his best dress shirt and his Countess Mara tie.
the hair on her neck stood to salute
and she wondered but didn’t stop to think
the closer it gets, the easier it is to see.
and even with one eye, he saw it coming.
she would make “the arrangements.”
7.
they came, dressed in uniforms,
stomping up the creaky stairs,
chatting loudly about the football game,
as if their indifference would change
how the living must care for the dead.
no one peeked out their peepholes:
some sounds are too familiar.
the pick-up would have been routine except
one guy knocked over the brass spitoon.
something clinked out,
and tapped each floorboard as it rolled.
he picked it up and for an instant
was eye to eye with the old man’s souvenir.
he shuddered for a moment,
blinked, then tossed it on the sofa.
8.
they left, and the door clicked shut.
the afternoon light cut through a crack
in the curtains, dust settled on the sofa.
the register whispered...remember.
© Mark E. Dougherty
1.
light knifes through a crack
in faded curtains, an Excalibur
which splits the musty room in half:
dust dances through the golden blade,
its tip buried in the left arm
of an old salvation army sofa.
stabbed this way a thousand afternoons
the sofa's arm bleeds yellow foam
which dribbles to the hardwood floor.
the register whispers...december.
2.
in the opposite corner,
an old man lives in a rocking chair,
rocks back and forth, back and forth.
the chair squeaks, the floorboards creak.
stale air is thick with the stink of age:
everything in the room looks worthless.
the old man's face ought to be on canvas:
piles of wrinkles surround a buzzard nose,
charred caterpillars hang
over caverns hiding his eyes.
he blinks, moves his one good eye.
the other, made of glass, stares straight ahead.
3.
a jellyfish of a woman
with mammoth breasts starts up the stairs.
two stumps tattooed with varicose veins
thump in white tube sox and splitting slippers.
she climbs with care by creak of stair.
gray threads half-gathered in a bun on top
float about her face like cobwebs.
her dress of faded cotton roses
twists and wrinkles, struggles to keep up
with her arms, the size of thighs.
her cheeks hang from her face, puffing.
her breasts hang from her chest, bouncing.
she brings the old man his food and mail.
4.
when the children, bundled up like socks,
came around in late december
singing very old carols as if they were new,
he invited them inside to visit.
he had nothing at all to give them;
he just wanted to show them his brass spittoon.
they stood politely expecting some shiny coins,
their eyes curiously terrified.
he pointed to the corner with his finger,
gnarly and brown as a branch from a tree,
and told them it was a grecian urn.
they shut him up with peals of laughter
then scampered out the musty door
which clicked shut like a suitcase.
he rocked three times, then spit,
missed the urn but hit the floor.
5.
a thousand stories he could have told them,
none of which they would have understood.
his favorite was how he lost his eye,
a long tale full of sound and fury
about WW one and a piece of shrapnel.
he never told it twice the same
but it had fared better with age.
the whippersnapper of a medic
who patched him up would be proud -
though the old man never recalled his name,
he always remembered who gave him the eye,
and an extra one as a souvenir.
he knows it’s around, somewhere.
6.
one day after the holidays,
she found him in his rocking chair,
mouth drooped open in an eternal yawn,
cold as the new year’s wind.
he was wearing the only suit he had,
which needed to be cleaned and pressed,
his best dress shirt and his Countess Mara tie.
the hair on her neck stood to salute
and she wondered but didn’t stop to think
the closer it gets, the easier it is to see.
and even with one eye, he saw it coming.
she would make “the arrangements.”
7.
they came, dressed in uniforms,
stomping up the creaky stairs,
chatting loudly about the football game,
as if their indifference would change
how the living must care for the dead.
no one peeked out their peepholes:
some sounds are too familiar.
the pick-up would have been routine except
one guy knocked over the brass spitoon.
something clinked out,
and tapped each floorboard as it rolled.
he picked it up and for an instant
was eye to eye with the old man’s souvenir.
he shuddered for a moment,
blinked, then tossed it on the sofa.
8.
they left, and the door clicked shut.
the afternoon light cut through a crack
in the curtains, dust settled on the sofa.
the register whispered...remember.
© Mark E. Dougherty
your answer, please
like mud, i lay in my bed.
wondering;
lord omniscient god your very holiness
or whatever,
whyeverisit you made
falling
in
love
so very easy as gazing into her eyes
because you, knowing everything,
ought to know better
since she's
sooooooooooh beautiful
and, well, dammit
you know i've gone-and-done-it-again
which is why i ask you
; being more perfect even than the pope;
how in the h- eaven am i
going to escape
this time?
© Mark E. Dougherty
like mud, i lay in my bed.
wondering;
lord omniscient god your very holiness
or whatever,
whyeverisit you made
falling
in
love
so very easy as gazing into her eyes
because you, knowing everything,
ought to know better
since she's
sooooooooooh beautiful
and, well, dammit
you know i've gone-and-done-it-again
which is why i ask you
; being more perfect even than the pope;
how in the h- eaven am i
going to escape
this time?
© Mark E. Dougherty
evening
"that's about it. let's wrap it up.
i'll bury the sun & you unroll the sky
& don't forget to turn on the stars."
"check."
"don't wrinkle the dipper."
"gotcha.
what kinda moon we got?"
"um, hell, i don't know. look it up."
"let second shift worry about it.
they're due in pretty soon."
"speak of the devils. hey diana,
what kinda moon we got?"
"i'll take care of it.
you guys can split."
"where's everybody else?"
"like i know.
i'm here, ain't i?"
"honey, you're always on time.
that's why we hired ya."
"hey apollo, wanna smoke a joint
on the way back?"
"definitely. i think we deserve it.
after all, it was a pretty good day."
© Mark E. Dougherty
"that's about it. let's wrap it up.
i'll bury the sun & you unroll the sky
& don't forget to turn on the stars."
"check."
"don't wrinkle the dipper."
"gotcha.
what kinda moon we got?"
"um, hell, i don't know. look it up."
"let second shift worry about it.
they're due in pretty soon."
"speak of the devils. hey diana,
what kinda moon we got?"
"i'll take care of it.
you guys can split."
"where's everybody else?"
"like i know.
i'm here, ain't i?"
"honey, you're always on time.
that's why we hired ya."
"hey apollo, wanna smoke a joint
on the way back?"
"definitely. i think we deserve it.
after all, it was a pretty good day."
© Mark E. Dougherty
the debate
old three-whisker charley said
so matter-of-factly,
"go jump in a pile of shit."
being bigger, stronger, and
older besides, he smiled,
ever-so-pleased with his toothless self,
thinking he'd won the debate.
i took a good slug of ale,
wiped my mouth with my sleeve,
pausing ever-so-slightly
for to emphasize,
and said right back at him,
"i bet you wouldn't say that
if i was a fly."
then so matter-of-factly
i belched, strolled out of the bar
and left
old three-whisker charley
bewildered as hell
still trying to figure it out.
© Mark E. Dougherty
old three-whisker charley said
so matter-of-factly,
"go jump in a pile of shit."
being bigger, stronger, and
older besides, he smiled,
ever-so-pleased with his toothless self,
thinking he'd won the debate.
i took a good slug of ale,
wiped my mouth with my sleeve,
pausing ever-so-slightly
for to emphasize,
and said right back at him,
"i bet you wouldn't say that
if i was a fly."
then so matter-of-factly
i belched, strolled out of the bar
and left
old three-whisker charley
bewildered as hell
still trying to figure it out.
© Mark E. Dougherty
mashed potatoes instant
slightly northeast of my peas (twenty-
two green eyes, one smashed
by the spoon that fished
them out of the pond
and dropped them on my plate, all staring
back at me in harmony),
stands my mashed potatoes
like a snow-covered
miniature volcano: a
slab of margarine melting in the center,
dripping down the sides,
with the juice from those green eyes
running around the southwest base
like a river of bilious tears
while the yellow lava flows
over a lump jutting out
of the mountain-side, an ugly wart,
deep inside of which
fourteen invisible germs
are quibbling amongst themselves
silently planning their invasion.
© Mark E. Dougherty
slightly northeast of my peas (twenty-
two green eyes, one smashed
by the spoon that fished
them out of the pond
and dropped them on my plate, all staring
back at me in harmony),
stands my mashed potatoes
like a snow-covered
miniature volcano: a
slab of margarine melting in the center,
dripping down the sides,
with the juice from those green eyes
running around the southwest base
like a river of bilious tears
while the yellow lava flows
over a lump jutting out
of the mountain-side, an ugly wart,
deep inside of which
fourteen invisible germs
are quibbling amongst themselves
silently planning their invasion.
© Mark E. Dougherty
teacher
her flabby throat,
a chicken's neck, red and wrinkled,
swayed from side to side
as rapidly she spoke of smooth transitions,
tender verbs and spicy nouns,
outstanding punctuation,
prostituted metaphors and
cliches that smelled like rotting leaves,
and every third word
to escape from thin, dry lips
was be concrete! be concrete!
be concrete!
and i said, "yes, m'am,
i don't write no humpty-dumpty pomes
when i wanted to say
"i"ll be damned, m'am if any little girl
ever skins her knees
on my poetry."
© Mark E. Dougherty
her flabby throat,
a chicken's neck, red and wrinkled,
swayed from side to side
as rapidly she spoke of smooth transitions,
tender verbs and spicy nouns,
outstanding punctuation,
prostituted metaphors and
cliches that smelled like rotting leaves,
and every third word
to escape from thin, dry lips
was be concrete! be concrete!
be concrete!
and i said, "yes, m'am,
i don't write no humpty-dumpty pomes
when i wanted to say
"i"ll be damned, m'am if any little girl
ever skins her knees
on my poetry."
© Mark E. Dougherty
monument
half drunk along the empty beach,
each staggered footstep softly sinks
into the rich, retired white sands of st. petersburg:
too scared to glance up
at millions of tiny diamond-eyes staring,
too awed to watch the sea,
each wave rumbling,
spilling on the shore like a beer,
but smiling between cool breezes
thinking of that one spot
by the dead fish back there
where i'd stopped,
and chained a red throbbing memory
to the sand.
© Mark E. Dougherty
half drunk along the empty beach,
each staggered footstep softly sinks
into the rich, retired white sands of st. petersburg:
too scared to glance up
at millions of tiny diamond-eyes staring,
too awed to watch the sea,
each wave rumbling,
spilling on the shore like a beer,
but smiling between cool breezes
thinking of that one spot
by the dead fish back there
where i'd stopped,
and chained a red throbbing memory
to the sand.
© Mark E. Dougherty
in McDonald's
having just inhaled
the fast-food diner's dinner
of greasy fries with no ties
to france beyond the name,
a styrofoam steak of full weight
one-quarter pound before it's greased,
sweetly colored, carbonated water
in a plastic cup with a plastic top
and long, clear plastic straw
planted in a carefully measured
mountain of ice, all neatly cubed;
a sun-burned blob in blue bermudas
napkins himself with pudgy claws
while the god that drives the burgers down the throat,
who used to ka-ching incessantly
now digital, computerized, is
humming to itself.
© Mark E. Dougherty
having just inhaled
the fast-food diner's dinner
of greasy fries with no ties
to france beyond the name,
a styrofoam steak of full weight
one-quarter pound before it's greased,
sweetly colored, carbonated water
in a plastic cup with a plastic top
and long, clear plastic straw
planted in a carefully measured
mountain of ice, all neatly cubed;
a sun-burned blob in blue bermudas
napkins himself with pudgy claws
while the god that drives the burgers down the throat,
who used to ka-ching incessantly
now digital, computerized, is
humming to itself.
© Mark E. Dougherty
cat's dish
my cat has a dish.
i know it should be a milk dish
but i can't afford to give my cat milk
so usually it's filled with water but
sometimes i forget and it's empty but
most of the time it's not.
once, i looked at the water and it was
dirty but the water really wasn't dirty
it was the dish and i told myself to remember
to wash it, but i forgot and besides
the cat drank it anyway.
last year i left the dish outside and it
got cold and the water turned into ice and
the cat couldn't drink it anymore so i had to
bring it in and thaw it out so the cat could drink
it but while it was thawing, i gave my cat some
milk to drink. it was christmas, you know.
i think my cat must really be thirsty
alot because he must drink alot of water
because i have to fill up his dish alot.
although maybe he spills it sometimes because
i caught him once with his paw still in
the dish and it was tipped over so almost
all of the water spilled out onto the floor,
and i didn't hit him or anything because everybody
makes mistakes.
but you know i think that sometimes that
water just mysteriously disappears and
somebody once told me all about how those
little molecules fly around and all that
stuff about about evaporation but i didn't
understand it all.
anyway, i got to thinking one day about
that water and i really don't know why i
did but alot of times i get these pretty
peculiar thoughts and i always try to write
them down. one time my brother caught
me writing them down and he read them
and he said i was crazy. i don't know.
maybe i am. my mom never told me i was
because she just always said you know
i love you.
anyway, i though about that water alot
and how much that water was just like
people.
you know how water always takes
the shape of whatever you pour it in
and if you pour it in something with
holes in it the water just runs out?
well that's like alot of people who've
been poured into the world and they
just kind of fill it up in whatever
shape it's in.
and you know how sometimes water gets
dirty like the water in my cat's dish?
well alot of people are dirty like that
because i read about them in the paper and
i hear about them on tv but i think maybe
they aren't really dirty it's just the dish
they're in.
and you know how sometimes water turns
into ice because it's frozen?
i know alot of people are walking around
that are like that. they're frozen and the funny
thing is, they don't even know it and they
don't seem to care too much.
and you remember how i caught my cat
spilling his water?
well sometimes i wish that if
the whole world were a dish and all
the people were the water, well, i wish
something would come by and tip the dish
over and let all the water run out and then
wash the dish out and fill it back up
with new water or something.
sometimes i really feel like that.
but most of the time i just sit and wonder
about that evaporation thing.
not that alot of people just mysteriously
disappear but it seems like alot of people
just kinda fade away, myself included.
that must be it.
i must be evaporating because i feel like i'm
fading away, i mean, i just feel like i'm watching
the world go by like i was watching it on
tv or something and sometimes i try to grab
something as it goes by but
it doesn't even slow down.
i guess that sometimes it's kind of fun
being evaporated because i can do things
others can't. but then again
sometimes it gets pretty lonely.
and sometimes it gets really lonely.
but i don't know what i can do about it
because i figure that alot of people
have been evaporating for a long time and most
of them were probably alot smater than
me and they didn't do anything about it
so i guess i can't either.
anyway, that's about it for these
peculiar thoughts.
at least i figured out what's going on.
i mean, at least i know.
well i think i forgot to fill my cat's dish
today so i'd better go check and see if i did.
© Mark E. Dougherty
my cat has a dish.
i know it should be a milk dish
but i can't afford to give my cat milk
so usually it's filled with water but
sometimes i forget and it's empty but
most of the time it's not.
once, i looked at the water and it was
dirty but the water really wasn't dirty
it was the dish and i told myself to remember
to wash it, but i forgot and besides
the cat drank it anyway.
last year i left the dish outside and it
got cold and the water turned into ice and
the cat couldn't drink it anymore so i had to
bring it in and thaw it out so the cat could drink
it but while it was thawing, i gave my cat some
milk to drink. it was christmas, you know.
i think my cat must really be thirsty
alot because he must drink alot of water
because i have to fill up his dish alot.
although maybe he spills it sometimes because
i caught him once with his paw still in
the dish and it was tipped over so almost
all of the water spilled out onto the floor,
and i didn't hit him or anything because everybody
makes mistakes.
but you know i think that sometimes that
water just mysteriously disappears and
somebody once told me all about how those
little molecules fly around and all that
stuff about about evaporation but i didn't
understand it all.
anyway, i got to thinking one day about
that water and i really don't know why i
did but alot of times i get these pretty
peculiar thoughts and i always try to write
them down. one time my brother caught
me writing them down and he read them
and he said i was crazy. i don't know.
maybe i am. my mom never told me i was
because she just always said you know
i love you.
anyway, i though about that water alot
and how much that water was just like
people.
you know how water always takes
the shape of whatever you pour it in
and if you pour it in something with
holes in it the water just runs out?
well that's like alot of people who've
been poured into the world and they
just kind of fill it up in whatever
shape it's in.
and you know how sometimes water gets
dirty like the water in my cat's dish?
well alot of people are dirty like that
because i read about them in the paper and
i hear about them on tv but i think maybe
they aren't really dirty it's just the dish
they're in.
and you know how sometimes water turns
into ice because it's frozen?
i know alot of people are walking around
that are like that. they're frozen and the funny
thing is, they don't even know it and they
don't seem to care too much.
and you remember how i caught my cat
spilling his water?
well sometimes i wish that if
the whole world were a dish and all
the people were the water, well, i wish
something would come by and tip the dish
over and let all the water run out and then
wash the dish out and fill it back up
with new water or something.
sometimes i really feel like that.
but most of the time i just sit and wonder
about that evaporation thing.
not that alot of people just mysteriously
disappear but it seems like alot of people
just kinda fade away, myself included.
that must be it.
i must be evaporating because i feel like i'm
fading away, i mean, i just feel like i'm watching
the world go by like i was watching it on
tv or something and sometimes i try to grab
something as it goes by but
it doesn't even slow down.
i guess that sometimes it's kind of fun
being evaporated because i can do things
others can't. but then again
sometimes it gets pretty lonely.
and sometimes it gets really lonely.
but i don't know what i can do about it
because i figure that alot of people
have been evaporating for a long time and most
of them were probably alot smater than
me and they didn't do anything about it
so i guess i can't either.
anyway, that's about it for these
peculiar thoughts.
at least i figured out what's going on.
i mean, at least i know.
well i think i forgot to fill my cat's dish
today so i'd better go check and see if i did.
© Mark E. Dougherty
moment
it's out of nowhere that you came;
no voice crackled over the PA
to say,
"mark, meet the most beautiful girl
you've ever seen."
but the moment kept right on
movingalong and i
didn't really have the time
to think
wait! is this it?
what am i supposed to do?
aren't there supposed to be
bells ringing or stars shining
or something?
i mean, is this it? and
then the momentwasover
and you exited
as quietly as you came
and i still
don't know
what to do.
© Mark E. Dougherty
it's out of nowhere that you came;
no voice crackled over the PA
to say,
"mark, meet the most beautiful girl
you've ever seen."
but the moment kept right on
movingalong and i
didn't really have the time
to think
wait! is this it?
what am i supposed to do?
aren't there supposed to be
bells ringing or stars shining
or something?
i mean, is this it? and
then the momentwasover
and you exited
as quietly as you came
and i still
don't know
what to do.
© Mark E. Dougherty
recording to P. Vierick
i used to be a hemophiliac;
once cut, would bleed like a tap,
never clot, never stop
until i filled white pages
with blood dried black.
my fingers were tiny warm dancers, Peter,
tiny pink naked ballerinas
who couldn't tell the dance from the dancer
but knew all the classic ballets...
they used to pirouette
across this white stage
in time with the heartbeat of rhythms
like puppets? like marionettes?
(no, i couldn't tell
who held their strings)
and i used to bleed my life's blood for them,
i rejoiced in being part of the dance.
but now they're all dead, Peter,
cold, wrinkled, and dead;
shriveled as prunes but
they were young - they shouldn't have died.
i am dead now, too,
cold, dry, and dead;
a handful of dust in a mountain of pulp.
now i whisper a prayer for all ink bleeders
for this drained fate one day awaits them all.
i used to be a hemophiliac;
once cut, would bleed like a tap...
© Mark E. Dougherty
i used to be a hemophiliac;
once cut, would bleed like a tap,
never clot, never stop
until i filled white pages
with blood dried black.
my fingers were tiny warm dancers, Peter,
tiny pink naked ballerinas
who couldn't tell the dance from the dancer
but knew all the classic ballets...
they used to pirouette
across this white stage
in time with the heartbeat of rhythms
like puppets? like marionettes?
(no, i couldn't tell
who held their strings)
and i used to bleed my life's blood for them,
i rejoiced in being part of the dance.
but now they're all dead, Peter,
cold, wrinkled, and dead;
shriveled as prunes but
they were young - they shouldn't have died.
i am dead now, too,
cold, dry, and dead;
a handful of dust in a mountain of pulp.
now i whisper a prayer for all ink bleeders
for this drained fate one day awaits them all.
i used to be a hemophiliac;
once cut, would bleed like a tap...
© Mark E. Dougherty
to tell the truth
that old black and blue beat-up high school
history (glittered with grafitti) book
lies; columbus just beached his ships
on the first speck of land he saw
after he got sick of the sea -
he did nothing to prove the world is round.
for there are the worms,
sprouting up squished on sidewalks
after spring erupts from the sky:
they know the world is flat
but they don't give a bird
because crawling on the surface isn't cool.
all their compass needles point to "down."
only the worms know how deep the world is.
and there are the birds,
jet black miniature birds
gliding across the water-color blue
as if they were unzipping the sky:
they, too, know the world is flat
because if the world were round
then the sky would be round
and who could navigate across a round sky
(except maybe pigeons, who are too stupid
to realize it cannot be done)?
only the birds know how thick the sky is.
sunrise brings moonset sometimes
brings out an early bird
to catch and eat an early worm
while healthy, wealthy and wise men
shovel dirt in overalls
poets shovel clouds.
© Mark E. Dougherty
that old black and blue beat-up high school
history (glittered with grafitti) book
lies; columbus just beached his ships
on the first speck of land he saw
after he got sick of the sea -
he did nothing to prove the world is round.
for there are the worms,
sprouting up squished on sidewalks
after spring erupts from the sky:
they know the world is flat
but they don't give a bird
because crawling on the surface isn't cool.
all their compass needles point to "down."
only the worms know how deep the world is.
and there are the birds,
jet black miniature birds
gliding across the water-color blue
as if they were unzipping the sky:
they, too, know the world is flat
because if the world were round
then the sky would be round
and who could navigate across a round sky
(except maybe pigeons, who are too stupid
to realize it cannot be done)?
only the birds know how thick the sky is.
sunrise brings moonset sometimes
brings out an early bird
to catch and eat an early worm
while healthy, wealthy and wise men
shovel dirt in overalls
poets shovel clouds.
© Mark E. Dougherty
for P. Goodman, Posthumously
I picked him up for a buck;
sad he should end up
on such a dusty shelf,
bagged him and brought him home.
Lit up a bowl,
smoked it twice to be sure it was spent,
and eagerly began my journey
through his awesome halls of verse.
Through the labrynith,
sometimes ever quite so slowly,
with my footsteps
echoing as if in his tomb,
sometimes politely jogging through
like a mellow sunday afternoon,
other times racing through
like a sudden monday morning.
Down long, musty, gothic halls,
past old but still solid walls
modernly decorated in an ancient style:
with glittering mosiacs
made of brightly colored pieces
called ideas,
with sculptured marble concepts
standing in corners,
with intricately stunning tapestries
hand-woven from the baroque
fabric of his insights,
and his images hanging on the tall walls
like classic paintings.
Through wide and narrow halls,
with spout, like shing fountains,
sprouting from the walls
squirting out his feeling,
some warm and sweet,
others cold and bitter;
all you have to do is press the silver button.
As sudden as a hiccup -
the end of the maze,
the proverbial end of the rainbow,
standing before the glowing pot of gold
i stood before
his monolithic set
of huge, oak double doors.
And then, terrified,
I opened them to peek inside
his immense, secret, peacock mind.
© Mark E. Dougherty
I picked him up for a buck;
sad he should end up
on such a dusty shelf,
bagged him and brought him home.
Lit up a bowl,
smoked it twice to be sure it was spent,
and eagerly began my journey
through his awesome halls of verse.
Through the labrynith,
sometimes ever quite so slowly,
with my footsteps
echoing as if in his tomb,
sometimes politely jogging through
like a mellow sunday afternoon,
other times racing through
like a sudden monday morning.
Down long, musty, gothic halls,
past old but still solid walls
modernly decorated in an ancient style:
with glittering mosiacs
made of brightly colored pieces
called ideas,
with sculptured marble concepts
standing in corners,
with intricately stunning tapestries
hand-woven from the baroque
fabric of his insights,
and his images hanging on the tall walls
like classic paintings.
Through wide and narrow halls,
with spout, like shing fountains,
sprouting from the walls
squirting out his feeling,
some warm and sweet,
others cold and bitter;
all you have to do is press the silver button.
As sudden as a hiccup -
the end of the maze,
the proverbial end of the rainbow,
standing before the glowing pot of gold
i stood before
his monolithic set
of huge, oak double doors.
And then, terrified,
I opened them to peek inside
his immense, secret, peacock mind.
© Mark E. Dougherty
the tick-tock
the tick-tock is
a hot reminder:
everything has a deadline to meet,
every morning has traffic to beat.
the tick-tock is,
so unfair.
the tick-tock
is a dot
connector;
minute to year, heartbeat to breath,
the dot, dot, dot, between life and death.
the tick-tock is,
everywhere.
the tick-tock
is a spot
remover;
a spot of meaning here,
a spot of memory there.
the tick-tock is,
unaware.
the tick-tock
is a two-timer:
gives you all you'll ever have
then threatens to stop
and take all you ever had.
the tick-tock
does not care.
© Mark E. Dougherty
the tick-tock is
a hot reminder:
everything has a deadline to meet,
every morning has traffic to beat.
the tick-tock is,
so unfair.
the tick-tock
is a dot
connector;
minute to year, heartbeat to breath,
the dot, dot, dot, between life and death.
the tick-tock is,
everywhere.
the tick-tock
is a spot
remover;
a spot of meaning here,
a spot of memory there.
the tick-tock is,
unaware.
the tick-tock
is a two-timer:
gives you all you'll ever have
then threatens to stop
and take all you ever had.
the tick-tock
does not care.
© Mark E. Dougherty
the making of a "Z"
i am older now, but no wiser.
i twist the cloth with both hands
until my knuckles turn bone-white
before i hang it on the shower door.
i sit naked on the floor,
watch a top stand as it spins,
fall when it slows down.
i am older now, it can't go on.
one day my stomach will dry up
in knots, hard and twisted.
one day my head will stop spinning,
my brain slide down my throat.
i am older now. should know better.
months pass as weeks once did,
fewer seem as memorable.
fewer things seem as important,
i am harder to surprise.
i am older now, but no wiser.
death lurks behind every tomorrow,
threatens to stop my “Z.”1
one day he will spring:
the ground will cradle me with cold, dark hands.
i am older now.
1 Zorro to his son: “You have to get in, make your ‘Z’, and get out.”
© Mark E. Dougherty
i am older now, but no wiser.
i twist the cloth with both hands
until my knuckles turn bone-white
before i hang it on the shower door.
i sit naked on the floor,
watch a top stand as it spins,
fall when it slows down.
i am older now, it can't go on.
one day my stomach will dry up
in knots, hard and twisted.
one day my head will stop spinning,
my brain slide down my throat.
i am older now. should know better.
months pass as weeks once did,
fewer seem as memorable.
fewer things seem as important,
i am harder to surprise.
i am older now, but no wiser.
death lurks behind every tomorrow,
threatens to stop my “Z.”1
one day he will spring:
the ground will cradle me with cold, dark hands.
i am older now.
1 Zorro to his son: “You have to get in, make your ‘Z’, and get out.”
© Mark E. Dougherty
poet reincarnate
tonight again, most likely,
i'll retreat into this sheltered lair
to lick the day's fresh wounds
with scaly tongue;
to poke toothpicks through my bloodshot eyes
and pluck them out like grapes
in the most superstitious hope
that what i cannot see can't hurt me.
i despise all homo sapiens
and fear those most
who look at me with empty eyes.
someday soon, i'll change my ways:
i'll go nocturnal.
during the day, i'll lounge inside my cave
with my tail curled up around me,
spitting magic acid on my blind mirror
in an atavistic ritual of madness.
on still summer nights,
when thick, dark clouds hide all those tiny eyes,
i'll wander out,
i'll sneak into your bedroom while you dream,
gently breathe into your ear
and set your brain on fire.
© Mark E. Dougherty
tonight again, most likely,
i'll retreat into this sheltered lair
to lick the day's fresh wounds
with scaly tongue;
to poke toothpicks through my bloodshot eyes
and pluck them out like grapes
in the most superstitious hope
that what i cannot see can't hurt me.
i despise all homo sapiens
and fear those most
who look at me with empty eyes.
someday soon, i'll change my ways:
i'll go nocturnal.
during the day, i'll lounge inside my cave
with my tail curled up around me,
spitting magic acid on my blind mirror
in an atavistic ritual of madness.
on still summer nights,
when thick, dark clouds hide all those tiny eyes,
i'll wander out,
i'll sneak into your bedroom while you dream,
gently breathe into your ear
and set your brain on fire.
© Mark E. Dougherty
mate
not necessarily immortal
but still, you are the queen;
commanding your army
like a stringless puppeteer,
pushing every fledging pawn
down my coughing throat,
crumbling my fortress
as a wave destroys a castle of sand.
and though we're not of equal strength
and we play on different vectors;
and though you are the enemy
and will eventually dethrone me,
i would march across the board
in single, proud and dancing steps
just to touch your hand
as i resign.
© Mark E. Dougherty
not necessarily immortal
but still, you are the queen;
commanding your army
like a stringless puppeteer,
pushing every fledging pawn
down my coughing throat,
crumbling my fortress
as a wave destroys a castle of sand.
and though we're not of equal strength
and we play on different vectors;
and though you are the enemy
and will eventually dethrone me,
i would march across the board
in single, proud and dancing steps
just to touch your hand
as i resign.
© Mark E. Dougherty
every friday night at the bingo hall
two folds of dusty flesh
hang over her eyes
like cracking leather pouches
nearly zipped shut by her lashes.
behind them, tired eyes are dim now
from clouds of ancient wisdom:
the world is a darker shade of gray
moving much too fast, always out of focus.
a skin-tone plastic parrot
perched behind her ear
works, part-time, to amplify
the silence of her age.
she sits in a brown metal folding chair
a mummy of faded cotton roses -
- somebody's grandmother.
the PA spits out "oh forty-seven!"
"oh, forty seven!" and her right hand,
five bones wrapped in frog-like skin,
reaches to move a marker
as the 7-Up clock on the wall
hums quietly.
© Mark E. Dougherty
two folds of dusty flesh
hang over her eyes
like cracking leather pouches
nearly zipped shut by her lashes.
behind them, tired eyes are dim now
from clouds of ancient wisdom:
the world is a darker shade of gray
moving much too fast, always out of focus.
a skin-tone plastic parrot
perched behind her ear
works, part-time, to amplify
the silence of her age.
she sits in a brown metal folding chair
a mummy of faded cotton roses -
- somebody's grandmother.
the PA spits out "oh forty-seven!"
"oh, forty seven!" and her right hand,
five bones wrapped in frog-like skin,
reaches to move a marker
as the 7-Up clock on the wall
hums quietly.
© Mark E. Dougherty
bozymandius
that weeping willow still stands
in front of your house, an old man
with his back bent towards his brown-boned feet,
his long hair making the wind visible.
around him,
the yard is being tended by the weeds.
the picture window behind him is black:
no one lives there now. it's an empty tomb
where memories hide in the corners
of your room like tiny cobwebs.
and now, sitting beneath him, leaning
against his wrinkled legs,
i wonder if you knew.
as if to answer, he quietly drops
a kaleidoscope of shade upon my legs.
© Mark E. Dougherty
that weeping willow still stands
in front of your house, an old man
with his back bent towards his brown-boned feet,
his long hair making the wind visible.
around him,
the yard is being tended by the weeds.
the picture window behind him is black:
no one lives there now. it's an empty tomb
where memories hide in the corners
of your room like tiny cobwebs.
and now, sitting beneath him, leaning
against his wrinkled legs,
i wonder if you knew.
as if to answer, he quietly drops
a kaleidoscope of shade upon my legs.
© Mark E. Dougherty
A Silent, Stoic Spider
A silent, stoic spider
rests in the center of his translucent tapestry,
innocently
woven across the tiny forgotten valley
where the top two steps meet of the old abandoned house.
Tonight,
while the wind makes the willow bow, he clutches his trampoline.
And how fortunate you are, my spider,
to have such fine silver wires suspending you in space;
something to hold on to
when the devil's breath makes the willow bow
even though, as now,
when the sky bursts, I can hear each one
break - broken by the rain.
I hear them snap like twigs of sanity
inside my brain.
© Mark E. Dougherty
A silent, stoic spider
rests in the center of his translucent tapestry,
innocently
woven across the tiny forgotten valley
where the top two steps meet of the old abandoned house.
Tonight,
while the wind makes the willow bow, he clutches his trampoline.
And how fortunate you are, my spider,
to have such fine silver wires suspending you in space;
something to hold on to
when the devil's breath makes the willow bow
even though, as now,
when the sky bursts, I can hear each one
break - broken by the rain.
I hear them snap like twigs of sanity
inside my brain.
© Mark E. Dougherty
felt in the marrow of his bones
deeper beyondly than nowhere else
perhaps to meet his destiny
face to face: the sign proclaims
ROAD CLOSED
but underneath, now painted over,
used to say
BRIDGE OUT
so he turns back, noting
the needle on his gauge
leaning on the E
while a quadrillion tiny children
in flannel pajamas kneel,
hands clasped beside their covers,
mumbling to a god
who sits on the soles of his holy feet
glowingly somewhere,
who rolls imaginary dice, over
and over and
marvels at their consistency.
© Mark E. Dougherty
deeper beyondly than nowhere else
perhaps to meet his destiny
face to face: the sign proclaims
ROAD CLOSED
but underneath, now painted over,
used to say
BRIDGE OUT
so he turns back, noting
the needle on his gauge
leaning on the E
while a quadrillion tiny children
in flannel pajamas kneel,
hands clasped beside their covers,
mumbling to a god
who sits on the soles of his holy feet
glowingly somewhere,
who rolls imaginary dice, over
and over and
marvels at their consistency.
© Mark E. Dougherty
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