Building my Dream House

If I had the wood, I would,
but knowing I've developed no skills,
nor desire to pound nails,
I'll just write a few lines and
eat my banana.

Social Media

You can't save him.
He can't save you.
Push button, pseudo-celebrity lasts
as long as it takes
to fill a water glass.
How's your hemorrhoids?

Charlie's Dream Poem

I think it still exists among
the moth-balled things
in yesterday's attic
in the land of lost letters,
dust-covered photos,
clothes fitting Studio-54
fashion.
Lyrical piece,
sung one night
while studying
the canvass -
your ceiling.
Food was the subject,
how it filled your dreams,
became the ceiling,
inspiration
sustenance,
meaning
purpose
hope.

Charlie,
do you still write
poetry?

Wallace Stevens

I detect a butterscotch and whiskey ambiance,
sounds hushed over plush Turkish rugs embellishing
the Manor's Maple floors, thick draperies darken rooms,
deaden, dampen stray, superfluous noise.
Here, poetry resides in privacy and privilege
as deep and uninterrupted as the North Sea.
I entered once or twice, crept about
on padded feet, awed and deferential
like the Help waiting to get paid.