If we could make it clear to the walk,
make it corner and curb on it's own,
make it a nicely formed combat to 
miss nothing, weeds and all to eliminate
greed, greedy edges spoken well of,
spoken like a true walk, green though
it wants to be, to meander through.

Posts, borders at will softly make all
the other ways look, look impenetrably,
impassably, without all guards down,
without a handshake to seal anything,
but it actually, really was all the right
protocol, protecting us all from virus,
wicked in our eyes, right by all others.

Then we'll never go that way, the drive,
the car stays, drives, all by itself it tells,
it wants to make do, expressly, impressions,
tired though they mock, as though reconciled
to all, to the very next day, how we embrace,
seen clearly, seen last of all, we are known
as if ever we will see an unforgiven soul.

​

What do we do with this darkness,
wanting to forgive but angry at the
unspoken, the tourniquet of unspent
favors, unfavored by God in this moment -
striking stones, snakes coil at that
thought of the meanness of the moment
when we will strike.

But I didn't do it then.
I missed out on the opportunity of a life
of gall, spreading out among all of the
rest of the star-gazers who will likely
look past us all; it will take another trial
before we can see clear, wipe the glass,
the wind that shields us from our feelings.

It's all I can do to start here and now.
A classic approach to others that will now
be molded into the past, into future
dates, schedules locked onto whatever we
can be last at baking in sun scalded items
of our minds, we mind this talk here.
It's only so we can reconcile accounts.

​

We'll look at this next,
the trapist conjuring a battle,
full of flavor and black paint to
cover other foibles, freshly minted
to contrast with a car, careening
beside what ails truthfulness,
truly a depressing anger,
unexpressed.

If we, I can decide what, will it matter
not the trip to the back of the moon,
sunlit, but canvassing a deranged look -
of trials, of skipping across craters,
moons battle across things unsaid,
memories lost, hugs not felt -
an apology wasted on sleep, sleepless
we wait for anger to fill a glass.

What will it take to allow momentum
to subside on this mountain of feelings,
this trial that we will dare to transgress,
together, at last. But darkness, anger
takes its spot on the planet adjacent to 
this curriculum, unsaid, unspoken at
last, when we will never see I'm sorry
or revel in a rocks and crags.

​

 If you'll just step aside the rest
of us will vote, soon the splay
of candidates take their places,
heated chairs, seats by far show 
we can take this race, this ballot
announced by letter, by force
or else we'll know you by name,
and we'll take it from here.

No electioneering, no staring down
possible opponents off a bus ride
or even car full of those casting
their nets across the vast plain or
daring them to be known -
know that the platform often extends
to where we've never been -
but naturally we don't know
what we'll do this that.

As though we didn't have an answer,
the crickets tell us to be still so they
can take over about ten or 15 seconds
of air time that was paid for by many
of the best in consulting fees,
ready to banish ads important to salt
and fat intake - dinners respendant with
effort, as though the speech were
written by the poet laureate himself.

 © 2016 Larry Ingram
​

 She will donn the black,
bending at the narrow breach of
froth, trying to make peace with
all the night and into more of 
the moon, shaded by drenching
streetlights, beyond the grasp of
the level, full of beer for all,
for just the one, staring at chalk,
percentage of the many looking
back at Sonia.

Next down the block, the wooden
bar talks to her, shoulders a smile
drawn before the stillness of a simple
shirt, worn for a customary look
into the embrace of dreams,
of fog blending into this one chance
to remember -
weird how it dances before her breath -
all together Sonia knows, remembers
the story, resting with her in a shadow.

What she knows, menus and flavors
of the dance floor, Bohemia, Backstreet,
boys she knew, boys she knows,
in synch with German descent,
far from the bar on the corner,
street lights shine as the curb appeal
knows no bounds, but nicely stays
wet for gardens, brews finished for
a full moon, unguarded, undressed,
she follows as night covers her,
dreams until dawn.

 © 2016 Larry Ingram

 So long the post titled there,
so remember not the last I wrote,
spied the title, spied the target -
I crowed a bit before the night,
I silenced the fevered pitch of
dawn, another rain drop inches
toward the next tumble of drafts.

It's not so long before summer
ends, ends the sweat of tears,
ends the yawn of bugs, bugging
the terror, the long beating of heat
again not caring if you stay or
depart, the cicadas dare you to
leave the ivy porch.

So long the daring dear, dare to
make another poet stare in the
night, lastly the moon beams,
then looks blankly at craters -
sure you'll remember this night -
taking turns stopping here,
there for the rain will end,
the rain will end.

​ © 2016 Larry Ingram

I thought it innocent enough,
this dart of pucks, visiting hoards,
watching, only celebrating success,
blue in makeup, but red with sorrow,
this wanting eye, perceiving weakness,
taken by need, he insults the German,
the newly crowned, but wanting 
inconspicuous knighting, for desiring
samples of straw, bread, wheat,
none to draw on silence, though it stares
at one, or a crowd drawn on beer in blue
and red, accomplished, rising above simple
admiration, taken aback by obvious
drudgery of loss, in numbers impossible
to duplicate here.

Be it insult, it was taken to be an accepting
apology later, to dispel any thought of 
sanity, flowing as though sounds had no
meaning or brothers were kin, but for
kingdoms built on bribe, stealing honesty
by force, moving friends to wherever the
trial seems best, so fast moving is life that
they all - or most - a majority wanted a different
result from life, the sport of men, women
approve of this hometown hero, he takes
his place when loss if obvious - because they
must nearly disown what has come to be.

It will gnaw at the conscience, though a 
scientist may see it in a better light, the post-
game celebration was nothing like we wanted
from the mighty slugger, who struck out -
at least this time, when beer was offered -
no, nearly forced for accepting a seat on the
thrown, not free for a second this kingly
situation, lacking aplomb, grace or an
occasion to bestow the fight to more than a
brawl, wanting to satisfy some baser instinct
for winning, though it never scarred or
stormed the gates of heaven.

 © 2016 Larry Ingram

Come to a place of crowds, desperate for another
soul to match our wit, our excellent disposition -
to try to unmask rudeness on trains, they track our
every mood, cell us, face us, unwilling to let the
tracks stop for human error. If only they would see
as I do, can, cannot but let the public service, ads
for engaging all, but selected for thought,
superior, talented, unlike our banal existence,
sitting by other blue collars, still white,
in search of facing eyes.

I nearly eyed him, or her, matters not, but so many
stuffed into this space, as I walk to life, fixing things,
eating whatever may not be taken so others can
spy my trends for eating quickly, though careless
at meandering thoughts - they'll surely mug me
for my mental acuity - or lack of it, staring into
blankness, looking for hope in polished seats,
mentioned for wear hardiness, for dispelling rumors
of attacks in public, staring down for fear of knowing
each other.

It's a tack taken by many, exiting this station, that
to walk quickly, ignoring instinct for molasses, slowing
down life to one sentence, two, or even reading -
hold it up to crowds can gain from one's insight into
the worthless, or exciting, without giving a clue,
it tells of hard worn paper - owned by singularity -
how it got here, under arm, armed with cleverness,
looking or displays of genius, discard stares,
entry points to life, distain for the common,
looking for color in the mad dash.

© 2016 Larry Ingram

It was somewhat non-descrip, this diatribe
of misnomer, trying to breach the parking
situation as it were, a travail of sort, landing
where it will, burned rubber or coffee - free
to all who dare to transgress topics,
personalities designed not to be seen.

We don't know about this, but for written form
that travels across our anger, spouting off
a bit when it hits the fan, though cliche,
trying all of our patience, when we have
to wait, and wait and then seem to express
frustration with human rights of coffee.

We'll tackle this by a trial and error basis,
as we discover the inner pangs of customers,
and others servicing them, to their joy,
or else, a pitt of reprobation, wafting about
in elegant denial, another bagel, baguette,
French, though American all in all.

Try anther one, then, as you can
exert your right to self proclamation -
proclaiming something resembling a height
of hypocrisy of servicing - we sincerely
apologize that you were alive while this happened -
and that this bar is lowered to such as degree
that no one - at least no adult can pass through -
or under at least.

All in all, an honest explanation, an exact
letter of dismay, as the membership stills,
still accumulating points for favor, despite 
a settled disgust, civil exile, even excommunication
from rational thought. We tire of anything
beyond exclusive customer service that
readies us with attempts to prove our point.

​© 2016 Larry Ingram

Let's file this clothing in the closet of most likely
to cover nearly all areas, and enclose things with
leads lowered, humidity there and sifting through
​fibers, to say nothing of snow - it's to pile it there -
all of them upon the bed, a stack like laundry,
but produced by visitors.

They work away at talking, compiling story upon 
story of a mosaic, a fiber here and there, a check
and a stripe, meanwhile a tweed and light, brave
nylon, patterned to be light and vigorous, to say
nothing of blizzards of cloth, stark nights of
formidable forecasts, of, a change in the coat.

Boast no more of the cold, or death defying 
wandering about in the dread of midnight with
nothing pertaining to a friend or someone withered
from staying out all day and night, frozen to the bone,
or the button or zipper - it won't close for never
being tested for tasks such as these,
trials without equal.

© 2016 Larry Ingram