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kerouac’s napkins – original performance poem

Dave — Wed, 29 Dec 2010 01:35:24 +0000

A Thought

Dave — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 13:20:36 +0000

I stay alone inside this thought finding
solace
in the memory of your
face – your
laughter.

It’s been raining for days.
I know I look tired.
Shortly this train will
stop

and I’ll have to start
my day.

Thinking of Reading

Dave — Sat, 23 Feb 2008 03:30:40 +0000

A poem about Ithaca
New York
takes on a completely
different meaning
when read in Stamford
Connecticut.

It’s hard to explain driving
down Comfort Road to
someone whose
never experienced

flash frozen
hair follicles inside their
nose the minute
they crack open the
door.

My dreams stay
the same
no matter where
my pillow is.

Imagery

Dave — Sat, 23 Feb 2008 03:28:58 +0000

These memory snapshots echo
Theodore Roethke — the way
she reads me like
the books she wrote.

Daddy’s waltz is her song,
sepia tone and
rotary phone images
keep me alive.

Sunlight hits –
did she wake to
hear my voice
from the windowpane
across the room?

In the photographs she finds
life beyond Frank O’Hara’s
New York City poems
that remind me
of her.

Connecticut Autumn

Dave — Sat, 23 Feb 2008 03:27:21 +0000

I thought about Autumn today
and contentment
and scattered leaves making their
way down the street.

Putrid and sweet crab apples
sticking to the treads of my
sneakers as we played
freeze -tag before the sounds of
Mother’s call for dinner–

Laughing because there is
no other reaction right
before the moment
you get caught.

Fishing at Randal’s pond had
an Autumn smell – even
in the Summer, and we
lived a life that
one could simply call
Yankee Candle.

For the rest of my
life I will have these
memories – these emotions
and these smells to keep
me warm.

The Reason To Dream

Dave — Fri, 22 Feb 2008 20:45:59 +0000

It is the involvement of the eyes,
the transcendental movement of
energy from one to another, that
completes the connection between the two of us.

On these silent nights,
when the wind cracks
the house, the refrigerator hums,
and the lights dim,
it is the beginning,
when breathing becomes too
complicated for instinct.

It is on nights like these
when there is no reason to dream.

Summer Intentions – freewrite

Dave — Tue, 19 Jun 2007 19:37:37 +0000

Freewrite… critique and comments welcome.

With the humid stench of low-tide mixed with the smell of juniper
I am not understanding the romanticism
of this pre-dawn Connecticut town walk.

Sipping coffee out of the clay – not intended
for travel – mug that slips heat to my palm and sooths chapped fingers.
Offers cohesive structure with the rising sun.

I think of her, and the freckles on the bridge of her nose.

Wondering if she’s stuck in traffic on her way to work.

notebook fiction part 4

Dave — Fri, 15 Sep 2006 12:48:52 +0000

When I was about eleven-years-old my friend John had a plug of cherry flavored chewing tobacco, only he called it chaw. He swiped it from his brother Joseph when he was passed out drunk. We sunk behind my grandmother’s garage one Sunday and both took a huge hunk of it. I remember it had the consistency of like a thick taffy, but it smelled like sweet earth; like decomposing leaves. It stung my tongue, but not bad, like the bubbles in a softdrink. I thought it would be a hip thing to do. We sat there for what seemed to be about five minuets, when in actuality it was only about thirty seconds. John lost his lunch all over my brown leather church shoes. His face was real pale. I swallowed some juices as I began to laugh at him, and I became overwhelmed by the aroma of Sunday morning breakfast and sweet tobacco candy. It was enough to make a person sick. So I got sick. We never touched Joseph’s tobacco again.

notebook fiction part 3

Dave — Thu, 14 Sep 2006 12:56:22 +0000

As I said before Uncle George traveled around the country selling Bibles. I guess It’s a pretty good job. At least your not stuck in one place. He knew that thing back and forth, and could quote any scripture. He believed in god. One day while driving on route 17 in Hancock, New York, George fell asleep. His Buick swerved across the road and he didn’t stop until he hit a barn about forty yards from the median. The barn said Chew Redwood Tobacco on it’s side and had a picture of a lumberjack or something on it. It doesn’t matter. Uncle George never committed a sin in his life. God sucks. Uncle George is dead.

notebook fiction part 2

Dave — Wed, 13 Sep 2006 13:34:45 +0000

Amusement parks are sick things. If an alien race looked down upon our planet and analyzed places like Sandusky, Ohio, I think the aliens would leave us alone. If you think about it, people are paying to get tortured. They throw up, and do it again. They get scared and want to be even more scared. They voluntarily become human socks thrown into the spin cycle of a large dryer-like-thing. Well, let me ask you this. What happens to the lost socks?