so jimmy and i get together for dinner and spontaneous poetry games. the game are fast and free and fun. prompt one is to study a loved one's face. prompt two is to dream "if poetry was easy money."

i.

my brother's face is a study in winter
my brother's face takes the shape of a round cut watermelon
a radiant red on his cheeks (even when sober) with cool secrets inside
the red roundness of his face is a long story of how he bled to be here
his shaggy hair uncurls the length of his soul, wild, untamed, fearless...
he dreams of having a mullet
there's an assholes who lives in his eyes, who laughs with resonance (more likely at you than with you)
his smile is cocky
but the smile saves my life so it has every right to be so

watermelons are perfect for the summer, but who needs watermelons in the winter?

tonight, his face dreams to be fire but is lit only by the static of a television set
his eyes are dim, like a well in the woods, you look down into it and nothing seems to look back
he hugs with half a hug, hides his hair in beanies, and maddogs the two blonde kids down the street
he's not even here
he's so absent
he could stand against the sky and even the wind would pass him by

my brother
lost boy
saves my life
i can't forget to save his

ii.

if poetry was easy money
i'd hussle a haiku
lie with a limmerick
and push the pen to pick a pocket
a poet is a thief of words
words like
cheddar
bling
lincolns
scrooge mcducks

if poetry was easy money
pablo neruda would live in a mansion in the bermuda
robert frost would pave the road less traveled by in gold
and beau sia would say "see ya" to his civic and opt for that bigass hummer to paint in

if poetry was easy money
the haas school of business would lose its house to the creative writing department
bill gates would be kicked out of his own front gates
and weekly open mics would be held at the white house

if poetry was easy money
war would be fought in poetry slams
people everywhere would be able to read
and poets would never have to worry about the world their kids would grow up in

if poetry was easy money
we'd all be poets and maybe, just maybe,
we'd all start living in the metaphors we dream of