Thursday, December 16, 2010

check it

just to say i read the best prologue ever.

"the dragon can't dance" Earl Lovelace

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

burn into recognition
the link of communication
between street lamps and wheat fields
temptation and redemption

the last folly step--carefully
drafted in the pale day under spread-out dreams
where morning glories made of iron
wrought the etched light
moving into dawn
whispering about silent
and chaos

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

a quick sketch for a spoken piece (reads a bit different off the page)

so you called me again on the phone
bones sufficiently rattled
i always sigh sad when you call–
you—a pole throwing out your line, looking for hook–
I know you
how addicted to the weight-on-the-line you are
gasping with ripped lips and stuttered words
while your silver hands reel them in blue
knowing the real energy spent is post catch---
something about gut-letting

what really tangles me though
what really splays me open wide
lays me out to dry
is your agonizing.
how you belly ache agonize dramatize over every soul in your life
except for the one
who flips sense off while running mindhoops and muses gritteeth
biting chunks of spitmemory leaving them like bread crumb trails
so as not to forget how bad—and wonderful—things can feel

but what way home to feeling is not blanketed with
irony—the wife of cosmic delight

the irony that we fist fight everyday
taking in black eyes and sucking mouthfuls of ‘what-if’s and could have’s’
the irony that without, this estranged space between you and me
would be nill
that without this heart-stretching, moon shinning distance
where would this love poem be?
where would the hand-scratched letters be sailed out too address sent and postmarked
as our annual reminder pushes the bed sheets into the corner of mind–
so much to loose and forget while taking punches in the stomach for risk

with future in our eyes--blinding ample simple conversation
about letting go without ever saying so
polite overture to moving on while staying in touch
discord dealt
an image of whiteness, silence and bare space

Friday, October 29, 2010

limp procession of democracy
in the center ring: education
the corner leaning towards bitter strife

ghastly voice yelling,
something about blocks and lining up
building great things with edgy hands
leaning towards striking

bitter woman with your bitter words and your bitter children
asking for handouts and quiet whilst standing gogglemouthed
and weighted hips bulging with blindsight and laze--

to the feeble minded, this may sound like air
moving languish through the halls

but to the narrowed eyed pressed against the wall
skirting harsh words and enemies in disguise
it is chalk dust
choking calm with text book lies and five minute increments
of how to line up on blocks and build great things made of silence

it is how change comes and stays too long
building ratty nests snuggled in the system of children
waiting for lunch and a clue
waiting for significance and relevance

Friday, October 8, 2010

if out the depths some semblance of what was
would emerge
then what great things could we conjure again

Friday, October 1, 2010

i have to turn the music up real loud because sometimes,
i hate your fucking voice
is the same sun in mexico setting spanish style in memphis?
the wide oak maple poplars looking cacti in the setting light
the midland delta south shacks shaking like a siesta in the muddy river land
the blue boys bouncing jingles up downtown like gringos on their own home turf
wars as bloody here as there and the boarders as pronounced

what is remembered from being on the road, so open?
desolate highway rift through her skin
and the dust is flying
balling up street calling like a winded cat on the fringe
of madness-great things—between sleep and sorrow

her barrel sticking out happy
trigger happy
singing about big skies and makeup–
the stuff women are made of
in shanty towns where living is hard shackled iron eyes
sweat stained laundry on the line
bare feet printed in the ground pitter patter pitter patter
ring around the rosy
ashes ashes Spanish sun
ashes ashes

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

thunder past design

sight unrepressed
hear it and stream past into living

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

dear tumblr,

your little plastic castle
the words made big falling out the windows–

we both have nameless sayings
nameless ways
tied to great expanse

call it a forging of sight
the shelf on the wall
solitary holding of other:

the return of empty filled me
swelled the loneliness and flooded breath
until her silence came again like a concert
of strings
tying together meaning and strength

Friday, September 24, 2010


it's this light that keeps

escaping between the folds
of fabric
and glass

the gentle posture of shoulder against sun

it's this oddly shaped memory that doesn't fit

in any of the small boxes tucked in drawers
holding old skin, hairpins and buttons
little things made big

seems only a fragile lifting of letting go
will do away with this quiet nonsense
made like steel glory in the corner of our eyes

little stones in my pocket–
not so innocent shrines in the cupboards

you speak of letters like they carry the memory
and not you
like a ritual fire will cleanse and hitting replay is a sin

govern the light
illuminate fingertips
pass out the day and dawn new intention

curtsy to the clock and slip it a kiss
it knows circles and anchor

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

a quick thought

frantic search

the quiet of touchless sight

expel--- fathom judgeless morning
where white walls and windows, salt and sentence
replace narrow escape

gravel under her feet fosters rhythm
while the street light resembles her other life

a young hip
and a lit match

Sunday, August 29, 2010

her dark material

sordid cloud of spoken word
grayed in the dawning of new intention
little pill of presentation–bring in the light

splay open sight
conspire solitude–
intercom this message:
wisdom is hard to come by though everyone is selling it
and righteousness doesn't exist
except for in the mountains
and sometimes the ocean

prayer forecasts trouble and hope
while bodies kamikaze storm

the night steals away memory
letting thoughts jammble towards space
scenario relived 1000 fold times

decipher your distance
and call it circumstance

the bell sounds toll in the landscape
calling to home
calling to paper houses stacked against the rain

under the sleeve on a whim (while listening to Groove Armada)

fuse lit
and the cuff is burning like parchment
connection to splayed out phrases
no one knows what to say

depraved center
bartenders and cigarettes
the smell of false interaction
satiation is not an option in this scene
only the obscene

delight in when the door opens and we walk outside
we walk outside
an entire universe in the living room
never left the soft structure of home
yet observances came easy
like fortune telling was nature
and this music in the ear is blood

her dance constructed of sketches
glue stick type
the phrases stuck together like intention
not recorded

sensation is flight
and magnet
and wearing off of wakefulness
no one will read these words
and if they (you) do
it won't make understanding even if spoken out of sound

wanna know why?

because i'm not your familiar
nor trying to reach out

just listen:

i'm scared
scared like maybe suffering is undercover in the guise
of earning bread
of earning care and consideration

i'm scared
like maybe this whole big time i'm alive
little moments
spread and disperse
and sudden are dispensed

and maybe
i'll forget that really great piano solo i heard
that made everything perspective
and poetic
and pushed hesitation into the ground---

gesture towards sky
silent night
church songs gone right
yet this prayer has no end
only ( )
and time

only ( )
and time

only ( )
and time

Friday, August 27, 2010

1000 mile/hour caffeine head--she even said yes to a ball game

in the spirit of getting what she needs

pitted against the beat
street vs homemaker keep
tough as tender nails
railroad spike

the gullet of recognizable bravery
shivering in night sweat dance
moves like a queen
a real heartbreaker against the wall
where others shiver timbers and mortar
tremble like a champ and call it real
keep it company
the hammer's in my pocket and sings like a dream

Friday, August 20, 2010

unfinished sketch of a system in turmoil: blind leadership in the six digits

to need
like whispers in the ear

building sense playing rolls dubious concerns about reality
school teacher smarts
left with a block between
while pedaling illumination under the table

a dog in the room you see
a dawg in da room
the BIG secret: admin passcodes blow
while everyone thinks about data


a small child running wicked wild from room (class)
slapped senseless before sleep (a dark bedless room)
left inside all night
now count to two and learn to measure this line

education designed: clustered--cornered--cherry bombing real life
and fucking paycheck stubbed suit-ties from florida ------ apparently

the real deals sneaking in technology and concept
slipping students some understanding telling them life is fucking hard
but you can sail away if only by looking observing focusing
read read and read
the intercom connected viral exchange

pushing pennies and title 1 funds
this book from 1971?
lets backtrack
since when is truth shouting a criminal fact?

hit me baby one more time
and this go around
little pitter patters
you're shelling it out
the revolt
the news reads:
500 12 and unders take over a school in southtown memphis
the word as to why: tired of a block between, little tykes crying for a new scene

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

do you take this bride?

Standing near the large speakers booming the apparently intoxicating song ‘Louie, Louie’ I stared, unaware of my expression. The crowd danced, twitching too and fro with a stiff rhythm following the chorus in the expected outbursts of sing along ‘yeah yeah yeah yeah.’ The ladies, in their very straight ginger colored dresses had taken off their shoes to pad around holding the ties of their late twenties, early thirties, slightly overweight boyfriends and probably soon to be unattractive husbands whose narrow-minded man’s man seeds will probably seek out their ovular target to help over populate the world with their unfortunate offspring. Highlighted hair swishing, Keystone Light sloshing, the lyrics of ‘Louie, Louie’ belted out across the immense hall, a fantastical hotel alight with marble colonnades and granite counter tops. The security guard slowly sipped a diet coke, his ponch overhanging the belt holding his cuffs, keys and pepper spray. He eyed the mid-south valley girls with narrowed eyes, up and down, up and down, seeming to nod approval with the music. Across the way from the dance floor a large spacious area opened up with clothed tables filled with delicate white flower pedals, crystal glasses, half eaten pieces of wedding cake, scattered silverware including three different kinds of forks and the slouched lumps of all the southern money oldies, the aristocrats of Tennessee half dozing over cooling cups of coffee. The caterers, dressed in black, eyes casting about for ways to make the event move as rapidly as possible, stepped quickly and efficiently, taking up forgotten drinks and left plates, attending to the spills and broken glass left by inebriated guests. ‘Louie, Louie’ dropped off while ‘I’ve Got the Power’ slammed into my eardrums, rattling my observations. I sighed heavily and walked over to the bar, the thirty five pounds of equipment strapped across my midriff and shoulders, taking on the visage of pregnancy, protruded from my skinny, almost undernourished looking frame. This stupid lens bag is stretching out my shirt I thought, while laboring across the dance floor through the drunken, fluffy, pink colored crowd. At the drink tabled I asked for my third glass of wine.

“Red please.” The bar tender handed me a shimmering glass of white . . . I think it was Chardonnay. I’m not good with wine, and I didn’t much care anyways; I was trying to stifle my disgust and boredom.

I helped myself to a piece of vanilla, icing covered cake and took a servants route back to the dinning area where I sat down next to a old man who had tufts of hair coming out of his ears. Unloading my equipment didn’t take long, having done it many times before. I settled everything very particularly on the table top; I had to be ready if he called me . . . he wasn’t a very patient man when it came to photographing weddings. When he called over the three-way walkie-talkie, I had to be at his side in a split second. This gig isn’t so bad. I was drinking good wine, eating catered food with time to zone out and think while watching hordes of wealthy people make fools of themselves as they celebrated, carrying out a ceremony to a probably unsuccessful life together. The divorce rate in the United States is over 52%. That means a couple has less than half a chance of their lives together actually surviving together and most likely they will be celebrating their ultimate separation before they both destroy one another’s esteem but of course, only after having two or three children to make the whole matter more complicated and difficult.

I blame religion for this. They go into a union trusting that god is blessing their choices, blessing their lives, blessing their new combined income, blessing their new home, blessing their new fat babies on the way, blessing their whole entire goddamn stupid marriage, which by the way, is a marriage of exclusion; a patriarchal institution where only a miniscule sliver of the diverse pie, only a fraction of the world wide melting pot will be blessed by this very particular god. Fuck me. Not even fucking civil union can be afforded in this completely money driven society where everyone can be a consumer and pay the government but not everyone can reap the few benefits of being a peon underneath that governments umbrella. Sigh again . . . I think I’m getting distracted.

It all ties in though, everything makes sense; the people feed religion, religion feeds the government and the government feeds itself. All of this I thought while eating my cake next to the lumpy old man with ear tufts, slouching into his fold up seat with the expensive corsage pined to his lapel.

Just then, the talkie beeped static; I could barely make out Norms voice over the scratchy connection. Doesn’t matter, I don’t need to hear what he is saying, it just means come. I took a final swig of the chardonnay, deftly (well, almost deftly, by this time the wine was bubbling in my head muting out the crappy songs the DJ was playing) swung the lens bag over my shoulder buckling it at the small of my back, picked up the monopod and headed towards the bride and groom, picturesque in their soon to be unhappy selves. I could see the flash of Norm’s camera as I made my way between the swishy crowds.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

she heard it had something to do with telepathic communication

make a scene
while slipping (unnoticed) out the door

the quiet air fair (or is it affair
rehearsing take offs

continual comings
-------nestling of cheekbones and collar-
bleached out in the sun
neon in the night---

taken in by sight
it must seem quite obscene

until subtle--eyes adjust--
nuance and synapse--------
how she agreed was agreeable is in agreement
not unlike understanding
turning vulgar intention into sweetsouthern layedback hellos

define illumination---
steps clatter away from--
the night
shivering about connect
believes in noThing
while still ringing (loud) about reality number 1
and, ,,,,,,,,,
reality number 2---


it means

dance, i guess
or quiet revelations on the corner of streetlit lamplit evenings
something about kiss

it was also cut magnolias and shroud

Thursday, July 1, 2010

again the search

distance---stride for space--making headway
even in noise

valued silence--the parcel of peace

thunder in summer
porch and path
alternative to driving

change is made
focus and push--act

know desire--self-learning
prescribed grapple (notion of living)
restricted law of time

catch this phrase and speak of possibilities

the mountainous call of NOW
never sounded
so loud

in the ears of a listening bird

Friday, May 28, 2010

be a birth—a flock of feathers tethered to the flume by design—
to know freedom exists—is—even in small spaces
where moving is made
by pressing matters in all states and form

shake sin into palms and press in till fire is made
nothing else is there
but lines and sweat and scars-
scars made by digging

digging through midwest earth
where the fields still sing of beginnings
beginnings of plowed pained
sore history and skin lynching

tight values without breath fringed by
fried southern misconception—a crippling attribute
of judgment
a personal Bill of Rights upheld by a god of design
whose vendetta is reflected in prayer
or hell fire will surely follow!


those are where the pale scarred palms come from—
the sweat of searching for
something great in a dusty field of swollen narrow values

but the midwest is expanse
and knitted seamless into the shores where oceans live
and moon flux tide, and darkness
a salty darkness neared by secrets of the most . . .
profane pleasures and adornment—
where the coast chooses the place to go
and bend
and twist
life as waves rolls like sex up and down the shores
kissed light by the desert and pinned by the rock face mountain—

a chiseled woman and her foothill children

the geography of design—a birth—a flock of feathers
tethered to the flume
to know
even here
there is space
for thought and matter
to know
even here
compressed and stressed
vision isn’t without choice nor decision

and as the skin finally heals
the palms whisper great stories
faint echoes
speaking in landscape tongue and remembering

Sunday, May 23, 2010

don't allow the more
--------------sophisticated fears
---------to set

they play like doubt
----------centered on self

an overture covering pale implications---

robust intentions slip loosely around idea:
ideas like looking
touching with trembles and hands that wear masks
during the evening hours

a misdemeanor in some states

carving a remembering out of slow air and electric invisible wishing

Friday, May 21, 2010

upon witnessing a drugbust across the street on the last day of school

marking the day
deposit: brandishing guns--politely ringing the doorbell

a sketch of under the covers
her frame marks the anniversary of adolescent death

the working out the polishing the wood grain fever
finishing out the year

a splendid repose from real fakehorders and their drugs
lungkickers on the swat team

children running: a woman spells panic
urgency with her eyes and snarlmouth twisted into fear

while laughter litters the playground
along with candies and popsticks

popo apologies
somethin' about doen' a job

the excitement left jumpy words in the halls
dancing with first hand experiences--slamstories of whathappenedthen
and next

a furled fist in the background

better go watch the cars
the high school lets out soon

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Friday, May 7, 2010

the crisis

the war raged all of this life
while willows grew and barn wood aged even more
against fabric blue skies

transition brought her to the brink of static
thinking fate was working itself out
and old pages were valued for their store of wealth
memories likened to gold

space was an issue--------------some concern
discerned from meager stillness, shyness, mute narrowed eyes
and a battle with distance
where love harbored masks (often perceived as villainous) in the in between

keeping true to light
scattered by branches
shyness agonized over courage
calling her a coward

until steps focused
a brave beginning
for this sheppard
cooing to feelings
a coxing of action

silence finally played its' part
having dispensed with Awkward--
that haughty noiseless woman
had her way
with the remembering

Monday, May 3, 2010

your presence is like charcoal on the skin
toxic gin
smeared with your dark outline-
everything looks messy

wish i could drink in reverse
that way i'd only improve as the night
teeter-totters on

whiplashed into thinking
the SOULution dwelled sacked-out suckerpunched

in common beginnings, endings
begging to be different
in the mind a great fantasy of forgetting (to feel-- grows
saturated excuses build blinds on our eyes

the solace at the days closing rests on a pillow
smothered in the mind--silently working
us unaware

it was triggered relaxation
at the sound of a bell--
Pavlov and his dog murdered mystery

or was it built infancy
human nature
our farce a golden treatment of wheezing punched up love

naked front--
can't everyanyone write a fucking memoir
i mean . . . exaggeration isn't a difficult lie
more like sexed up truth

and that kiss became an entire world
and that brush stroke brought millions to their knees
and any folk with a sense worth two licks can bury history

it ain't that hard

i mean
its back--
back to common beginnings

and do you feel small still??
like the big world keeps getting made bigger
by all the loud walkers with big flapping jaws
and fancy lighted signs singing
"Watch out kiddies--wide load"

help 101: just think--exaggeration is no womyns' claim
it's a free trick of the trade
so broaden your shoulders little lady
suck it up cause the worlds looking bright

but i can see---
see that you are no fool
probably one of those stand-the-test-of-time runners
in which case:
hitch up your coveralls darling and run on
an on an on an on an on

who knows, you could have your very own sign soon
that reads
"watch out world--inflated truthkicker coming through"

Sunday, April 25, 2010

chardonnay sunlight
filtering through breaking day

the sound of wind
empty streets

footsteps at the door
the stairs
toward the bedroom

making sense of order
time lapse
the great divide

Saturday, April 17, 2010

she kicked open my odyssey
ripe on the tree
and told me to go home
(the ocean i mean)
left me dangling on the hook like some
peeled back wigglesmacked bait
leaning in for more knowing the cure would hurt

and it did

when her big blue thighs came in at high tide
frothing at the mouth
speaking wickedquick tongue calling to the sky
(and old lover I bet)
while chuckling rhymes--
and i was beside myself
still hooked and wriggling
wishing to be NOwhere else

it was like that--
an entire crescendo of lapping licking smacking waves
folded in the crests
entire treasures full of truths made of sound
sucking on the sand pulling at the band
while smiling slicked mouthed unafraid
daring folk to walk up and try skipping a stone
or two

(paused in awe decided that)

after hanging tattered battered and peaked--
little me climbed down from that moment and even though
it was i who walked away it was she who left
me standing dumb on the beach--rock breaking my teeth
and rock breaking my bones
and rock breaking my tone

thinking back---
it seemed like a great ending to a severely atrophied love stint
making sense only at a distance
playing it safe from across the road--
but sound travels baby and it travels fast
keeps on talking even if ears aren't openflamed flapping to listen
catching our attention when we least expect it
exhausted and fistworn from the day knuckles all brokenswollen
throbbing like a robbed tomb when the sun goes down--
it will say:
this ain't no place to stay
pack it up and take it to another day

Friday, April 16, 2010

we're all so cool here


trying something new--take 1

and i forgot to call it out
shout it out
at the top
of trunked up trees where
it couldn't be smelled

that lady sitting next to me
with her trick trickling cigarette made to look like butter
on her lips and fingers
a growing joke and her satin scent of flower
little blossom puke in a bottle
the fragrance tires the scenes and sets
the stomach to churning

you make me sSICK said the little autistic boy
to no one in particular
til i realized he was talking to the whole lot
of centralized slothcattlebots with
their fertile parents slapping piggybackridding
big with cheap meals and fatty betrayal
with ignorant immoral unethical imagination punishing
killers---i mean---most of em' of are against abortion
and ain't no white haired wrinkledasspolitician gonna
pay for that real kind of sex ed

so grind me down perfumed smoke women
and tell me that life is good wearing a little black dress
and forget the rest
my table top isn't for forgetting though---
no and it's not for style either

i tell--sense can't be breathed in like air
it's not a drink to swallow either
more like scrambling sweating clumsy thinking clawing
towards mazelost exists and expecting a reward of fresh air
at the end when all you get is more slipping
and needle compass roses swirling in the head like
a dark night of drinking and feeling separate in the midst
of folks churning hiptwisted on the dance floor of time
and don't get me started on space

i am ebb
sticky sometimes but ebbing on like loose leafs
in current blue rivers in pushing green reservoirs
the stone cold bottom of wells springing up life
and feminine mystic cheeks
turning the other way
when loose tongued motherfuckers suck in too
much confidence without abandoning ignorance---
abate this mouthflapper:

drawing on the wall of silence
mute shyness
i scream a lesson learned and realize
to work through to abstract selflessness (if there is such a thing)
it's got to be figured first--fist first by sounding out self
and giving i a new chance of sight
abide by the rules of insight keeping it tight
so for real--my childhood was good
and screwed up like every ones and to say less or more
is just ego and might reveal too much of those secret
seances concerning home

so lady scent
in your black dress
and smoke perfume
who are you
chatting with the sky
about loss
and sight
sticking your fists into

Friday, April 9, 2010

time and space
a mistaken shape

the drawing came together from a sketch and she realized--

shortcomings were dug deep in her actions--what to do--
through the shattered light of memory--the dancing fractal images of faces words
night smells and sight

roads like thought stretched like a familiar pattern---- carrying in old hands weather worn-
cruising transient boy blurred by timelapse----
the best kept secret folded in pockets of embarrassment--shy muteness--pretending casual-self in the midst of embers and voice
it broke--a misused door on hinges turned inside out
spelling e x t r e m i t y

meanwhile--the sidewalk offers its assistance to pondering and meandering and all the rest of that thinking back

a slow stride sentence looking for a poem
a raven looking for limb
a lamppost looking for a shadow to cast

select embrace, erase, move flightless through the air and realize falling
something like prayer only more like an empty calling

brazen gesture
sounding at midnight -- lighting fires in her sleep

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

reverb rewind, longdayattheoffice

i digress shift
external expansion
the minds dull explosion (no one noticed the pieces being picked up)
nor the drive by jokers
in their youth
and in their glory

it was a connection
a loss
a felt dimension of mention--
the zoned out man with his chin and his other chin
calling it exploration
(as he sat dumb looking at the sun
or was it the short skirted cutie with the cigarette hitching a ride across the street) yeah i think it was that
one over there on the hill striking curbs while keeping it real, hustle--doesn't even have to make sense, just give it a moment to rest and keep the sentence running on and on cause no one's goen' to the trouble to read this mess anyways, talking a wall, a white wall with an inched up dress and a flamingo haircut--beer followed by a coffee followed by a bed followed by an alarm followed by too many motherless fatherless children trying to be students really being dogs in a kennel--keep your chin up kid or the world will fuck you over real hard--digress i digress and shift into my best--like sunday attire--sam i am you be reading dis?too much time in memphis mitch and not enough paZazzzzz--damn it's hot in here-ya hear-?? ? ?stuttered a here ? ? ??? present tense
the rest is
just mess

Monday, January 18, 2010

immigration policy: a polite overture to injustice

Part I

the flesh of absence--
a watery color ghosted and framed
by windows--sheer curtains nuzzle breeze

empty throne, the sheets cool
and growing sallow the room is left alone

Part II

immigrant connection
the embassy totes white glory
plush power

discord--interview with a stranger
a most intimate investigation
looking for fear, for the eyes to look up and to the right
stamped down denial

stranded in a strange land called home

Part III
(a more aggressive approach)

serenade to separateness
no return date
no return ticket
invalid license to BE
to say love
is determined by dot gov---
absurd ritual
lies are told as factual
immigrate this mother fuckers:
keeping the country safe
homeland security
priority: Debase
policy thrust
unequaled affront to the nature
the very nature
of human rights
dieing endlessly by oversight
spectrum of delay--family values gone astray
hypocrisy as bright as the suns rays
an ocean dividing--ameriCat keeping talent at bay
all our bets riding on the HLS office
preserving our freedoms? fuck it! till it's right gonna dog it
seizing the innocent--victim to lack of common sense
man on a plane
man with a gun
hold it up high
bang bang dang
look at those chains---a painful shame

Part IV
(a slight return to square one)

talk of concept and ruination
the country swaggers--a drunk giant
with fatty baby legs groaning
or is it boasting?
provision for self
it forgets the rest who put it high up
on an absolute shelf
glory and absence
affair with paper trails
secured perimeters
meet me in the back room
and we'll talk smuggle
we'll talk struggle
and hatch insanity
much more tame
than policy
the worlds best

Thursday, January 7, 2010

rural picture of winter(interaction


the knife-point search for words--intact but deserted--
reticent self--outward expression defined by reserved contact
minimal self inclined to withdraw--decapitate possibility with pained movements

we are cold snow dusted roads, gravel dirt ditches frozen by abandoned nature

it is our swollen sense of importance that keeps us bold (behind closed doors)

---------------------land laid out bare and touched by sadness------frozen touch
-------------------and poor memory

poor memory serving another time--

her figure looked liked miles and left a still impression
silhouetted against edge and mood

touch of gray
calloused hands
abandoned fingers with silver rings

furious possible connect
shift shape and leave this space for something quiet
in the solitude of forgetting--make believe busy--stacking cups
like it means something
besides indulgence and escape

the frozen house
on the hill
keeping vigil
over dusted figures--
shaded silhouettes against the snow

(a picture painted the attic

the warm air rising
the curved shape of expression leaning heavily
upon the chipped frostbitten window pane
looking through breath
down on roads
and frozen grounds
the clarity of distance kept keen for moments
left behind for a grand hope of understanding---
of sharing

quiet settled upon the land
proclaiming the business of sadness(
on every eyelid is of importance and should be listened to

that no distance can separate one from what is seen
no even closed sleep nor drunken love
not even soft embraces under the guise of trust

and through the window came a cry
distant and carried by north winds
the black m of flight
the crow looking for companion

the winter looking for a lover
her cold nature an affront to all but chiseled stone---
monument to self

the ending eluding to clarity
the death of spectacle,
of showmanship

the curtain closed, the attic window shut--
under the sheets, the house sits quiet
a borrowed breath away from
the couch and the grave
and settles silence under the skin