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