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"