Monday, June 20, 2011

the sprinklers are working a little bit now

cleaved in half
self-surrender: part two
vacate awkward sacrifice of bodymind left slipping over choice and ravaged decision

meaning: the country of our countenance is haggard city night
with gray matter splattered against choice alley walls and treeless endings

it is not by fellowship in the chapel we have come to this conclusion–so far removed from the plains
of our beginning
hotly beginning with the last letter of mercy y y y y y y*

The odd suffocation of you and i across the room so wide built by the tides
the restriction of dense population and custom–the tradition of lying
to sound like we know--
like we might have clues
to how it all began

introduce uncertainty--the wild resurrection of embracing sound and movement
coalesce into bold new making of wordparts, suckerpunch the cordial south right out of the mouth of gentility
and make it real make it feel like something worth doing
like action is valor-- the daring heart of risk and her sister fortitude

strike chord into glances so when the eyes meet forgetting is not an option stranger
and neither is letting go

what is this poem about but bravery and heartcranks
chapelmaking fingertip calluses to ease the pain of
sewing self anew

Sunday, April 10, 2011

our own voice
composed mostly
of sweet grass and lemon drops

what a delicate treat this sound is sure to be!

Monday, February 21, 2011

temple talk

swift flight south
the orange temple song
balled up and wasted in a field
of clouded sway

rocky mountain cliff song
little girl feet step
around trees with roots
like the knuckles of giants–
giants who roamed longstride
bellowsonging about how the ages
get smaller
with time
separation of space

the hill country songs bedded like rocksoil
in hide-wearing folkpeople
the two step and wicked jazz that passed over
during sunday dinner–
possum eyes glint night light

the feature of withered faces windtorn and blown
half asunder by splintered labor
knelt at the temple singing songs
of how things are
and were and are going to be
temple talk language like color
like a blanket in the regions

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

at my wits end
with my head growing sideways
against the ground
for noise

maybe for a stampede
of Great Things happening
or maybe it was the sound of railroad ties bending metal-ache
humming trains sounding like soft distance
carrying cargoboys hitching rides with hobos
to better places a little greener than their wasteland

or maybe I am listening for a white horse
hooves all pounding against the hard soil
sweating and toiling
so I won’t have to
ready to ride into a distance that doesn’t bend
where the sun never sets fully, just sits
looking nice
peeking above the never reached red horizon

wanting existence to curve into your shoulder nice and warm is like that
except for when the ghosty figures of maybe what if and remember her, him and that other thing were not standing stock still surround us
making us remember
mind speed drifting out of NOW
into some fakebelieve world of itcouldhavebeen

time stands still like that—silent taunt making fun
all in your face yet can’t be touched--
but if it could—time be touched
I’d suckerpunch it right in the chin
give it a good one two with my
‘hey, you thought I was a goner for sure,
but look at me building a bright future
without all those memories littered on the ground making me stand

yeah, I know time, what it does
what it doesn’t do
my little framed perspective
keeping company
keeping beat
setting a pace for my imagination to keep---….

I wonder how many lives I have lived
we have lived
hoping it more than one
with so many
paths yet untraveled
growth unraveling choices as much or more than it brings

travel me smooth world
my little prayer to the universe
beckoning desperate magic
sight and love
beckoning spells and tumblewords
fullbone strong
ready to break noise
into smooth silent movement
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

r us h

r us h us (h) rush us into confirmation
a zealous flightpushdive into relaxation
looking for moment

for the silver curtain of affirmation
pleasing begging it to say
still freechoice
it's yours
silence the golden moment

dissipate self out the body
eyes grinding open to watch it spell away into surrounding
littering the air with memory and broken little stones
rounded at the corners

florescent diver sucking wind on the fall
reflection on the surface ringing out depths where the sweat drips
arching musclespine tendontight praying smooth entery
splashback without the whiplash
everything is loud and cheap