birthed
at my wits end
with my head growing sideways
against the ground
listening
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
homefronts

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
sometimes--
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
stock
still’

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

winterscape (music by Bon Iver)

check it

just to say i read the best prologue ever.

"the dragon can't dance" Earl Lovelace

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
chasms
and chaos

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