tarot psalms 3:1

cast shame from your wings honey bee

what do you know about love 19 days old?

cheek to cheek nose to nose

grazing misty makebelieve sounds in the shape of future

drum me a heartbeat made of distance

                        recipes cut with letting go

fractured silhouettes

strange-familiar and tales                        of last time flights

fancy that—

                        her elements shift like sand

where no house may stand

           

and the space                                                                        is back

the mystery was never what it could be

it is only ever been what it isn’t

                                                         in these eyes there are glass shards

                                                         made of possible—refracting

                                                         the surface of things—distorting

                                                         even the simple shapes—piecing

                                                         light into sense—stitching

                                                         love                        a new face

press
        this
healing

heal       (me)       us

press
        this

with hands--gypsy--smoothing doubt
pressing doubt into blood
till it boils love rock and roll and stone

press us into home

wordtouch

press the tip of this sentence
against your thigh
working it round with commapause

the small of your back--where i place parenthesis's) (
dovekisses and breath

the words lowered from lips to hips ride sideways
like a bad haiku made of too much
tumbles into prose and spits scent buried in electric fur
fuzz
tricked out conjunctions heartlocked into exclamation point

cuz when this poem finds you and that place
made of wave and lightening and petals
peachrose and depth

the tip of this sentence (will Gasp!---)
falling gracelessly across heartcages and spent sheets
paper dolls flat on one another

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

our own voice
composed mostly
of sweet grass and lemon drops

what a delicate treat this sound is sure to be!

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

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

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

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

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

illuminate–
thunder past design

sight unrepressed
hear it and stream past into living
sound–

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

trinkets

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