Monday, October 24, 2011

change

Downtown

Met a man with one leg
wearing a green fedora
playing a cracked guitar
with 3 broken strings
and an open suitcase
with silvery coins thrown
in for his dinner, drinks, fix
whathaveyagotiswhathegot
and I added my few bits to
the meager pile that grew
slowly 
as the wind picked up 
and the sun fell from a 
weak autumn apogee
and stood there listening 
to a man playing the blues
who knew it for what it was

And tonight I'll get home
and eat and drink and fix
and sleep
and then do it again
and again
andagainandagianandagain
and I will never be as free
as that one legged man 
sitting on his stool
playing the blues
as the gulls wheel overhead 

Downtown



Thursday, October 20, 2011

Parallels

I hear the piano playing
see the sunset 
and smell the breeze 
wafting from the dragonfly’s wings. 


Springtime tells us stories 
that smell this sweet, 
and so does an autumn sunset 
of the horizonless lake 
as the waves say hello 
and our feet see the sand 
for all the trillion miracles 
that it has always been, 


eyes falling only to fly high 
again when the old mariner’s bell 
rings. 


The light and the dark 
are brothers after all.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

Wormwood (Another Ode to Bukowski, the 2nd such...)

Dead by the streetlight
my shadow
the mountains
off the desert floor
in the distance

The distance:

A hooker is dodging cars
while living in the midnights
between;

Really, it can't be that easy.

Dead by the TV tray:
half a pop tart
empty bottles
a remote control
and no batteries

No Batteries:

The future is in the now,
and turns out it's nothing
without us.

Taste the gasoline mai tai;

Dead by the bedside:
been there before
the chloroform still
gives me a twitch
twitch
twitch

Dead by the hand that
beckons me
feeds me
scratches my itch
and rubs my belly
my lust
and my lies.

Dead

Dead

Dead

And someone said:
the sun
also rises...

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Green River



green river most holy
I wade my bare feet
into your purifying flow
away from noise and smoke
where your voice is wind
a laugh I've died to hear
but I ask you;
which of us
will hurt more?
if my mortal sins
were washed away
by your cold blood
to the mother ocean...
and beg your forgiveness
for listening to your voice
instead of your words
on this matter of souls
as they walk on by


Friday, October 29, 2010

Monsters


She screams at her nosferatu
on the threshold of her house
every night the ritual
needs more blood.

It's 3:00 am.

She throws a liquor bottle
it shatters to diamonds and mash
in front of his car door
screeching to departure on cue
I’ve seen her throw herself
on the rusting hood of his car
or smack his side window
with her open hand.

She has broken glass before
as easily as she's broken herself
and for the ground that she gained
she just as easily gave in
to the monster near dawn.

Together they rise each morning on cue
organs re-grown—limbs mended
faces vaguely human, bloodshot
axes grinding edge to edge
all day until the next dusk
when the beast roams again.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Flotsam and Jetsam



It was a long walk~
her thoughts all over the map,
the bus schedule lit by
a procession of
amber streetlights.

The traffic crossing town,
north
to south
good
to bad
ebb
and flow
flotsam and jetsam
in and out.

Right through the door
she carried herself
quickly to the neon lit bar
where he'd just finished
one, two, was working
on a third vodka straight.

She
poked him in the ribs
let him know she was

there

...and the fires in Detroit
burned early that night

...and the planets aligned
delivering catastrophe
to the world of man

...and Lazarus rose from
his tomb

...and the bomb dropped--
millions died.
millions more were born
with a million more bombs
to expound the universe
with their fire and their love.

Poems should be
elegant things; complexity
in a single sustained breath.

But this one
just won't work like that.

It's from Detroit.

It was a long walk.

In and out.

The morning sun would have
a fucking nasty hangover,
but the amber streetlights
would be there
to pick up the slack.

Friday, October 22, 2010

Last Hit

"The length of my life
and the day of my death
were fated long ago"
--Viking Proverb

Up there,
in the tall grass,
snakes lying in ambush.

Downhill, his every breath
a dead scream
twisting in vacuum.

Hear that?

They wait...
They wait...

Safety thumbed off,
muzzle pointed
at the imperious sun,

They wait.

Up there, twigs snap.

He knew his job,
but did his duty.





Tonight my uncle died.   He was a former U.S. Marine, died at home in the quietude of suburbia.   I know nothing else to say but that he was a good man, a person who would never harm another living being, but was always ready to defend what he believed in and loved.

He'll be missed and thought of often, though he can now finally rest.

Love you all for reading here.   Know that.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

No Lies

Torn apart by love
just smile and nod
as my head rolls by.

Ripped to shreds by love
my heart feeding the rats
my blood waters the ivy.

Torn to pieces by love
pick the part you like best
and toss it into the fire.

Ashes are to be envied
they blow on the wind
flying one last time
to the ends of the earth
the mountains, the oceans;

But remember the scream:
ecstasy and anguish
are shadow siblings
dancing by steel moonlight.

Torn apart by love--
because the talons that rip
were the hands of a dream.

Torn to pieces by love--
and your smile is only a stall
look, the rats, they wait,

For you.

Teeth like dirty needles
eyes like dead stars
smoldering in decay...
even now
I tell you no lies
so won't you just try
look me in the eyes
as my head rolls by.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Arbitrary Design

Cold October winds
are my pillow and
the fire inside of me
was lit by the hands
of the one
who carved this smile
after deciding where
my face ought to be.


If that is not love,
I'll see you in hell.

If that is not love,
then the cold winds
must be.

Friday, October 8, 2010

Seasons of The Witch


Drifting above the mire--
a cool damp mist shroud
gray on gray on black
she comes.

She promises everything.

She says nothing
(very... articulately)
and as I lay down
overcome by her touch
her sweet black magic,
the last thing that I know:
her rouge-inflected grin
is only for the season,
her kiss, her tongue
holds sibilant secrets
only for her true lord.

I am a thief
tonight.

I am a victim
tomorrow.

And soon nothing:
a skull on a silver chain
a memory of weakness
ponderous gothic lullaby
whispered by the moon
to the nightbirds calling
the names of the dead
and forgotten in the wake
of her misty cloak of
momentary desire and
release.