I cannot tell you
how galling it is
to stand in the museum
and one hundred
taxidermist's touching
brushes and needles and bits of hair
to one hundred
frames behind glass
and all of it
watches you
between wandering pillars
in light that fills your pupils
like soup against the lips
of a flask
and each one
calling button eyed
to hobby knives in working hands
mouths of dust
they're in need of a bit
only a bit
if you could
please, if you would just a sliver
of your tongue.
original works of parts
From the Pulpit
"Don't trust in stocks
or the dollar or the roof
He put over your head.
Don't trust in your senses
or your logic or your reason."
The difficulty comes
when the sweat on his neck
reflects the glint of his rings
and I start to calculate
how many steaks belt his gut
and how many holes
he had to punch in the leather
around his waist just this morning,
but I start to believe
that maybe Jesus is holding
up the loops of his pressed white pants.
"Rational thinking is
the slippery slope-"
So buy a level. The value in
being yelled at once a week
by someone too far away
to strangle
is
"-trust in the power of
the Lord and Him alone.
You can't do it on your own.
Let him guide you. Open-"
With the wallets again?
I was hoping He would move him
to say 'hearts'
this time. Maybe I should
tip better. Funny how
even He insists you should only be allowed
to get what you pay for.
Seems like a pretty
human assertion
"-he can restore your-"
please say dignity
"-trust in the restorative power-"
of a clean pair of socks.
I'm rubbing my toes
against the soles of my shoe tip
and the threads
are simply amazing.
or the dollar or the roof
He put over your head.
Don't trust in your senses
or your logic or your reason."
The difficulty comes
when the sweat on his neck
reflects the glint of his rings
and I start to calculate
how many steaks belt his gut
and how many holes
he had to punch in the leather
around his waist just this morning,
but I start to believe
that maybe Jesus is holding
up the loops of his pressed white pants.
"Rational thinking is
the slippery slope-"
So buy a level. The value in
being yelled at once a week
by someone too far away
to strangle
is
"-trust in the power of
the Lord and Him alone.
You can't do it on your own.
Let him guide you. Open-"
With the wallets again?
I was hoping He would move him
to say 'hearts'
this time. Maybe I should
tip better. Funny how
even He insists you should only be allowed
to get what you pay for.
Seems like a pretty
human assertion
"-he can restore your-"
please say dignity
"-trust in the restorative power-"
of a clean pair of socks.
I'm rubbing my toes
against the soles of my shoe tip
and the threads
are simply amazing.
The Hook
The hook as stands
is measured in quarks
when the thing
as forest
is better measured
less by parts.
is measured in quarks
when the thing
as forest
is better measured
less by parts.
Quick Dinner? Ordered Out.
The fat of the chicken is on the knot of the bag
and fingers should not knife in hand
also be. Late considerations.
and fingers should not knife in hand
also be. Late considerations.
Daybroke
"There's so much more left to do.
Well, I'm not young, but I'm not through."
The song in my heart is
the scuff and sway of my shoes
against the nubs of acorns
in the margins of the sidewalk
and I'm thinking to the time
of my fingertips beating the corners of
diamonds in a chain linked fence
and the rust coming loose has me feeling
my age and its grit reminds me of
the lint lining my pockets,
but the wind is kicking in off the Atlantic
and rushing the door of
my jacket and whipping my skin
free of last nights slag in sparking strokes
and the sun is still low and having
a hard time seeing its potential
and its rays are missing the mark,
but if it could only see it
from where I'm standing,
and my feet have taken me
in their singing absent way
to the black bars lining
the erosion proofed cement bank
of a river, but what is holding my gaze
is not the dappling of a sunrise
on water green enough to pluck in
fistfuls of foul leaves and brown bark,
but the vacancy of the concrete field
I crossed to get here and
the weeds growing hip high
and in that distance stands
no one,
but I could have swore
I heard you call my name.
I could have swore,
but you had your reasons
and I can still feel unrest
touching the corners of my eyes
and the sun is whispering to me
behind broken cloud work
that I'm not the only one
with so much more left to do
and its palm stroke against my cheek
is warm and resists the fall
of my chin to my chest at rivers edge
and as it muscles back the night
I know that today is not a new beginning,
only another opportunity
to make some moves
farther away from where
lofty goals exploded across the deep blue sky
and fell like dead satellites in the night.
Well, I'm not young, but I'm not through."
The song in my heart is
the scuff and sway of my shoes
against the nubs of acorns
in the margins of the sidewalk
and I'm thinking to the time
of my fingertips beating the corners of
diamonds in a chain linked fence
and the rust coming loose has me feeling
my age and its grit reminds me of
the lint lining my pockets,
but the wind is kicking in off the Atlantic
and rushing the door of
my jacket and whipping my skin
free of last nights slag in sparking strokes
and the sun is still low and having
a hard time seeing its potential
and its rays are missing the mark,
but if it could only see it
from where I'm standing,
and my feet have taken me
in their singing absent way
to the black bars lining
the erosion proofed cement bank
of a river, but what is holding my gaze
is not the dappling of a sunrise
on water green enough to pluck in
fistfuls of foul leaves and brown bark,
but the vacancy of the concrete field
I crossed to get here and
the weeds growing hip high
and in that distance stands
no one,
but I could have swore
I heard you call my name.
I could have swore,
but you had your reasons
and I can still feel unrest
touching the corners of my eyes
and the sun is whispering to me
behind broken cloud work
that I'm not the only one
with so much more left to do
and its palm stroke against my cheek
is warm and resists the fall
of my chin to my chest at rivers edge
and as it muscles back the night
I know that today is not a new beginning,
only another opportunity
to make some moves
farther away from where
lofty goals exploded across the deep blue sky
and fell like dead satellites in the night.
The Beggars of Brighton Terrace
The West side of the street has gone downhill
and though it put up a steady fight
with the help of the do it yourselfers
who came and went with hardware store's
Spring clearances
there was no improvement project planned
that could repair old section 8
nestled with the endearing face
of a battered, sunglass shuttered, spouse
beside the white vinyl of the neighborhood church.
The West side of the street has gone downhill
and the mail boxes have been replaced
with strong boxes and little red
matchsticks of rubber clad iron bars
peeking out of cars where novelties and signs declaring
silly little things
used to reside and it is difficult to say
if it's because no one strolls during the day
to stop and see them and give a giggle
or if it's because of who strolls during the night.
The West side of the street has gone downhill
and bike frames, sans wheels, are rusting to gates.
Music loud enough to mistake it for music blaring
from concert capable stereos by bedside has replaced
the little voices
of hide and seek on Friday evenings and
to peek through the blinds of a window from the East
is to see the slow rise of a tide of white flags
and the children of beggars beating the aluminum
like a kettle drum band on a sinking ship.
and though it put up a steady fight
with the help of the do it yourselfers
who came and went with hardware store's
Spring clearances
there was no improvement project planned
that could repair old section 8
nestled with the endearing face
of a battered, sunglass shuttered, spouse
beside the white vinyl of the neighborhood church.
The West side of the street has gone downhill
and the mail boxes have been replaced
with strong boxes and little red
matchsticks of rubber clad iron bars
peeking out of cars where novelties and signs declaring
silly little things
used to reside and it is difficult to say
if it's because no one strolls during the day
to stop and see them and give a giggle
or if it's because of who strolls during the night.
The West side of the street has gone downhill
and bike frames, sans wheels, are rusting to gates.
Music loud enough to mistake it for music blaring
from concert capable stereos by bedside has replaced
the little voices
of hide and seek on Friday evenings and
to peek through the blinds of a window from the East
is to see the slow rise of a tide of white flags
and the children of beggars beating the aluminum
like a kettle drum band on a sinking ship.
Like My Own Things
I like my own things
it's not posture or a bluff.
I'm being honest.
I'm being opened
consensual. No fuss.
I've airy words and visuals,
a hardened core minus puff.
I've sex and mastery
of genit parts, nasty
words and the buff,
the bare skin and the barely felt
the obese and the thin,
and while I hate plain puffery
made up words and
unearned grins
I feel I should
accept no blame
for liking my own things.
it's not posture or a bluff.
I'm being honest.
I'm being opened
consensual. No fuss.
I've airy words and visuals,
a hardened core minus puff.
I've sex and mastery
of genit parts, nasty
words and the buff,
the bare skin and the barely felt
the obese and the thin,
and while I hate plain puffery
made up words and
unearned grins
I feel I should
accept no blame
for liking my own things.
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