The wind is kicking again.
High in the hillocks and
trying something Venturi
enough to ease a head
strung out and spun higher
than the banks of water color
pretending to be.
Bite the air. It tastes
like good weather.
The kind of weather
that begs new memories.
The kind of weather
that sings sharp and clear
like band saw blade
contrails cutting with the grain of
golden blued violent cloud wash.
The wind is kicking again.
The cigarette has gone out.
The moon will be up
over the valley and
the hill is a terrible place to be
after dark without a jacket.
Time to go.
original works of parts
Hurt so Much
I hurt so much
that I run thin
of words to make it
music and palatable.
They ask me
scales of one to ten and
I ask what ten is
and they tell me about things
I can't identify
with so I choke
and swallow and think,
but god damn.
It is all
ouch and
second thoughts about
picking other paths,
but I won't pretend
to tell you about my troubles.
I've been
baiting.
Because what I want I cannot find
within my limits and
sometimes if I just hear it
once through someone else
it falls into a music
I am hard pressed
to make on my own.
that I run thin
of words to make it
music and palatable.
They ask me
scales of one to ten and
I ask what ten is
and they tell me about things
I can't identify
with so I choke
and swallow and think,
but god damn.
It is all
ouch and
second thoughts about
picking other paths,
but I won't pretend
to tell you about my troubles.
I've been
baiting.
Because what I want I cannot find
within my limits and
sometimes if I just hear it
once through someone else
it falls into a music
I am hard pressed
to make on my own.
Grasping to Straws
This journey
devine
tounderstandwhyyouleftandileftyou
is a pipe organ jammed against
wall studs and screws
leaving me in the hours of a car accident,
wondering in buckled seconds
counted out in bad songs and
worse minutes of countered touch
when I am going to feel it.
But there is no touch to wake,
no fairies tales to fake,
and I think
that is what still
chokes.
Shanice 2
You unforgiving bitch.
You unforgiving
stolid bitch.
I dote on you.
To no end.
I think
this is how you repay me and
I lose sight of the fact
that you can only
repay me in kind
to what I've asked,
but that makes you no less
a complete
bitch
whose envelope is thinner than
rice paper and one who laughs
when I say "how high" and you ask "jump now"
in an inside joke
between you
and the square inch pad of
the contact patch
between you
and our road
is the fact that
when all is said and done
I am the one
who wears the conversation.
You unforgiving
stolid bitch.
I dote on you.
To no end.
I think
this is how you repay me and
I lose sight of the fact
that you can only
repay me in kind
to what I've asked,
but that makes you no less
a complete
bitch
whose envelope is thinner than
rice paper and one who laughs
when I say "how high" and you ask "jump now"
in an inside joke
between you
and the square inch pad of
the contact patch
between you
and our road
is the fact that
when all is said and done
I am the one
who wears the conversation.
Shanice
How good can a rainbow taste
without someone
to taste it with
and compare
notes.
Every time we sit down together
to talk about it we are
twin sided like old coins
in the same pocket and
for every time she wrecks
me there is a time I
pushed so hard she collapsed
and we impasse and I
cry for a mechanism that has given me
more scars than adrenaline, and I
keep at her because I
am so bored with life that
to not continually throw it
to the wind and the pigeons and
every sad whim she is willing to entertain
would be a waste of
the music
Shanice and I can make
together.
So ride.
without someone
to taste it with
and compare
notes.
Every time we sit down together
to talk about it we are
twin sided like old coins
in the same pocket and
for every time she wrecks
me there is a time I
pushed so hard she collapsed
and we impasse and I
cry for a mechanism that has given me
more scars than adrenaline, and I
keep at her because I
am so bored with life that
to not continually throw it
to the wind and the pigeons and
every sad whim she is willing to entertain
would be a waste of
the music
Shanice and I can make
together.
So ride.
Tangibles
We are all hurting
for grip.
Movement is easy
like smoke
appraisal
in bad lighting
that begs for
black and white
filters,
but the core
of the problem
is subject,
object,
relativity and
the heightening
of the link.
Verb like,
but not so nearly
blunt.
for grip.
Movement is easy
like smoke
appraisal
in bad lighting
that begs for
black and white
filters,
but the core
of the problem
is subject,
object,
relativity and
the heightening
of the link.
Verb like,
but not so nearly
blunt.
Lethality
Sings like a blade
and plays like a well tuned guitar.
Full bodied and dancing
where my left and right eyes meet
in spaces near and far.
Falling like stars
dotting well intentions
like serifs on a birth certificate
to make the moment
more significant and less comical.
Sings like a guitar
and plays like a knife
edge on and disappointed
with the fade of initial intensity,
but willing
to go the barred distance
if fingers will
join the contract and
make something beautacious,
wherein is hatched the doldrums of
end credited boredom,
in the mean times.
and plays like a well tuned guitar.
Full bodied and dancing
where my left and right eyes meet
in spaces near and far.
Falling like stars
dotting well intentions
like serifs on a birth certificate
to make the moment
more significant and less comical.
Sings like a guitar
and plays like a knife
edge on and disappointed
with the fade of initial intensity,
but willing
to go the barred distance
if fingers will
join the contract and
make something beautacious,
wherein is hatched the doldrums of
end credited boredom,
in the mean times.
Gathering the Caucus
I have been writing exceptionally detailed notes,
in my opinion,
to myself.
Conscious has been
tenuous
at best, to say nothing
of contiguous.
It is the least I can do
to pass the maps
between our selves
that we might carry on
a conversation
until which time
we cease to be
on second hand speaking terms.
in my opinion,
to myself.
Conscious has been
tenuous
at best, to say nothing
of contiguous.
It is the least I can do
to pass the maps
between our selves
that we might carry on
a conversation
until which time
we cease to be
on second hand speaking terms.
Which Is More Unreasonable (false breast)
That you saw a bird
with feathers taped to feathers
that were the wrong color
and did not laugh
until you cried
because the bartender would refuse to serve you
for being too conscious
or that you saw a bird
with feathers taped to feathers
that were the wrong color
and did not laugh
because you thought the sex would be amazing
instead of self conscious and
sorely vulnerable
on the sort of scale
that makes eye contact afterward
a hazard, at best,
impossible at worst,
or that leaving a home
colored like a kindergartener
with a box of glitter wax sticks, carrot orange,
smoke blue, and nothing else
could be a good idea
in any version of any reality,
if and only
if, you showed enough skin
or that you saw a bird
with feathers purposed and few and
thought that bird
would relinquish his spot
on the high tension lines
with a good view of the sunset
because you're over done plumage
was hard to overlook
for its volume, but not loud enough
to drown out any fraction of
your ear splitting personality?
The answer is:
no, I cannot give you a smoke
because this is the
first of what will be my last nineteen and
I am saving my last one,
all nineteen,
for my invisible friends
who are more real to me
than a significant percentage
of what encompasses you.
with feathers taped to feathers
that were the wrong color
and did not laugh
until you cried
because the bartender would refuse to serve you
for being too conscious
or that you saw a bird
with feathers taped to feathers
that were the wrong color
and did not laugh
because you thought the sex would be amazing
instead of self conscious and
sorely vulnerable
on the sort of scale
that makes eye contact afterward
a hazard, at best,
impossible at worst,
or that leaving a home
colored like a kindergartener
with a box of glitter wax sticks, carrot orange,
smoke blue, and nothing else
could be a good idea
in any version of any reality,
if and only
if, you showed enough skin
or that you saw a bird
with feathers purposed and few and
thought that bird
would relinquish his spot
on the high tension lines
with a good view of the sunset
because you're over done plumage
was hard to overlook
for its volume, but not loud enough
to drown out any fraction of
your ear splitting personality?
The answer is:
no, I cannot give you a smoke
because this is the
first of what will be my last nineteen and
I am saving my last one,
all nineteen,
for my invisible friends
who are more real to me
than a significant percentage
of what encompasses you.
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