Theoretics

My tongue has always responded
more amply to the geometric,
more sanguine and short lived
to the organic
feel of anything and every last thing.

Interpretation whipping like fly
fishing and higher strung, inside, for the
tail of the line than the hook,
winged and flashing, into water.

All the same,
it would be nice
to eat tonight.

Adventure Quest In Midnight D

Scatter brained and in love,
the click track of free wheels side by side by side,
and his cigarette embers whipping by
fireflied.  The head wind is tailing
East to West since the sun went down
and pedaling up hill West to East to take in
the hill top skyline hours and a six pack ago
was a stroke of brilliance.
The streets are drizzle shined and twinkling
red, our tail lights blinking and crossing
dashed whites and double yellows.
Profundity is a deck of cards and a razor blade
and a white jacket with a busted zipper.
She's belting Nirvana
almost to the point where we can bang
every stop light in a row and I'm swinging out front
to hear the words carry
and throw my rooster tail into the street light glow.
Cutting and diving,
dividing what little
traffic there is between our spinning wheels,
we sing like sidewalk chalk
in hands so small they were easy to forget.
The hills roll back,
the starred sky unrolls before,
and where have we been
all of our lives?
Tenements rise like black dragon jaws as we tilt
along the banks of street rivers and banners,
splitting the clouds like rocket propelled arrow shafts.
He whistles along, not far behind, as we
loop, remixed and tight to frames.
Three shades of knight, he, she and I,
wayfarers together,
never to meet again,
but until never comes to pass,
we are three Summer bombers
at war, in full dive,
knives out, with enough wind noise to make
a heart stand still,
or make a lifetime of sixty seconds:
pure downhill.

At The Table

I will admit that it's difficult sometimes
to say.  There is no way to parlay
your hand into a straight flush, but there's also
no rule that says
you can't
flip
the
table,
gun down security,
and bolt for the door.
I will admit, sometimes,
that it's difficult
to be happy go lucky
when you'd rather bet on a half full cup
being half empty.
When the best thing ever
would be a push.
I will admit that it is hard
I will admit that someone has to pay,
but I will also submit that the distance is far
and between here and now are many days.

Baseball Casual

I've got my swing down
and that counts for something.

Worked my way up
to the bat that I wanted to swing.

That is the easy part because
it holds true:

you can teach a batter to field,
but you can't teach a fielder to hit.

Spots on a Canvas

Slow Sunday goes slow.
Slow in the rivers and
slow in the beds,
slow to feel the shivers and
slow to feel the head.
This is not my hand,
that is not my face.
Every last thing
photographic in its right place.

It's hard to stir.  It's hard to stir.
Who are you and who am I and
where are we and exactly who died?

Comfort over histories I can't remember
that drew us, so exact, and so together, but
now we are apart again
by the force of eyelids
muscled away from dreams and
the seems are busting
with little grace and I would pay you
if it meant I could recall your face.

I can't so I will not and I will
see you later
when you have more money and
the week is closer to ending
the six day tirade.

I love you.  For the same reason.
Sundays.  Let's put on our faces
and go out.