The Grandeur

someNever did I lie,
never did I I ever and ever
start as one.  Spit a few
and make curfew
I had another to make
a few others to lamb make
but could it be that the game was on us?
One timers'
old timers
get timely, old shimely
things rhymly, words that start sharply
made up old school, whine lightly,
sometimes old things rhightly
one two tooth things
old things
new things
body fix, bidy fix,'
Did yo u e er y es.

The Ghost Mission

Wandering is a bad word.
Searching too.
Walking
is under appreciated.
You've seen me before
at odd hours, know it or
up to nothing in particular.
The man inside the hat, rain or shine.
Say hello.  Strike
conversation.
We've places to be and things to new,
not really.  That is a beautiful umbrella.
Her bag was full,
but did not break despite corners and weights,
measures of.  Big plans.  He tripped
on the iron caps of gasoline tank feed caps and
hex
bolts on his way toward
overdrawn ATM slips.
I've not got a light tonight.  Sorry, hon'.
You've caught me in the middle of an operation.
Bad timing, but I will apologize last and
tip my imaginary hat
with real fingers and whistle out
the last lines of the song your heart sang
out of respect before I walk into the rain.
The meeting, that one, was nice.
All the best to you
or something like that.

Hot Ears

There is a thing to be said over the heat
felt along the neck
that creeps up crossed against
the back of the head.
Fans against the backs of the ears,
blooming into fingertips.
The heat that says
plus one
please.

Ode to Havoc

You can take this fortress but my heart is still in space.
You can decimate my body but my mind will stay unchained.
You don't want my words, but you wish a smile on my face.
You don't want memory, but you want to love the place.
My eyes in your palm, but in them there is no gaze.

Someone once told me I was not so cruel.
Someone once told me I was God's white hot tool.

In the pool of where ends make means
and every last fish is what makes a school,
I was happy to wear a face, more than happy
to play a fool.  And I still do/am what I am want to do.
I cannot always speak for me and you know
I cannot speak for you.  What I am

is a collection, poured gasoline on a lid.
What I am is a thought and a becoming bid.
I am not a man, but I am also not a kid.
A fat lip and black eye and no one did
to the "whodunnit" for as long as I live.

There were shootouts in other states,
cues at the pearly gates,
all I could think was what I would have for dinner.
I guess some of us are angels and some of us
are bleeding hearts.  Some of us are
chicken shit and some of us are detached parts.

Maladjusted comes up too much
and makes me change gears.
I can take away your doubts,
but I can't take away your fears.
We've gotten too close, but I can't erase
what's near.  You will still be you and I will steel
my heart.  You will still be you and
I will still be me.  I will stay away
where the dark begins and you can have your say.
There is no rewriting, no real artistry
to learning to love red and gold leaves
blown across concrete.

I don't know you anymore
than you will ever know me.
Weather comes and bad weather goes,
but the weathermen do what needs.
You made a war fighter out of a farmer
whose heart will blood red bleed.
The engine will run
until there's no more to feed.

Pour this gasoline on your lid,
I've a back pocket lighter.
Pour this gasoline on your lid,
I saw nothing on the corner.
Pour this gasoline on your lid,
the caucus is in session.
Pour this gasoline on your lid,
with wider eyes.
Pour this gasoline on your lid,
the stars are out tonight.

Little Time

The thermos is steaming.
Shared stories of others go
fast like the westward clouds
above the house, lights too bright,
then too dark, telling by night wink
moon light, and in this house,
with walls like a sieve, it is good
to know the wind is not interested
in low lines and winding drives.
The thermos is steaming,
central heating off because chapped lips
are no one's bag.  Time is small,
thoughts large.  Simple and bragging
other days into sculptures.  A museum
begins as talk catches.
Lounging in lion arms,
Roman crowns, Greek wonders,
snow flecked "I thought you died"s
and spectacle adjustment worthy blunders.
The thermos is still steaming.
Bread broken in the mean times,
the good times too.  Where did the day go?
Tomorrow is beautiful, a blind date and stat
sheet.  Underneath, the little times
spent.