Blazon

Shot down
Shot up
With a math
I cannot parse.

Shot down
Shot up
Shooting myself with
Hollow points

Watching the spray
With hollowed eyes
And words
I cannot say.

You know the names
That burn my lips
And still too stilled
I cannot pray.

Sky giants in my skull
Pulled from pages
I cannot review
Because they'll take the bones of my skull
to places from I cannot return.

Where it, wear it, wuz it son?
Come back to me, come back to see
what you dig up from the source.
What is all of us, but suggestion from the core?

Com bat with black on the edge of a wayward soul?
Way-ward sombitch
along the way
to the red that makes a course?

D chord.  Under the sun.
Clouds like breath in Winter.  Too much
makeup on you, on me.  Too much tall grass
for September.
Turn us down.
Save definitely for the Fall.  Right now is
ugly Summer, underdressed and over Seussed.

The Drums Die

She pulled back my headphones
while the wind was roaring,
my eyes in my notebook,
to tell me what I cannot remember.
Strands of her hair blew
into my mouth.
I crushed the can in my hand
a little,
her hand cupped to my ear
so I would not miss a word.

I put down my notebook and stood up.
She took my hand to the edge of the rooftop.
Below us, all along the curb,
turn signals, and tail lights, and glass
shone in the sunlight like jaw breakers
blown apart from a kicked in machine.
My fingers in hers, palms beaming.
My eyes grin
her mouth nods back     I know.

Stray Cats

Come and gone through screen doors,
ain't seen you since... where's my calendar.
Kicking the butts of your cigarettes off of my porch,
sun and the moon up at once.

The hound across the street is baying
the way she always does.

Leafing through the mail
where is my nail clipper?
Momma used to clean them out with a little hook thingy.

I chewed them some last night.
Stay on the ball.  Dad used to do hand gestures,
rub his fingers, pointer to thumb, and point
at my eyes
and it meant "Pay, see pay?  Okay?  So, pay.  Got it? Alright,
pay attention!"
At least that's what he would say.

I cannot remember the last time I clipped them,
but I do know how iffy that gunk is and the hit or miss taste
and so I chew them some more
sight on contrast
nail to white envelope crease, thumbing through.

Nothing good comes by post
these days.  Coffee steam is more beautiful come winter
out of doors.  A short trip, but a trip nonetheless
to see sunlit clouds and contrails.
Why didn't you call me?

Kicking your cigarette butts off my porch
the letters from bill collectors go back in the box
and I stretch,
rub my eyes,
and wake up for you,
wherever you are.