The wind kicks my coat wide
like shutters before a saloon's entryway.
There's enough sand in my eyebrows
to make a snake's belly itch & I spit hard.
Half to clear the grit
from the space between my lips.
Half to clear my disgust
at the pale & shallow earth that lies ahead of me.
original works of parts
Smoker 6 (for my best mate, Jack)
They dismantled the carousel
with the cheese grater platform
and rusting willow bent arms.
They replaced it with a rubberized purple thing
shaped like a cross and mounted on springs.
It doesn't turn about. It is no safer.
I cranked it clockwise till my sneakers slipped
in the flat and sharp and splintered wood chips
and let it go. It cracked the neck clear off my empty beer bottle
in a shower of green bits and noise you would have yelled at me for.
I sit on the purple idiot proof machine and
the spins close in regardless. I'm lying on the ground
and I can barely see, in my fish eye, the tips of the trees
edging the soccer fields where you used to get lost while I spun myself senseless.
The clouds are gentle as they rotate about my field of view and my cheek prickles
in the breeze and I remember the feel of your fur
when I carried you home after long romps in the park
in your breathless, enthusiastic, and twilight years.
Fear of Flying
You mentioned how the world felt
ten pounds lighter
and the sun shone brighter
and whether you were right or
your soul was bursting through
at the cracks like a loose flame
from your human furnace
before failed containment
turned you into a wasteland
I saw through the grates
of your dimming and thinning eyes
the part of you that starved away
and shed its countering weight.
ten pounds lighter
and the sun shone brighter
and whether you were right or
your soul was bursting through
at the cracks like a loose flame
from your human furnace
before failed containment
turned you into a wasteland
I saw through the grates
of your dimming and thinning eyes
the part of you that starved away
and shed its countering weight.
Ace of Spades
We're playing cards
in the spokes of hand me downs
with flat tires
and chittering chattering
grit tightened chains
rusted, but still good
enough to propel us
better than the talking soles of shoes
worn thin and happy and thinner.
We're split ends where
the wax paper skins
have given way
and we're loud and louder than
the sticks we prick in chinks of link
fence work.
Louder still than the rattle tap of corrugated
steel bordering the wreck yards
and collectors and as we
pedal long through dark and darkness
fixed in place
with tape and style and more verve
than chipping paint can belie
we shine harder
than moonlight.
in the spokes of hand me downs
with flat tires
and chittering chattering
grit tightened chains
rusted, but still good
enough to propel us
better than the talking soles of shoes
worn thin and happy and thinner.
We're split ends where
the wax paper skins
have given way
and we're loud and louder than
the sticks we prick in chinks of link
fence work.
Louder still than the rattle tap of corrugated
steel bordering the wreck yards
and collectors and as we
pedal long through dark and darkness
fixed in place
with tape and style and more verve
than chipping paint can belie
we shine harder
than moonlight.
Formula Drift
I'm licking my teeth
and the expanse of carpet
between us
is skipping by leaps and bounds
around the mulberry bush
where the monkey chastens the weasel
and our hands, joined on the stem
of smokeware
are like a left and right
half of some kind of
vector diagram's
attempt to explain Pointilism
through a tie in to
the Large Hadron Collider
and the laughter
slapping the back of my head
like a baby's ass to a giggle track
on an early evening show begging
for a profitable demographic
isn't the bubble
burble
pop
and sizzle of pearls of wisdom
to a frying pan of woes
as much as it is
a salamander clinging molecule to molecule
nerve to vibrating yard of fat cased and stupeffectedly tense
nerve
to the sole of my foot and the knowing
that if i ever put that foot down
it will be very
very
messy
and I'd rather it happened
away from your recording eye.
and the expanse of carpet
between us
is skipping by leaps and bounds
around the mulberry bush
where the monkey chastens the weasel
and our hands, joined on the stem
of smokeware
are like a left and right
half of some kind of
vector diagram's
attempt to explain Pointilism
through a tie in to
the Large Hadron Collider
and the laughter
slapping the back of my head
like a baby's ass to a giggle track
on an early evening show begging
for a profitable demographic
isn't the bubble
burble
pop
and sizzle of pearls of wisdom
to a frying pan of woes
as much as it is
a salamander clinging molecule to molecule
nerve to vibrating yard of fat cased and stupeffectedly tense
nerve
to the sole of my foot and the knowing
that if i ever put that foot down
it will be very
very
messy
and I'd rather it happened
away from your recording eye.
Before the Outing
My boots are resting easy
on a thin layer of rot and fragrance
and soft bodied brown whispers of apple cores
at the foot of the bowing water logged planks of the front porch.
The orange and red and
crinkle edged leaves the trees shed
are still crunchy despite a weeks worth of rain
that fell two nights ago and from where I stand they are mosaic.
My hands are naked and cold
in the crowded pouches of my vest as
I watch the little souls of my breaths thin in air
that retains its dusk despite terry cloths and coffee and good hash.
Considering slipping my fingers
into the thick down of gloves gifted I am
reminded of my father's words from older days
about how the best way to kill a mosquito is to wait for it to land.
I leave my prickling iced hands
where they are and the thought of him
warms me as much as the day I realized too much
oil can foul a mechanism's function much worse than no oil at all.
My son's bedroom lamp is
still unlit and Enfield upon my shoulder
I begin the sweet and airy walk without him knowing
my disappointment is not with him, but with the end of a season.
on a thin layer of rot and fragrance
and soft bodied brown whispers of apple cores
at the foot of the bowing water logged planks of the front porch.
The orange and red and
crinkle edged leaves the trees shed
are still crunchy despite a weeks worth of rain
that fell two nights ago and from where I stand they are mosaic.
My hands are naked and cold
in the crowded pouches of my vest as
I watch the little souls of my breaths thin in air
that retains its dusk despite terry cloths and coffee and good hash.
Considering slipping my fingers
into the thick down of gloves gifted I am
reminded of my father's words from older days
about how the best way to kill a mosquito is to wait for it to land.
I leave my prickling iced hands
where they are and the thought of him
warms me as much as the day I realized too much
oil can foul a mechanism's function much worse than no oil at all.
My son's bedroom lamp is
still unlit and Enfield upon my shoulder
I begin the sweet and airy walk without him knowing
my disappointment is not with him, but with the end of a season.
Dead Air
Energy drinks to stay awake
and do nothing until sunrise
aside from laying skin cells
into the seat of a desk chair
with 1970s ergonomics in mind
so that I can spend the day
with my eyes closed
roaming an apartment building
occupied by friends
I haven't seen in years
while they pour pitchers of beer
from bathroom sinks and
play the games we had in common
before we had separate lives
so that I don't have to
talk to myself
surrounded by daytime strangers
The idea was good
the execution was sound,
but 10:30 a.m.
still makes the rounds
and razor blade in my right hand
unsteadied by sleepless nights
I'm stripping light gauge wire
to fly an antenna kite
with the end strung to a receiver
I found at a sale of antiques
to help me make sense of white noise,
but mostly to hear purpose speak.
and do nothing until sunrise
aside from laying skin cells
into the seat of a desk chair
with 1970s ergonomics in mind
so that I can spend the day
with my eyes closed
roaming an apartment building
occupied by friends
I haven't seen in years
while they pour pitchers of beer
from bathroom sinks and
play the games we had in common
before we had separate lives
so that I don't have to
talk to myself
surrounded by daytime strangers
The idea was good
the execution was sound,
but 10:30 a.m.
still makes the rounds
and razor blade in my right hand
unsteadied by sleepless nights
I'm stripping light gauge wire
to fly an antenna kite
with the end strung to a receiver
I found at a sale of antiques
to help me make sense of white noise,
but mostly to hear purpose speak.
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