Sing me home
beneath the sun.
The kid comes swiftly,
cradled until he can go again.
Humming back and running
my thumb along the hairs of an eyebrow.
Lips pressed to lashes
left and then right.
Count the number and quantify
the hairs at the small of his neck
to remember
the next time he walks
through the front door.
Tongue slips
offense.
Crank! Sing me home.
Earlobes graze and
embers tell his tale.
Forgotten you. Forgotten me.
We are the same.
"Have you missed me?"
"No."
"I have missed you."
Bring about the death of a galaxy
with one word.
Please don't run away this time.
original works of parts
KNDY XGIA XOXO
Spring shuts its filthy mouth. Two ton Winter blows away. In the heat of the sun, wishing for some glasses. It radiates and I am searching for my sound. The continents and ocean and working with a moon. That enormous citrus rose rises. Try to slip the heap of shoulder from the grill before it all tastes like murder. The circle rises and legends are made. The snow beard jackals yawn on.
The hillsides are melting. Icicles meters long are falling. Down river the fish the mammals the mixes the hexes the rexes the river monsters and the math that convexes the surface of the waves to make me crave the idea that maybe the next thing my line might find is a thing that goes bump in the night. Time falls later in the face of gaining an hour. Tossed into a tiny lake of disputable depth.
Charges go off and the sea flexes and winks back. When I was young we used to have this thing where I would jump off of the porch and whomever lands furthest wins. Are silly. Did it ever occur to you that God was depressed? Dance in the moonlight and embrace a noogie. Makesit, we have to revise and tear down the entire operation. Sixty sixty will be a good day to die. With. Lulz
in the waves. Did not come here to see you. Walked out to a coast to see them. Robots may win eventually. The waves will come with less frequency. Is a myth difficult to dispel. Summer altogether. A perfect world is voided Summer. Makes peace with no one. Solution could be a nuclear snow. Is possibly the greatest thing I've ever
seen a ghost?
The hillsides are melting. Icicles meters long are falling. Down river the fish the mammals the mixes the hexes the rexes the river monsters and the math that convexes the surface of the waves to make me crave the idea that maybe the next thing my line might find is a thing that goes bump in the night. Time falls later in the face of gaining an hour. Tossed into a tiny lake of disputable depth.
Charges go off and the sea flexes and winks back. When I was young we used to have this thing where I would jump off of the porch and whomever lands furthest wins. Are silly. Did it ever occur to you that God was depressed? Dance in the moonlight and embrace a noogie. Makesit, we have to revise and tear down the entire operation. Sixty sixty will be a good day to die. With. Lulz
in the waves. Did not come here to see you. Walked out to a coast to see them. Robots may win eventually. The waves will come with less frequency. Is a myth difficult to dispel. Summer altogether. A perfect world is voided Summer. Makes peace with no one. Solution could be a nuclear snow. Is possibly the greatest thing I've ever
seen a ghost?
The Man Who Walked with a Cane and a Smile
"What do you mean you cannot whistle?
What do you mean you cannot swim?
What do you mean you cannot stand?
What do you mean you cannot write left-handed?
What do you mean you cannot sleep?
What do you mean you cannot walk?
What do you mean you cannot paint?
What do you mean you cannot see?
What do you mean you cannot snap?"
Tire the explanations that all seep from one.
"Anyone can if they work at it long.
Everyone can if they are willing
to leave their comfort zone,
to give up blood and sweat,
to think outside of their box,
to believe in themselves,
to accept help from others,
to trust in those around them,
to fight for what they want,
to dare and follow through!"
Tire the explanations that all seep from one.
Not all life is a choice made or not,
an action taken or not,
a day seized or not.
Some are missing fingers,
some are blind, some have damaged nerves,
a single hand, a single eye, weakened bones,
malformed cells, malformed minds,
prosthetics in their design, outside
and within.
"What do you mean you cannot?
Man up! Get out there!
What are you afraid of!
Have faith in yourself!
Let me help you help yourself!
All you have to do is try!"
Tire of stating the explanation
that has been a bane of life for decades,
reminded each time asked then blamed
for being unable. Disabled. Absurd. Pathetic.
Sickened by the carousel loop.
Hope in a next life to be born without legs instead
to maybe bear a little less scorn.
What do you mean you cannot swim?
What do you mean you cannot stand?
What do you mean you cannot write left-handed?
What do you mean you cannot sleep?
What do you mean you cannot walk?
What do you mean you cannot paint?
What do you mean you cannot see?
What do you mean you cannot snap?"
Tire the explanations that all seep from one.
"Anyone can if they work at it long.
Everyone can if they are willing
to leave their comfort zone,
to give up blood and sweat,
to think outside of their box,
to believe in themselves,
to accept help from others,
to trust in those around them,
to fight for what they want,
to dare and follow through!"
Tire the explanations that all seep from one.
Not all life is a choice made or not,
an action taken or not,
a day seized or not.
Some are missing fingers,
some are blind, some have damaged nerves,
a single hand, a single eye, weakened bones,
malformed cells, malformed minds,
prosthetics in their design, outside
and within.
"What do you mean you cannot?
Man up! Get out there!
What are you afraid of!
Have faith in yourself!
Let me help you help yourself!
All you have to do is try!"
Tire of stating the explanation
that has been a bane of life for decades,
reminded each time asked then blamed
for being unable. Disabled. Absurd. Pathetic.
Sickened by the carousel loop.
Hope in a next life to be born without legs instead
to maybe bear a little less scorn.
Wintershine
Sun salutation begins without shades.
Hair fallen in to pools of rust catalyst,
coolant, hydraulic drips, and dust.
Sweater oil saturated
from months of curbs and slush,
the weeds are sprouting now.
Dry asphalt and breeze dries dripping nose,
in the shade it is still cold.
The fused bolt lets go with a bark.
Fingers spasm. Throb and lock
around the wrench's shaft. Breath and spit,
rust dust, and rubber grounds flecks hit lips.
Groan. Groans. Together. "The river
never froze and may never again,"
said Chibup to Westir (the two seagulls
that always perch atop the two lamp-posts
at the pier walk);
overheard, but not dictated.
Sneeze hard enough to bang forehead
loud enough to get the neighbors dog woofing.
The clock answers both the same,
a pendulous and deep chime.
Hands faster. No mosquitoes, yet.
Everything is easier in reverse.
Is that Mars? Venus? Helicopter.
The sun settles in for dinner. Time to leave.
The torque wrench clicks,
muscles burn in a heat
Spring promises will come.
Glow in the dusk, the bolt, the movement,
the wrench chirp and click of Summer crickets.
Hair fallen in to pools of rust catalyst,
coolant, hydraulic drips, and dust.
Sweater oil saturated
from months of curbs and slush,
the weeds are sprouting now.
Dry asphalt and breeze dries dripping nose,
in the shade it is still cold.
The fused bolt lets go with a bark.
Fingers spasm. Throb and lock
around the wrench's shaft. Breath and spit,
rust dust, and rubber grounds flecks hit lips.
Groan. Groans. Together. "The river
never froze and may never again,"
said Chibup to Westir (the two seagulls
that always perch atop the two lamp-posts
at the pier walk);
overheard, but not dictated.
Sneeze hard enough to bang forehead
loud enough to get the neighbors dog woofing.
The clock answers both the same,
a pendulous and deep chime.
Hands faster. No mosquitoes, yet.
Everything is easier in reverse.
Is that Mars? Venus? Helicopter.
The sun settles in for dinner. Time to leave.
The torque wrench clicks,
muscles burn in a heat
Spring promises will come.
Glow in the dusk, the bolt, the movement,
the wrench chirp and click of Summer crickets.
Daydream
Laughter drowns headphones.
Pause in the crosswalk.
Eyes glued to contrails
lancing through
Winter sky;
clouds of black and Black and Milds
pull a rip chord.
Oncoming bus. Four door people mover
in the opposing lane. Move!
Sidewalk.
Horn!
Pause in the crosswalk.
Eyes glued to contrails
lancing through
Winter sky;
clouds of black and Black and Milds
pull a rip chord.
Oncoming bus. Four door people mover
in the opposing lane. Move!
Sidewalk.
Horn!
Can You Hear It
The French Horns and Trombone
carrying over the wood tops
while you poke a twig near the river.
Between the tiny frog burps and the cricket
wings chirp. The sun came up again.
Fool on you. Tasting the droplet,
put fingertips in pocket. Dream about
the flutes are going with a timpani
a dragonfly takes a picture of the
hues of green reflected in the stream
and all above
snare drowns out a harp.
Electric guitar fires up
a few hillocks away from here,
but loud enough to sing along.
Sing along if you'd like
to
like
like to.
Days and years and a few
long blinks.
A cymbal does its best to crash.
A fire does its best to belch up ash,
while a flask is emptied. A top its head.
The stars look a bit a clearer now
with the sounds of laughter
and running dogs without leashes.
The weather's been funny,
I don't know how
anyone manages to sleep these days
before Spring hits full swing.
I thought we had a thing, you know,
A snowman building contest.
Or at least an open skate.
The breezes taste long and
the air is wet.
Thunder and lightning came back to bed.
The river won't freeze and just like that
Winter is over.
carrying over the wood tops
while you poke a twig near the river.
Between the tiny frog burps and the cricket
wings chirp. The sun came up again.
Fool on you. Tasting the droplet,
put fingertips in pocket. Dream about
the flutes are going with a timpani
a dragonfly takes a picture of the
hues of green reflected in the stream
and all above
snare drowns out a harp.
Electric guitar fires up
a few hillocks away from here,
but loud enough to sing along.
Sing along if you'd like
to
like
like to.
Days and years and a few
long blinks.
A cymbal does its best to crash.
A fire does its best to belch up ash,
while a flask is emptied. A top its head.
The stars look a bit a clearer now
with the sounds of laughter
and running dogs without leashes.
The weather's been funny,
I don't know how
anyone manages to sleep these days
before Spring hits full swing.
I thought we had a thing, you know,
A snowman building contest.
Or at least an open skate.
The breezes taste long and
the air is wet.
Thunder and lightning came back to bed.
The river won't freeze and just like that
Winter is over.
Smoker 50
Sorting through old scans of saved photographs
to see if my teeth will end up exact copies
of my father's. He had his wisdom teeth removed
I think? On his own dental plan. Did he have them done
before his 31st birthday? Maybe not. Never came up.
I may keep my hair. Maybe not.
Murderers row. My mustache is growing
up in to my nostrils. Stop doing that! Stick scissor tip
inside to clip. Blunt. Pick! Rip! Red drip follicle
dangle mirror twitch. What are you doing up there?
Make me sneeze. Papertowel, teary eyed. Faucet, hot
then cold.
The photos are of a person I wish I could
know, until they are not. Ember dies in a can's lid.
Breath in again. Have not slept right since
that bubble popped.
Why not acknowledge imperfection? Embrace him?
Fly a flag against the wind? To what end?
I will never understand,
though corneas dry at room temperature,
eyelids strain,
and rain dots cheek
for peering into memory's river banks.
to see if my teeth will end up exact copies
of my father's. He had his wisdom teeth removed
I think? On his own dental plan. Did he have them done
before his 31st birthday? Maybe not. Never came up.
I may keep my hair. Maybe not.
Murderers row. My mustache is growing
up in to my nostrils. Stop doing that! Stick scissor tip
inside to clip. Blunt. Pick! Rip! Red drip follicle
dangle mirror twitch. What are you doing up there?
Make me sneeze. Papertowel, teary eyed. Faucet, hot
then cold.
The photos are of a person I wish I could
know, until they are not. Ember dies in a can's lid.
Breath in again. Have not slept right since
that bubble popped.
Why not acknowledge imperfection? Embrace him?
Fly a flag against the wind? To what end?
I will never understand,
though corneas dry at room temperature,
eyelids strain,
and rain dots cheek
for peering into memory's river banks.
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