I've been down
several rabbit holes that lead nowhere.
Gone and come up in the same field of thoughts
surrounded by the same trees and sun,
the same faces
that smile at my dirty knickers
dirty elbows and little bits of
found things I pocketed along the way
that sparkled in the low light and no light
or were sharp enough to prick notice
in the little quests for depth.
They all keep leading
back to the surface and
I am beginning to wonder
why the other animals keep sharing the same stories
when I empty my pockets and explain
the wow of where and what and
I'm starting to believe
they like to hear me laugh and smile
as much as I keep prompting them
to tell me about the things
that keep them above ground
that I have not seen.
Or maybe I'm not a rabbit at all.
Maybe I am a ground hog.
And every day I come out through beads of morning grass
is an entry into the same day I left and
memory of the passage
is only what I've pocketed
in bits of tin, bent plates, and spider legged dreams.
So I'll count them
turn them over and poke them in the sun and listen
to their dots of clinking punctuation
around the words I try to dig up
beneath the storied fields
in which you lie.
original works of parts
Just a Quote 2
"You are only as great
as winningest
as you set your mind and your actions to be
on a daily, perhaps hourly, basis.
Thus and only thus
will you impact your fellow man
in the ways that will remember you
as, not simply good,
but a great human being"
credit -- some guy
who is growing physically ill
from the number of quotes
his peers post
to the social media he chose to be a part of
from writers they may never have read
in contexts he may never be able to imagine
and for reasons he would,
knowing what little he does of them,
rather not belabor his head to understand.
as winningest
as you set your mind and your actions to be
on a daily, perhaps hourly, basis.
Thus and only thus
will you impact your fellow man
in the ways that will remember you
as, not simply good,
but a great human being"
credit -- some guy
who is growing physically ill
from the number of quotes
his peers post
to the social media he chose to be a part of
from writers they may never have read
in contexts he may never be able to imagine
and for reasons he would,
knowing what little he does of them,
rather not belabor his head to understand.
Conversation
Do not mind me
gnawing on the toe of your boot
for all I and my little teeth are worth
because I do not get to see many visitors
and when I do
I am prone
to acts
of embarrassing enthusiasm.
gnawing on the toe of your boot
for all I and my little teeth are worth
because I do not get to see many visitors
and when I do
I am prone
to acts
of embarrassing enthusiasm.
Nest
I've been watching your hair
shift and stuck with sand from the ocean.
The strands smell like
the fresh showers we didn't take and
the exhalations of rain drops
that sighed by the thousands
on their time out clouds miles to the East
while you sunned and I
worried my body in the surf
that chased the air right out of my lungs
with cold pinchy proddy fingers.
This is not fun. The watching, though, is.
Watching the shadows of your dreams turn
like minnows
against the slashing inks of your hair.
Press upright and watch
the veins stand hard
against the red brown skin of my arm.
Shedding the crush and shuffle of sheets
that fold lazy wrong seamed white paper origami
unless properly encouraged
with stern slaps.
I do not try to stretch in the mornings.
There is nothing sporting coming and
I am as uncrumpled as I was
when I lay down.
I bought cheese cloth. It was on sale.
I have been thinking to make breakfast
since the sun dropped by and left.
Things to do. Places to be and all that.
Little hash brown nests with some bits of cheese
hiding in the crisp stabs of dry brushed
sandy brown and tan like little memories
inside little ship wrecks atop little coral reefs of eggs.
shift and stuck with sand from the ocean.
The strands smell like
the fresh showers we didn't take and
the exhalations of rain drops
that sighed by the thousands
on their time out clouds miles to the East
while you sunned and I
worried my body in the surf
that chased the air right out of my lungs
with cold pinchy proddy fingers.
This is not fun. The watching, though, is.
Watching the shadows of your dreams turn
like minnows
against the slashing inks of your hair.
Press upright and watch
the veins stand hard
against the red brown skin of my arm.
Shedding the crush and shuffle of sheets
that fold lazy wrong seamed white paper origami
unless properly encouraged
with stern slaps.
I do not try to stretch in the mornings.
There is nothing sporting coming and
I am as uncrumpled as I was
when I lay down.
I bought cheese cloth. It was on sale.
I have been thinking to make breakfast
since the sun dropped by and left.
Things to do. Places to be and all that.
Little hash brown nests with some bits of cheese
hiding in the crisp stabs of dry brushed
sandy brown and tan like little memories
inside little ship wrecks atop little coral reefs of eggs.
Downrange
Shots fired. Saturday night.
I heard them and thought
fireworks did not sound nearly
as innocuous.
I wondered briefly
where you were and if
you heard guns go off
on the weekends
in the odd hours I used to spend
avoiding seeing you and
cutting up with the friends
you were right about.
I heard them and thought
you would be happy to know
I'm not out there anymore.
I'm in here. Taking shots.
Trying to fall asleep
against the baying sirens
that tell me something is wrong
something is off, but never exactly what.
I heard them and thought
fireworks did not sound nearly
as innocuous.
I wondered briefly
where you were and if
you heard guns go off
on the weekends
in the odd hours I used to spend
avoiding seeing you and
cutting up with the friends
you were right about.
I heard them and thought
you would be happy to know
I'm not out there anymore.
I'm in here. Taking shots.
Trying to fall asleep
against the baying sirens
that tell me something is wrong
something is off, but never exactly what.
Ever Been to Torrenby?
I've been told the streets in Torrenby
were laid by the Romans
while the locals were still being suppressed
by torch and knife and currency.
They never paved them with asphalt
as a tribute to the thousand year history of
civilization and progress and
the oil pearl inspiration
that glows on the corners of fitted stone
in the fog hilt hours of questioning night.
The church bells in Torrenby
were made by 20th century monks
who took vows of silence, but really
sought a new way of free speech
when the King's English failed them.
A clever bunch. Like living lines of poetry
they pursued many things
before reality caught up and
bombed the towers flat.
They're restorations. Good ones.
The canals though, they are genuine, but
to be perfectly clear
in ways the evening air is
so often not in Torrenby
it would not matter whose note it was
touching your ear or the heart's sound chamber inside;
if you sat on the stone wall along King's Bridge and
looked down at the spilled necklaces of moonlight
along the cobble stones. The words of
every love letter, every war hymn, every prayer and
every sweetly damned man to ever
feel their god desert or their love return
arm in arm with another
to the smudge, to the way point of Torrenby,
would come to your eyes like
stars spat across the sky
from the mouth of a freshwater whale
old and full up with enough of history's drifting life
to live a thousand years more
without taking another breath
and that is the worth of knowing
the feel of the rounded stone streets
against the soul and soles of restless feet.
were laid by the Romans
while the locals were still being suppressed
by torch and knife and currency.
They never paved them with asphalt
as a tribute to the thousand year history of
civilization and progress and
the oil pearl inspiration
that glows on the corners of fitted stone
in the fog hilt hours of questioning night.
The church bells in Torrenby
were made by 20th century monks
who took vows of silence, but really
sought a new way of free speech
when the King's English failed them.
A clever bunch. Like living lines of poetry
they pursued many things
before reality caught up and
bombed the towers flat.
They're restorations. Good ones.
The canals though, they are genuine, but
to be perfectly clear
in ways the evening air is
so often not in Torrenby
it would not matter whose note it was
touching your ear or the heart's sound chamber inside;
if you sat on the stone wall along King's Bridge and
looked down at the spilled necklaces of moonlight
along the cobble stones. The words of
every love letter, every war hymn, every prayer and
every sweetly damned man to ever
feel their god desert or their love return
arm in arm with another
to the smudge, to the way point of Torrenby,
would come to your eyes like
stars spat across the sky
from the mouth of a freshwater whale
old and full up with enough of history's drifting life
to live a thousand years more
without taking another breath
and that is the worth of knowing
the feel of the rounded stone streets
against the soul and soles of restless feet.
Up Tick
Tonight is another story.
By morning I was
a thing of harmony
challenged by no one
short of Leonard Bernstein.
I was
so fucking agreeable and
music for days
longer than the longest monologue of
loathing and high spun fear.
Tonight is another story.
By morning I was
a thing of harmony
challenged by no one
short of Leonard Bernstein.
I was
so fucking agreeable and
music for days
longer than the longest monologue of
loathing and high spun fear.
Tonight is another story.
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