Searching for a scheme to rhyme the night
and find a step to follow each step
becoming the first to strike the face of
star and cloud stippled puddles and its all
so awkward
like white wainscot knee high
along the outside of the repurposed bank
housing a wheelchair rental depot
that's been closed for as long as
the brick work poking through unmended asphalt
where the lights flash out of sequence
can remember.
Squirrels are jumping, still, from power line to power line
feeding dead eyed low rises
and the walk is done
damn near religiously, but God
seems concerned only with bringing
more rain to wash away the little heaps
of black ink bled pennysaver pages
clinging wads of toilet paper in
a public bathroom.
It strikes in the drum bitten taps
of scattered water beneath shoe flats
that what captures the best of emotion
is often the least concerned with
times expected delivery of a word like another
and concern slivers and wears thin and gone
beneath the importance of the search
for her own sake and
in those wind blown, but not beaten minutes
alone on streets left behind there can be felt
loss and found sounds to describe
what is licking at a heart
and it is all coming together
and all so very
very awkward.
original works of parts
Smoker 11
Bar tops can be cold things
though their grain is warm with polish
and spilled feelings.
My elbows find some comfort
where my gullet still looks
for air like a fish run out of water
by his own distaste for fellows.
The knock of stool tops against the flat
reminds me of how things can vibrate
hard enough to jar change
in a pocket
when their empty.
Your wooden words have a lot in common
with my wooden feelings for you.
They'll both burn easily
with a decent spark
and since we need the varnish
and the whorls beneath us
to keep this thing going
we might as well start a fire
with what we can afford to spare.
though their grain is warm with polish
and spilled feelings.
My elbows find some comfort
where my gullet still looks
for air like a fish run out of water
by his own distaste for fellows.
The knock of stool tops against the flat
reminds me of how things can vibrate
hard enough to jar change
in a pocket
when their empty.
Your wooden words have a lot in common
with my wooden feelings for you.
They'll both burn easily
with a decent spark
and since we need the varnish
and the whorls beneath us
to keep this thing going
we might as well start a fire
with what we can afford to spare.
Prince Valiant
The sun is blowing burled gold horn beams
through crossed sky finger's knit knobbed cold
and though joints crack in bedding unrolled
the waking is easy with the day's slate clean.
Shoes lace and tie off quickly in smoke motes
over feet and bent knees at mattress edge
and a cracked leather wallet waits on window ledge
to join well worn jeans, doubled sweater and coat.
The ashtray hisses and a thought of eggs fade
with the sound of key to a deadbolts teeth
and a back turned full to face comfort's thief.
There's a world coming to and plans to be laid,
there are deadlines to meet and needs to be paid
dragons to slay and stores to be razed
by hook or by crook, and by pen or by blade.
The saying goes about boys and pant sleeves
that everyone will spend some time on their knees
getting dirty working the fruit of another man's trees.
But some men are born fed and some men are made.
Today this boy's sword is ready, come what may.
through crossed sky finger's knit knobbed cold
and though joints crack in bedding unrolled
the waking is easy with the day's slate clean.
Shoes lace and tie off quickly in smoke motes
over feet and bent knees at mattress edge
and a cracked leather wallet waits on window ledge
to join well worn jeans, doubled sweater and coat.
The ashtray hisses and a thought of eggs fade
with the sound of key to a deadbolts teeth
and a back turned full to face comfort's thief.
There's a world coming to and plans to be laid,
there are deadlines to meet and needs to be paid
dragons to slay and stores to be razed
by hook or by crook, and by pen or by blade.
The saying goes about boys and pant sleeves
that everyone will spend some time on their knees
getting dirty working the fruit of another man's trees.
But some men are born fed and some men are made.
Today this boy's sword is ready, come what may.
Thread Knot
The space between sleep and awareness is occupied. I've been told. Without cite seen by the family dentist. And questioned about. Roundly off heard and put. My eyes are telling him tube in mouth. She's pinching her buck. As not to take me to the physician. Who will know less. About who's in my mind. Smashing out the windows.
Coming in through. Walls like antenna arrays hearing back blips of noise. Into shapes I should know. Or at least recognize. As shadows beneath cloud tops making hand signs. But edge on even letters. Look like the spaces between teeth and I can't help cringing. At the pop of skin. The blunt of bone hammering. Through under that pressure.
Apnea is the medical term for. Money spent and manufactured worry. On her face. Knit up tightly. Beams hilarious off of make up applied thick. Despite a bowl of star shine upended. Down my throat. But he's not. Over weight. Have you thought about a sleep. Studied questions for known answers. No. The taste of blood is soothing.
I'm listening to the pick. And split. Of gum and closing my eyes to bathe better. In the light. Headiness of lamps illuminating. The rooms in the farthest knots of my mind. And over joyed to be able to see the rest of my body and feel. The fireplace of my mouth radiate. Under supervision. The last time I slept. God tried to push me out of my skin. Like garlic through a press.
You know they say. They who are. I saw it on television once. And they had all of these. Xeroxes of diplomas. That if your body falls asleep before your brain. You'll feel trapped. I thought that's what happened when you die. But they say. Vice and verse. Because it doesn't matter. If you don't ever really know. The feeling's acquaintance.
The family dentist agreed. With the first part and. Washed his hands. Again. You should definitely see a specialist. At some point. It sounds normal. I've had people explain that they can't move. At night he should try. To sleep sitting up and see. If it improves at all. As long as it isn't an everyday occurrence I can't imagine. The harm.
Fluorine tastes so warm. I have no attention span. For the diagnostic sparring between them with so few. Points of authority in the doubled heads. And seconds of good sleep beyond spare. I think I slipped from the vice again and only. Just I could feel the weight descending like a forty ton tire. To my shell. Empty lungs can't scream.
Very well. I did. The tube clenched. The dentist pat my sleeping chin. Until I woke and let go. And rinsed. I wonder sometimes. If the hands holding me down in the eve. While things not of day. Pour death into my throat. Like candle wax to surgical tubing. Could be convinced to visit her someday. When no one's around to wake her.
Are you ready to leave. No. But I tell her yes. You should go home and get some rest. I already did. But I tell her yes. We're not going to the physician or anywhere. Else where the cross hatch teflon threads of night's corpse zipper bag cannot reach. And dread pools linger. Pnuemoniac puddles constricting the hours. Until my mind and body race. For unconsciousness.
Coming in through. Walls like antenna arrays hearing back blips of noise. Into shapes I should know. Or at least recognize. As shadows beneath cloud tops making hand signs. But edge on even letters. Look like the spaces between teeth and I can't help cringing. At the pop of skin. The blunt of bone hammering. Through under that pressure.
Apnea is the medical term for. Money spent and manufactured worry. On her face. Knit up tightly. Beams hilarious off of make up applied thick. Despite a bowl of star shine upended. Down my throat. But he's not. Over weight. Have you thought about a sleep. Studied questions for known answers. No. The taste of blood is soothing.
I'm listening to the pick. And split. Of gum and closing my eyes to bathe better. In the light. Headiness of lamps illuminating. The rooms in the farthest knots of my mind. And over joyed to be able to see the rest of my body and feel. The fireplace of my mouth radiate. Under supervision. The last time I slept. God tried to push me out of my skin. Like garlic through a press.
You know they say. They who are. I saw it on television once. And they had all of these. Xeroxes of diplomas. That if your body falls asleep before your brain. You'll feel trapped. I thought that's what happened when you die. But they say. Vice and verse. Because it doesn't matter. If you don't ever really know. The feeling's acquaintance.
The family dentist agreed. With the first part and. Washed his hands. Again. You should definitely see a specialist. At some point. It sounds normal. I've had people explain that they can't move. At night he should try. To sleep sitting up and see. If it improves at all. As long as it isn't an everyday occurrence I can't imagine. The harm.
Fluorine tastes so warm. I have no attention span. For the diagnostic sparring between them with so few. Points of authority in the doubled heads. And seconds of good sleep beyond spare. I think I slipped from the vice again and only. Just I could feel the weight descending like a forty ton tire. To my shell. Empty lungs can't scream.
Very well. I did. The tube clenched. The dentist pat my sleeping chin. Until I woke and let go. And rinsed. I wonder sometimes. If the hands holding me down in the eve. While things not of day. Pour death into my throat. Like candle wax to surgical tubing. Could be convinced to visit her someday. When no one's around to wake her.
Are you ready to leave. No. But I tell her yes. You should go home and get some rest. I already did. But I tell her yes. We're not going to the physician or anywhere. Else where the cross hatch teflon threads of night's corpse zipper bag cannot reach. And dread pools linger. Pnuemoniac puddles constricting the hours. Until my mind and body race. For unconsciousness.
Bought Foodstamps
Honey you're fine as hell too.
It appears someone may or may not have
put out a cigarette on your eyebrow,
but I find it interesting
that I have ten bucks
I said I wanted to spend on food and
you're offering to
sell me your foodstamps and
a blow job.
All things considered.
It's been a strange Saturday and
a fine afternoon
for a hip flask.
It appears someone may or may not have
put out a cigarette on your eyebrow,
but I find it interesting
that I have ten bucks
I said I wanted to spend on food and
you're offering to
sell me your foodstamps and
a blow job.
All things considered.
It's been a strange Saturday and
a fine afternoon
for a hip flask.
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