Upturned lip is sneering
while harumphs and grunts come
horse like gauging whether
a throat hock is the order of the day
or if a finger on off nostril
head side cocked
will be enough to break the loosened
sinus gathered
dust balled
nose hair plucking
glue.
But wait
for the mom
and stroller
to pass.
original works of parts
Touching Daylight Beneath a Stone Archway Near the Cemetery
Sunlight scatters through the stiffness of January air
too stubborn like a rod of fiber glass
through fingers hot enough to split white prismatic
and red with the pulse and toned notes of a runner's heart.
Between branches and eyes hand shaded light
so shredded flies apart like bright ivory
nearest the center and cooling with distance
crossed frays into bubble coats of colored soap
appliquéd to bits of razor thin and torn wire eyes can drink at a price.
Every breath soaks cold into warm tissues and running nose
and the even stone wall at park's entrance is sharp through yarn gloves
and to be pricked is to feel the distance and closeness of nervous love.
Blood rushes and waits calm to be called upon
in the wake of waking to peaks of unbearably reachable ruin
and the riptide of iris flow to a pin's width hall filled to bursting
with the impossible radiation of so much concentrated being
and the hand that falls away nylon in a squall folding
and the driving rain of fusion on skin sheared through
naked branch work and peeled into one hundred splintering toothpicks
beneath a time darkened stone archway is the end and reason.
Collected Autumn
The seasons are turning. There is waiting for buds to appear
like bullets in revolver drums while staring at the April swayed
stop light and the green that can't come soon enough.
The wind wets its finger and slides it down the back of pants
too thin and, in a change of direction, whips them tight to
highlight "too cold to work out today" chicken legs.
It is, after all, still winter, though the snow is going. Up
the sloping street, leaves whip like flecks of corn syrup
pressed along a 66 thousand mile-an-hour windshield.
Confronted by Autumn's collected fall in an afternoon cold
enough to rival any of the previous year, discomfort comes
loose and lost like oil charred and whisked with wire brush.
Memory falls and parts in the water, tang, and pluck of
dun whipped air, smacked and busting with the bitters of
summer's lives and glories out of season and stilled and lush.
The street corner, a snow globe. Wrapped tight in scarf
and raptured before the light changes and returns eyes to
the gray curb and tasks at hand. The seasons are turning.
like bullets in revolver drums while staring at the April swayed
stop light and the green that can't come soon enough.
The wind wets its finger and slides it down the back of pants
too thin and, in a change of direction, whips them tight to
highlight "too cold to work out today" chicken legs.
It is, after all, still winter, though the snow is going. Up
the sloping street, leaves whip like flecks of corn syrup
pressed along a 66 thousand mile-an-hour windshield.
Confronted by Autumn's collected fall in an afternoon cold
enough to rival any of the previous year, discomfort comes
loose and lost like oil charred and whisked with wire brush.
Memory falls and parts in the water, tang, and pluck of
dun whipped air, smacked and busting with the bitters of
summer's lives and glories out of season and stilled and lush.
The street corner, a snow globe. Wrapped tight in scarf
and raptured before the light changes and returns eyes to
the gray curb and tasks at hand. The seasons are turning.
Smoker 10 (There is a Zen to You I Like)
Take care in the thin bits.
To make two cigarettes with the last of the rolling papers
is to take a hammer, saw and chisel to a bicycle
and make two things that are by definition
unicycles
and are in practice equally
dissatisfying
when there is somewhere to go
and friendship enough to
share the distance and
split the difference
between now and there and here and you.
To make two cigarettes with the last of the rolling papers
is to take a hammer, saw and chisel to a bicycle
and make two things that are by definition
unicycles
and are in practice equally
dissatisfying
when there is somewhere to go
and friendship enough to
share the distance and
split the difference
between now and there and here and you.
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