You want
me
and I want
destruction
painted large in red blooded letters
and quiet breakfasts
so lets go.
We'll see where the rainbows end and turn
into buckets of gold medallions and
kettle pots and
more than likely knot
into safe words poorly heeded and
unbridled bridled enthusiasms and
yes
I do not want to talk about it
because I am as hurt inside as you are out and
done with making rookie mistakes
so are you going to let me eat
this oatmeal
or are you going to be
the start of another almost there day.
original works of parts
Anyone Can Memorize
Anyone can memorize
but that shit is hard
so I give props
to the ones that do it well
in whatever fields
to which it lies,
but I am far from inferior and more
like a species departed.
Vice and all the things
you'll never be privy to know,
though I do let so many of my bones
show,
aside.
I just want the record to know
I am,
bad clothes,
bad conversation,
bad humor,
and tasteless to boot,
possessing of a value
improv's artist's love laughing at what wrote never knew.
but that shit is hard
so I give props
to the ones that do it well
in whatever fields
to which it lies,
but I am far from inferior and more
like a species departed.
Vice and all the things
you'll never be privy to know,
though I do let so many of my bones
show,
aside.
I just want the record to know
I am,
bad clothes,
bad conversation,
bad humor,
and tasteless to boot,
possessing of a value
improv's artist's love laughing at what wrote never knew.
Holiday
Thanksgiving was terrible, but
awesome because you were there
wincing at the awful collard greens
that never fail to show up
and your face screwed up
like a bad Saturday morning cartoon
to the taste and
all the spite in the world
could not stop me
from blowing red wine through my teeth
across the heap of turkey on my plate
scowling at the stuffing,
wishing it could be as soft.
awesome because you were there
wincing at the awful collard greens
that never fail to show up
and your face screwed up
like a bad Saturday morning cartoon
to the taste and
all the spite in the world
could not stop me
from blowing red wine through my teeth
across the heap of turkey on my plate
scowling at the stuffing,
wishing it could be as soft.
Millen Boulevard
Even though the street lights
are too weak to illuminate
the places where the road has fallen in on itself,
I can see the bends in black and white
as I bite down again on a half eaten toothpick
and tongue the winter chap
starting to bleed where road speed and
wind speed conspired to flay.
I rest my arms on the headset, crossed,
while greased horn bells and timpanis play
noir diner small talk behind my nose and eyes and
David Lynch whispers sweet nothings
to the tune.
Some day you'll find the one
who doesn't care where you've been and
where you're going
with the same abandon you've put into forgetting.
I close my eyes and
let the silver bones slip and
as the brakes go and my feet clip
I blow a kiss to the stars above and see
how long it takes to cream
before the road turns
to river water again.
are too weak to illuminate
the places where the road has fallen in on itself,
I can see the bends in black and white
as I bite down again on a half eaten toothpick
and tongue the winter chap
starting to bleed where road speed and
wind speed conspired to flay.
I rest my arms on the headset, crossed,
while greased horn bells and timpanis play
noir diner small talk behind my nose and eyes and
David Lynch whispers sweet nothings
to the tune.
Some day you'll find the one
who doesn't care where you've been and
where you're going
with the same abandon you've put into forgetting.
I close my eyes and
let the silver bones slip and
as the brakes go and my feet clip
I blow a kiss to the stars above and see
how long it takes to cream
before the road turns
to river water again.
Highway Men
We had a time of it,
sitting on the edge of the bed.
Thinking about the river and
the women there
who think "hey sweetie"
is not a conversation starter.
The water still chops
this late into the dead of fall.
Matching eyes, my browns to his orange,
wondering where the edges
wear rough in this one horse town and
we blend in like stripes on a horse,
we yawn and exchange the wharf
for the bed
because some of us have work
in the morning,
but we had a time of it
while we sat and snacked
on the big peach ball of the sun
doing it's best not to sweat in the water
and the weather too smooth too late,
like fresh pudding skin when you're already prepared
for night caps and long sleeps,
and we agreed
not to rely on another soul,
spitting into the waves,
because all a highway man needs
is a cat with at least as much scratch
to watch his back.
sitting on the edge of the bed.
Thinking about the river and
the women there
who think "hey sweetie"
is not a conversation starter.
The water still chops
this late into the dead of fall.
Matching eyes, my browns to his orange,
wondering where the edges
wear rough in this one horse town and
we blend in like stripes on a horse,
we yawn and exchange the wharf
for the bed
because some of us have work
in the morning,
but we had a time of it
while we sat and snacked
on the big peach ball of the sun
doing it's best not to sweat in the water
and the weather too smooth too late,
like fresh pudding skin when you're already prepared
for night caps and long sleeps,
and we agreed
not to rely on another soul,
spitting into the waves,
because all a highway man needs
is a cat with at least as much scratch
to watch his back.
To See a Man About a Horse
The wind is kicking again.
High in the hillocks and
trying something Venturi
enough to ease a head
strung out and spun higher
than the banks of water color
pretending to be.
Bite the air. It tastes
like good weather.
The kind of weather
that begs new memories.
The kind of weather
that sings sharp and clear
like band saw blade
contrails cutting with the grain of
golden blued violent cloud wash.
The wind is kicking again.
The cigarette has gone out.
The moon will be up
over the valley and
the hill is a terrible place to be
after dark without a jacket.
Time to go.
High in the hillocks and
trying something Venturi
enough to ease a head
strung out and spun higher
than the banks of water color
pretending to be.
Bite the air. It tastes
like good weather.
The kind of weather
that begs new memories.
The kind of weather
that sings sharp and clear
like band saw blade
contrails cutting with the grain of
golden blued violent cloud wash.
The wind is kicking again.
The cigarette has gone out.
The moon will be up
over the valley and
the hill is a terrible place to be
after dark without a jacket.
Time to go.
Hurt so Much
I hurt so much
that I run thin
of words to make it
music and palatable.
They ask me
scales of one to ten and
I ask what ten is
and they tell me about things
I can't identify
with so I choke
and swallow and think,
but god damn.
It is all
ouch and
second thoughts about
picking other paths,
but I won't pretend
to tell you about my troubles.
I've been
baiting.
Because what I want I cannot find
within my limits and
sometimes if I just hear it
once through someone else
it falls into a music
I am hard pressed
to make on my own.
that I run thin
of words to make it
music and palatable.
They ask me
scales of one to ten and
I ask what ten is
and they tell me about things
I can't identify
with so I choke
and swallow and think,
but god damn.
It is all
ouch and
second thoughts about
picking other paths,
but I won't pretend
to tell you about my troubles.
I've been
baiting.
Because what I want I cannot find
within my limits and
sometimes if I just hear it
once through someone else
it falls into a music
I am hard pressed
to make on my own.
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