I used to rely on cables
to move surfaces
before science showed me there was a speed beyond propellers
where cables braided simply would not do and
power boosted hydraulics could
feed back too much noise and snatch control
from my fingertips like a bad winged bird
screaming through the copper bars of its cage.
Now I tell the motors what to do,
electronic songs
feel less brave.
To the aerodome to tear the dusty canvas off
elliptical wing tips and fifty caliber air cooled guns,
pull the pins off five hundred pound dumb bombs,
and push in the choke on horizontal opposed
28 cylinder, super charged dreams.
Tonight we ride inside the envelope,
fingertip close to the air speaking back
every vibration our heart knows.
Tonight we hug the cirrus clouds
and let our gun barrels glow.
The towns and ship yards beneath us light up
along the joy ride. Concussions come through
throaty bass while our propeller tears the air,
flak fire in our face.
I miss the shudder, the body racking shudder of a stall.
The thrill of lift on lost weight,
wanting to roll in and watch the pounders hit their marks,
ballooning orange white and speckle black debris
against the night.
Until the purpose built fighters come in and
the fuel gauge takes center stage and
the only thing in mind
is making it back to friendly territory alive
at war speed.
original works of parts
Fisherman's Song
Today we fish on the side of the river,
casting lines from the rocks underneath low limb hung trees.
Don't slip, if you drop anything leave it go,
for the dam water has an appetite no one can please.
Today we fish on the side of the river,
where current churns hard and rocks await beneath.
The current is strong and the slope is severe,
but the quiet pool keeps steady and fat catfish in between.
Where everything settles chum and twig float,
they'll be skulking, stomachs mean,
and if you get lucky and stay tuned
while the sun beats, beer cans tossed back to bush and tree,
you may land one worth a photo on a good Saturday,
or, at least, get a good workout because
chairs are pointless
when the face of the flat rocked ridge
beside the dam ready to take you under
is sloping something close to 60 degrees.
casting lines from the rocks underneath low limb hung trees.
Don't slip, if you drop anything leave it go,
for the dam water has an appetite no one can please.
Today we fish on the side of the river,
where current churns hard and rocks await beneath.
The current is strong and the slope is severe,
but the quiet pool keeps steady and fat catfish in between.
Where everything settles chum and twig float,
they'll be skulking, stomachs mean,
and if you get lucky and stay tuned
while the sun beats, beer cans tossed back to bush and tree,
you may land one worth a photo on a good Saturday,
or, at least, get a good workout because
chairs are pointless
when the face of the flat rocked ridge
beside the dam ready to take you under
is sloping something close to 60 degrees.
Touch Noses
My boots were cooling
after tough reentry
from the upper atmosphere and
your cigarette was a centipede of ash
black tailed.
The scarf my ex gave me was around your neck and
I was on my way to the floor to sleep or swim
on elbows toward the door.
"I have to wake up tomorrow."
"I have to wake up now."
"I can't."
"You can."
"Where is my damn wallet? Come on, beautiful!"
"No!"
The snow was no deeper than any other December.
I remember the long stumble home. The coffee table
going on its side. The ashtray smacking me in the eye
still in your hand when the lights went out in yours.
Her words repeating through your still mouth.
Touching you is like petting a horses nose.
Spooked every step of the way and
remembering your gray rooted dreadlocks and
chain smoke rumble laugh and
how we left the pub that night,
glass bead snowmelt on our foreheads,
promise where our lips connected,
softness where the hoop of your ice cold
piercing touched my nose and
fire leaped through
to a heap I neglected
for too long and
consumed you and me. I'm sorry.
You were an accident. I was too.
In pieces, that night, always forgetting.
Drowning until my gentle heart
floats to the surface of an ocean
I did not know I plied
until the night we touched noses.
after tough reentry
from the upper atmosphere and
your cigarette was a centipede of ash
black tailed.
The scarf my ex gave me was around your neck and
I was on my way to the floor to sleep or swim
on elbows toward the door.
"I have to wake up tomorrow."
"I have to wake up now."
"I can't."
"You can."
"Where is my damn wallet? Come on, beautiful!"
"No!"
The snow was no deeper than any other December.
I remember the long stumble home. The coffee table
going on its side. The ashtray smacking me in the eye
still in your hand when the lights went out in yours.
Her words repeating through your still mouth.
Touching you is like petting a horses nose.
Spooked every step of the way and
remembering your gray rooted dreadlocks and
chain smoke rumble laugh and
how we left the pub that night,
glass bead snowmelt on our foreheads,
promise where our lips connected,
softness where the hoop of your ice cold
piercing touched my nose and
fire leaped through
to a heap I neglected
for too long and
consumed you and me. I'm sorry.
You were an accident. I was too.
In pieces, that night, always forgetting.
Drowning until my gentle heart
floats to the surface of an ocean
I did not know I plied
until the night we touched noses.
Super Collider
Love is never enough.
You know that.
I know that.
A little mores.
In hyperspace everything stands stilled.
Watching leaves
brown, orange, and blood red,
blow along the curb, flicking lights looping
with them
and finding time to hoc green sinus throat chunks
sticky where they smack
against those curbs.
Autumn love. Or something near it.
We get sloppy, don't we?
It's been easier spending time with you.
The sun is brutal on the water.
My sunglasses in your apartment.
Stars streaking back to night while we chit chat.
You know that.
I know that.
A little mores.
In hyperspace everything stands stilled.
Watching leaves
brown, orange, and blood red,
blow along the curb, flicking lights looping
with them
and finding time to hoc green sinus throat chunks
sticky where they smack
against those curbs.
Autumn love. Or something near it.
We get sloppy, don't we?
It's been easier spending time with you.
The sun is brutal on the water.
My sunglasses in your apartment.
Stars streaking back to night while we chit chat.
Scars
From an Lt to my motherfucking General,
a message to be my motherfucking heneral.
I look up to a lot of motherfuckers that don't deserve it
and you are one of the sonbitches actually swerve it.
Making the move and the choose and the two twos
that actually make the world move underneath foreign feet.
I don't know what it is that makes reel real, but I know
what makes kids beat their feet.
It's hard not to squirrel out and pride myself on being
a some kind of self made man. Cuz if I had enough arms
I wouldn't have enough hands. Birthday beatings and
shit in a can. Pop the top and drink like
suburban bullshit skins to mask what asks.
It gets rough and the times went tough and I wish
I had an alcoholic dad. At least then, things would've
been explained, railroad tracks pointing the trains,
but they didn't and they weren't and I live with
mystery. Phantoms of an age I can never understand
and music played from an unhired band. I rand
because I want to. Because I need to.
Because you will never be fifteen years back
where He was.
a message to be my motherfucking heneral.
I look up to a lot of motherfuckers that don't deserve it
and you are one of the sonbitches actually swerve it.
Making the move and the choose and the two twos
that actually make the world move underneath foreign feet.
I don't know what it is that makes reel real, but I know
what makes kids beat their feet.
It's hard not to squirrel out and pride myself on being
a some kind of self made man. Cuz if I had enough arms
I wouldn't have enough hands. Birthday beatings and
shit in a can. Pop the top and drink like
suburban bullshit skins to mask what asks.
It gets rough and the times went tough and I wish
I had an alcoholic dad. At least then, things would've
been explained, railroad tracks pointing the trains,
but they didn't and they weren't and I live with
mystery. Phantoms of an age I can never understand
and music played from an unhired band. I rand
because I want to. Because I need to.
Because you will never be fifteen years back
where He was.
Baseball LP
1
God is merciless, not without conscience.
God is merciless, not without conscience.
She makes the grass to grow and
She makes the sand to sting,
The sun to shine and the rain
To wash away blood and tear alike.
Sacrifice, this day, and know a peace.
2
You are a fire. Give
me this kiss, this dance
And tonight I will give you the fucking stars.
You came for me. Only
you know
The trouble we’ve seen.
The winters.
You are a fire. Set
light to me and I will shine.
Everything else? We
will destroy.
3
I am the god of hell
And eight horsemen are coming with me.
Set your pikes and shields and tar
And steel yourselves.
Tonight you will know fear
And our cleats sounding the depth of graves.
4
They do not know you yet, and that is okay.
They will soon.
Beneath these stars and lights,
This sun and these clouds, this rattle rain,
They will know why
Animals are caged.
“Do not try the lion for the lion may try you too.”
5
To win is to know.
To lose is to know.
The sand in a mouth.
The sun in an eye.
Together we are nothing
Without our brothers.
6
I am not afraid of
Small opportunity.
I am heart and balance.
I am routine, but give
Something to me rarer
And I am liable to explode.
7
Remember before the game.
Holding grass shoots
And letting them fall
In the wind, guessing where
The sun would come from?
Take it all away. Now
is
8
I will not forgive you
For every and all you do.
A gentleman’s race.
Back pocket hawked race.
Talk to me over 60’ 6” &
I’ll meet you at the plate.
9
Take it outside
The diamond
And radiate
Pure light within
So bright the
Field will not see.
10
Gloves are extensions
Of men fallible,
Truth Will speak
In a hit laced
Where mere men
Cannot go.
11
I have dreamed
About this day.
Smelled the tall grass,
Walked the beach
With you. We’ve
Been here before.
Bottom of the Twelfth
Is it reel? Touch
down in the box.
Nothing, but a bat a ball and
Endless math.
Simplify, sweatheart.
Touch the plate. Tug
your ear
And let it blaze on the outside.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)