How cold your feet. Mine too.
The rest of me sweating, between
too much cover and skin,
lightly, breathing in and breathing out regularly
to lull you to sleep the best way a little spoon knows.
The underside of my paws
touch the topside of yours.
All hell breaks loose
for long seconds
'til your hand wraps around my jaw bone,
closing my mouth and you
shhh shhh shhh. sush! shhhhhhh.
"It didn't hurt." Okay?
Feeling hit
and run. Run run running and trying
not to cry or scream.
Morning. Brick top right around the corner.
Autumn leaves shuffling skit skit in the wind.
Laughing at the weeds growing up inside
the cracks in the cement where
cigarette butts go and glad it wasn't another
end to another bender, but
to have a moment back I'd take that one and be black
incorporated pushing products over shoulders and
sideways glances around elephant sized boulders,
colder interpretations are always available, but
sometimes in dark nights putting up a firelight
of a matchstick against the green black of the woods
I remember what I felt when I am close to you
and I don't want to think about what getting that back
means I have to do. I can never feel that again and
I know there's still time to spend and bringing it all back in
the bubble collapses
memory lapses
and history itself is fucking raptured and
I will never be what is strong as crazy glue ,
but I can see in black & white.
Do you?
original works of parts
A Picnic
The gardens! The gardens!
The hanging gardens you could've seen
had we met hours sooner upon the year.
When I walked inside
after climbing an arm sunk to the wrist
in this hillside where we landed first,
where I lost my memory,
and turned him into a summer house.
It got cold and I wanted to use
the fireplace
to keep a little warm, there was a lot of wood around.
The gist was brilliant. The details not.
The fireplace took. She woke up again.
I am here now. Well, we would not be talking otherwise.
Call it obvious.
I call it misfortune. The flower boxes fell
and cracked to pieces on the hill's side.
You should have seen the dandelions and clover and mint
in eye watering day lit ice cream cloud reflected light
before she shook them loose
like plates felled atop a pool of grass green grease on fire.
Clinking tea cups over cakes
watching your eyes
trace her shadow
to where it meets plate metal and mineral sinews
locked up and woven toward behemoth and
pigeons circle, laughing making nests and
plans for September,
I smile back at you.
We keep coming here.
You can see it too.
I remember how I got here.
"What do you want to do today?"
The hanging gardens you could've seen
had we met hours sooner upon the year.
When I walked inside
after climbing an arm sunk to the wrist
in this hillside where we landed first,
where I lost my memory,
and turned him into a summer house.
It got cold and I wanted to use
the fireplace
to keep a little warm, there was a lot of wood around.
The gist was brilliant. The details not.
The fireplace took. She woke up again.
I am here now. Well, we would not be talking otherwise.
Call it obvious.
I call it misfortune. The flower boxes fell
and cracked to pieces on the hill's side.
You should have seen the dandelions and clover and mint
in eye watering day lit ice cream cloud reflected light
before she shook them loose
like plates felled atop a pool of grass green grease on fire.
Clinking tea cups over cakes
watching your eyes
trace her shadow
to where it meets plate metal and mineral sinews
locked up and woven toward behemoth and
pigeons circle, laughing making nests and
plans for September,
I smile back at you.
We keep coming here.
You can see it too.
I remember how I got here.
"What do you want to do today?"
Jackal
Laugh like Hyena picking bones like guitar sting.
Where the moon blows, I believe we have met before.
"Your accent is familiar, have you tried the chicken?"
"Allspice is my guess."
"There may be cloves too."
"Could use a little sea salt."
Clapping would be nice, had we thumbs. Baby,
I know it. Don't you start. If you start, I will lose it.
"Jah-quel, you are too late and I am already gone-"
Where the moon blows, I believe we have met before.
"Your accent is familiar, have you tried the chicken?"
"Allspice is my guess."
"There may be cloves too."
"Could use a little sea salt."
Clapping would be nice, had we thumbs. Baby,
I know it. Don't you start. If you start, I will lose it.
"Jah-quel, you are too late and I am already gone-"
Smoker 45
Fuck you. Pirate melody? While I obscure
your finding the cure for the fog and the hate
surrounding my shooting brake while I rake up the shit lying in the gutters and the dutch big skirt standing over it handily? Handle me, I scream, in ten kinds of colors making you my brother to cover the bullshit brown out me. There was a shut down, can you handle me? There was a shut down. Damn near black out. East said no. The grid said yes. For a second everyone was a moonlit guest. The hounds came out. Every single last end was found and then the power came back and black went to light.
When was the last time
fright turned to sight
while the street lamps blinked to the melody
inside your head?
A long. Long. Walk. With two matchsticks
and one barrel.
your finding the cure for the fog and the hate
surrounding my shooting brake while I rake up the shit lying in the gutters and the dutch big skirt standing over it handily? Handle me, I scream, in ten kinds of colors making you my brother to cover the bullshit brown out me. There was a shut down, can you handle me? There was a shut down. Damn near black out. East said no. The grid said yes. For a second everyone was a moonlit guest. The hounds came out. Every single last end was found and then the power came back and black went to light.
When was the last time
fright turned to sight
while the street lamps blinked to the melody
inside your head?
A long. Long. Walk. With two matchsticks
and one barrel.
This I Believe 3
I believe in knock down drag outs.
I believe in lower case.
I believe in Carmen Sandiego.
I believe in heart throbs from Middle School.
I believe in bass and genetics.
I believe in pipe bombs and fetish.
I believe in hyper space and real time.
I believe asleep.
Do you dream?
Do you war?
I believe in chairs.
I believe in lake Michigan.
I believe in fantasizing about my professor's bare feet.
I believe in bubble gum and cardboard.
I believe in journeymen.
I believe in sadism.
I believe in gunpowder.
I believe in salutations.
I believe in metal, heavy and light.
I believe in hollow points
and well washed,glistening, silver nitrate threaded socks.
I will never be convinced
of the power of slight.
Skitter, skitter, skitter;
this I believe. When the sun comes up,
believe it. Gunned down by the sounds,
falling on my face, blazing behind
up through the rib cage like fireworks
mapped in blood
and found.
I believe in sidewalks.
I believe in pain.
I believe in the stopwatch.
I believe in laces.
I believe in fury.
I believe in earrings.
I believe in fingernails.
I believe in lower case.
I believe in Carmen Sandiego.
I believe in heart throbs from Middle School.
I believe in bass and genetics.
I believe in pipe bombs and fetish.
I believe in hyper space and real time.
I believe asleep.
Do you dream?
Do you war?
I believe in chairs.
I believe in lake Michigan.
I believe in fantasizing about my professor's bare feet.
I believe in bubble gum and cardboard.
I believe in journeymen.
I believe in sadism.
I believe in gunpowder.
I believe in salutations.
I believe in metal, heavy and light.
I believe in hollow points
and well washed,glistening, silver nitrate threaded socks.
I will never be convinced
of the power of slight.
Skitter, skitter, skitter;
this I believe. When the sun comes up,
believe it. Gunned down by the sounds,
falling on my face, blazing behind
up through the rib cage like fireworks
mapped in blood
and found.
I believe in sidewalks.
I believe in pain.
I believe in the stopwatch.
I believe in laces.
I believe in fury.
I believe in earrings.
I believe in fingernails.
The Sun Crys With You
Summer came. Summer left.
Jean cuffs dragging at the heels
and the beginning of shed leaves,
orange and yellow, with them.
Laces broken at the basketball court,
sneaker stitches burst climbing hills
and frayed at the river,
caught in branches and shrubs by night.
The afternoon breeze
raises jacket zippers and the dead
memories in photographs
committed indefinitely.
I should have worn a hat
against the misting rain.
I remembered my sunglasses and I'm glad
the tears welling behind them
are my own to keep, cold
as worn pennies on my cheeks.
She is wearing her sunglasses too.
Please stop crying.
Jean cuffs dragging at the heels
and the beginning of shed leaves,
orange and yellow, with them.
Laces broken at the basketball court,
sneaker stitches burst climbing hills
and frayed at the river,
caught in branches and shrubs by night.
The afternoon breeze
raises jacket zippers and the dead
memories in photographs
committed indefinitely.
I should have worn a hat
against the misting rain.
I remembered my sunglasses and I'm glad
the tears welling behind them
are my own to keep, cold
as worn pennies on my cheeks.
She is wearing her sunglasses too.
Please stop crying.
The Watchmaker
I come home
and the stencil and the etching acids
have been moved. The fine punch
and whittle knife have moved.
The black cloth for the table,
the thin threaded screws in the stable,
the snips, the lenses,
the zero gauge wire unbended,
the chair, it's cushion, my glasses,
the magnifier, my glove, my apron,
needlenose and all, my two ounce hammer,
kerchief, and key ring,
my pointer, lucky leaf, and my awl.
The irons, the spreader, the cutting wheel,
the oils, my pencil and elbow rests,
napkins and scrap paper,
everything removed from the lamp chest
and left across the table like
an arm of the Milky Way.
Nothing glitters until the lamp is turned on.
From the doorway to our office
nothing is gone
in the light from the window moon shine.
"Time will come like a thief in the night"
reminds me not to fear. The leather band
between the pincers and the gears
still in place
awaiting another's finger tips
to turn it's dial, the spring a spiral
of coiled silver, embedded,
the face ready to be set and the hands
glued in place with a fine tipped gun
and a more reliable hand.
The door shuts. The key enters.
and the stencil and the etching acids
have been moved. The fine punch
and whittle knife have moved.
The black cloth for the table,
the thin threaded screws in the stable,
the snips, the lenses,
the zero gauge wire unbended,
the chair, it's cushion, my glasses,
the magnifier, my glove, my apron,
needlenose and all, my two ounce hammer,
kerchief, and key ring,
my pointer, lucky leaf, and my awl.
The irons, the spreader, the cutting wheel,
the oils, my pencil and elbow rests,
napkins and scrap paper,
everything removed from the lamp chest
and left across the table like
an arm of the Milky Way.
Nothing glitters until the lamp is turned on.
From the doorway to our office
nothing is gone
in the light from the window moon shine.
"Time will come like a thief in the night"
reminds me not to fear. The leather band
between the pincers and the gears
still in place
awaiting another's finger tips
to turn it's dial, the spring a spiral
of coiled silver, embedded,
the face ready to be set and the hands
glued in place with a fine tipped gun
and a more reliable hand.
The door shuts. The key enters.
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