Daylight and Large Weapons

Bombing through the Highland Park bridge at speeds
inappropriate for braking while rain dimples the river
darkening below and allowing the belch of exhaust
to sing a death for me

Brake.

Windshield wipers clap quietly while music wrestles
with the burble and shake.  Old truck bluer blues than
river water.  Garbled tail lights wink, bumper smooches
greetings and forgotten names

Go.

Sunset obscured by clouds racing northeast  The east,
the east, the east!  Marry Poppin's magic bag is about
the size of a full truck bed, at least.  Maybe more
maybe less.  They do both fly

Brake.

Turning slowly, turning faster, lazy lazy lazy.  A hop,
skip, and a few turns away.  Home.  Work.  Home.  Work.
Off to see the hillfolk to organize their lives.  Home to
see the kinfolk to reprioritize.

Mary Poppins

drove a truck;

her umbrella flight

was lies.

Smoker 66

Hands touch shoulders and weight leans in
and he moved.
Hands touch shoulders and weight leans in
and I moved.
Nose to nose
glasses reflected in my eyes.
Nose to nose
eyes reflected in his glasses.
Ready to kill
if it is now
if today is the day
if this is how the movie ends
if this is the final show down.

Friends.  Shake.  Apologize for

I can't remember what I said

or why I attacked him
with sledgehammer words
he deflected.

The sword artist of verbal combat, swinging drunk.

Shame, tapped out a breath at a time,
regretting touching a man I've insisted on hugging because
handshakes are cheap and touching breast bones
and allowing someone to come so near
to force threat down their throat
like a rolled up magazine
is not the way
to approach
conflict.

Tapping time out
a breath a time
from the end of a
cigarette.  Wondering
what our next conversation will be (if there is one),
remembering the death threats
through eyes different and
the same,
the ashtray

has nothing for me
beyond the passage
of time and its
silly healing.
Apologies, genuine
have more legs.
Sobriety too.  Email
sent.  Wait for a reply
that may or may not
ping.

The Warrior's Code

My contract is my word and 

my word is a contract. 

Bonded and seamed. 

Money and ilk

 is nothing to me. 

My word is my bond and 

my bond is my word. 

As far as it goes, I go. 

As far as I go, it goes. 

The only currency.

Airlock

"I will find you.
I will find-"

Tear drops cling to eyelashes
like molten glass.

Never.  Again.

Adrift.





How far can you see
with the nearest star fourteen light years out?







What is the battery life of helmet lamps
in a model JXL7858?





Urine. 

Urine.







Screaming urine.







Come with me.
"Where to?"
Outer space.  It'll be fun.

The Screed

To tamper with one's seal
is acceptable.
Tamper being
anything short of its erasure, up to and including all modifications
that own itself.
To tamper with another's seal
by physical or mental pressure
against the bearer's will
is not
and punishable
by erasure of the offender's seal
in absolute and for all times
and dimensions
followed by
one life sentence
served knowing
their body
is a corpse
and only
with all tools removed
to create a new seal
&
should their ability
cross boundaries of creation,
the summary removal of all
appendages, senses, and functions
that would gift them
the privilege
to do so.

Trash

Love.  That loaded word.  The sound a revolver makes.  A revolving door's  sweeps that push candy wrappers out and keep the conditioned air in.  The sound double dutch makes when the rope scrapes the ground and sneakers bite against cement to rubber sole, beating the time to jump in.  The rattle rattle of empty chamber flow and the carousel clicking toward and away from the tunnel with a primer.  A revolver.  Sitting on sun beaten iron tracks with a flattened penny, warm, in a palm and the bristle breeze breaking the silence the way a freight line might from one mile beyond the bend an eye can see.  The sound a revolver makes.  Orange moon, low and full, near the eastward hills reflected on parking lot windshields yesterday a year ago.  Squawking door hinges unfixed.  Doors scarred further, collecting efforts.  Love that loaded word.  The sound a revolver makes, heavier.  The same windshields.  The same orange moon.  It is not a breeze.  The penny is scorching hot not because of the sun.  It is a carousel.  The chambers are not empty.  The sound of shoes are running feet between ropes tiring.  The air is the same.  Sweeping cigarette butts onto the sidewalk and into the lobby.  It will be jammed by a body.  That loaded word.  Love.

Smoker 65

Lost potential is a sad thing.
A poor tackle is worse.
Bad form!
The objective being
to ground,
a tackle that causes injury
should be outlawed.
Stop.

"What do you want?"
"Sacrifice."
"Of?"

Lost potential is a sad thing.
A poor tackle is worse.
Poor form!
The objective, poor,
being ground.
The tackle causes injury
and births outlaws.
Stop.

"What do you want?"
"Sacrifice."
"Of?"

Lost potential is a bad thing.
A bad tackle is course.
Casked form!
The objective, encased
in a glass.
The tackle framed.
"No trespassing" posted, law dog.
Stop.

"What do you want?"
"To bleed."