A low slung sun`A low slung sun, the tide of winterretreating with a colourful regaliaof leaf-shaped sailing ships, blownby a North wind sweeping low, weepinginto newly bare-branch hands. barely peeking over my neighbors fence— the sunriseThe sad sky blues a one-four-five,deepening into that summerless groove,jet-streamed smooth & shaped in streaks—cirrusly in need of an audience, to applaudthat fall-song dirge of slow-death tones.
fotoFriday XI-two good friendsand few pints of ale-a perfect picture-
Facelift`All has fallen away:chipped and peeled to a dilapidated perfection,an aged and weathered skin, sags into a historythat was never really real. Stripped raw and n(erve ending bare)ever the same again.a patina past, oxidized by vicious breath& glaring sun-eyes, that beam a constantlitany of 'I am' & 'You are'. So what will change tomorrow that was not the same as yesterday?Some new paint, slathered on & skinnedover rusted bones to a n
last night cracks...`Last night cracks, falls away beneath an unfading light— the world twirls relentlesslydays untold. She is: spinning through nothing at all walking a life of unbeing:being unable to not unlive. Sure the moon gets ogled (as it, in fact, should) by poets and lovers, the stars each night, launch a thousand
A day in the life of unbeing`Morningmish-mashed sardinespacked into glass cansheaded to glass towers,recycle their days intoother same days & livesinto other's lives; paidto dwell within, withoutdignity, destined to failflailing to live, alifeNoonCrushed glass crunches a cadencefeet pounding, only the brickbatsand a dead body eye see the people walk byA(pathetic was he that died, as the moon stared off a curtainwalled world)ppalled, why should it care
Steamroller`"Don't it always seem to go that you don't know what you've got till it's gone. They paved paradise and put up a parking lot." - JONI MITCHELL"One day she'll come back" she skates:talks in circlesThe little girl continued—"and when she does, the roses will bloom" again, Winter sets its face against the Earth-child"we'll walk among the fragrance, dodging the thorns" that so deftly rip little hearts apart."Where will we go mommy?" petal soft hands, hold tight"still a little further now" the path, winding, narrowingthe black-top worldreared up—smacked herback to reality, but a skinned kneedoesn't even make her cry`
She makes me...`She makes me write these thingsShe does:every time i think Her, words formcumulonimbus,tumbling down on the pagelike rain, that sometimes make pretty patternsa catastrophe of cliché's (but sea-blue eyes, sunbeam-smiles, flowerpetal skin, are all true) flitter through,my mind numb:dumb to heart-skippedstones, that ripple in rings of non-rhymedlinesHer hand guides mine in voice and verse,the tenses, all i-me, flooded by an abundanceof You-She, flow freely to the papersea, vastlyunbelievably—She loves meShe makes me write these things`