Sunday, August 21, 2016

Dog

somber eyes most time
and most days spent
in half sleep and chase
or half sleep and sound
until sound wins the wake
and jolted back and
bounding off the couch
to whatever the source
of the barking sound

if not sound then scent
a wretched little imp
who cracks the whip
and teases and taunts
through blades of grass
through rabbit haunts
or plated food or
crinkle crackle of any
old plastic bag in which
case scent and sound
do-si-do to intensify
the thrill, the prospect

the opposite of when
melted butter fur pools
in its heavy weight
and heat upon comforter
to tuck in and pin the
sleeping neighbor within
the cover and sheet

the opposite of when
canine potential halts
with focus and unnatural
patience while man
follies in brushing and
grooming a spirit meant
for sweat and mud

the opposite of when
the mere sound of the
deep snoring breath and
touch of the shiny smooth
coat can lure one into
their own state of half sleep



Monday, August 15, 2016

Bodies

a hairline crack perhaps
or something deeper
a cruel wound suffered
in a frozen moment to
thaw and freeze again
to inch into and within
the wall withheld

the wall must fall
it must always fail
in holding in that
which was never
meant to stay within

thus the pitcher
poured not from lip
but from failing foot
and water seeped out
and puddled nearby
and pushed its way
over tabletop and...

lingers, it all lingers
still in the stillness
the frozen moment
that spurred it all
from the very start
and its life is the
mere ebbing of the
pool that was not
to be withheld within
the failing wall



Saturday, August 13, 2016

Five years ago




































the ladder waits
rising out of an
island out of a field
where you climbed
one night
to see how far
it might rise

before you knew
how high you
had climbed
the stars spied
you in the dark

you stopped once
or maybe twice
to catch your breath
and peered out
over corn and
roads and city
lights and the ocean
you once knew

the stars came
closer to ask you
where you were
climbing to

you mentioned
something about
destination unknown
and kept climbing
into the night sky
where you could
finally become
the everything you
were before you
started that climb


Thursday, August 11, 2016

Of times around

in the grass, languid and laid
bodies showered with sun
bleached torsos stark in
conclusion and consequence
sordid eyes slowly roll
to meet and pant and chat
the head holes greet one
another indifferently as
in life so too now in this

the slap, whether on which
pair of cheeks, the result
yet the same in chiming with
that early morning crow
to pass from sleep to wake or
however the sequence flows
out of the brain, out of those
indifferent rolling head holes
the blackbirds find so tasty

from bloody battlefields and
sweaty bedrooms and musty 
caves to windswept cliffs and
saturated depths and any ole 
locale worth coming round for
to lay down a bet or more
and lose the copper on a race
with a train, the sterling on
a needle of tar, or even the 
gold on a fight with those
indifferent rolling head holes
the blackbirds find so tasty

and the addicts line back up
as if the 382nd time will do
in these shoes or hooves or
damn deep roots diving down
the must can be questioned but
the need never answered in 
pondering sun circles and 
disappearing clouds from
the grass littered with those
indifferent rolling head holes
the blackbirds find so tasty




Storming night

encroaching on sleep
treading on dreams
this invader of rem
that scurries through
the night air unseen

heat waves that licked
the day clean now
raise a torrent off
in the western distance

those waves keep
eyelids that wish to
shut from doing so

those gateways left
ajar in the sky glide
across the tasseled fields
in thrashing fashion

restless, both eyes
and storms in the dark
sky veined and marbled
in electric blue and light
in wet and heat and cold



Tuesday, August 9, 2016

Mass

round the roots down
to boiling stone
the bath of time
the bath unknown
it washes away
all iniquity if such
a belief suits thee
but it carries on
to the next and again
and so on until
the very last end
a wash, a life,
a filth or more
as we all ebb and
flow from the shore
but is there ever
a time to cease
is there ever a
moment of release
it all seems to
wind round a coil
up from the mud and
back down in the soil
perhaps its only just
a rhythmic pulse
and it's all driven
with a cosmic convulse
each life that is
a blink of an eye
to peer further into
chaos and the divine
so it has been
and so it must be
to belong to existence
to be chained to a tree
besides the mass of what
is found in deed and thought
what must there be
of what there is not



Looks like rain

when a frond friend
falls in the wind
the fern becomes an
urn on the mantle

a time when zephyrs
pepper the thirsty dirt
Satan's own sweat swelters
claiming the heat is ample

cicadas shucked shells
grasp onto slender spent stems
these beacons bellow
in the sun as amber gems

wind ever reaps the seeds
chucking them on dry crust
at most to roast, this
the way the wind condemns

yet dark clouds hark now
of ending pain with rain
gray slithers over the day
in chaotic hypnotic thunder

all is lost to water lust
longing for sips with arid lips
first moments, then minutes
as wet falls in liquid wonder








Sunday, August 7, 2016

You. Should. Know.

eyes of the abysmal void
free-falling into the darkened
journey of night, when
then the sun turns its back on us
and alone with all the others
who travel there, out there
the void of stars and dust
and iron clods, and hidden
in those unending eyes
where beings merge
and know the mysteries that
cut us into these shapes
we now wear and drag
across this whirling surface
this face that peers into
depths of dagger states
where wailing and gnashing
of teeth so biblical serene
the scene of existence for
matter in this state, we
bleed and tear ourselves apart
the art of seeding the earth
with words and dreams
of extraterrestrial things
born in the eyes of want
to see what might or very
well could be, the hope
the endeavor of those eyes




Flat line

that straight, flat line don't mean a thing
it's just a line on that beeping machine
just a long, loud beep that's plain annoying

it can't tell me where or when I should go
those are things only someone else knows
I'd rather stay here than where the wind blows

there are too many smiles I would miss
too many hands to grasp, lips to kiss
and too many of those moments to list

I think I'll linger here a little longer
just until these here feel a bit stronger
when the tears stop is when I'll wander

that machine can't tell me my fate
I'll know when to go, but I choose to wait
it's not time for me to open that gate

I'm still needed here in the now
until my kin catch on to knowing how
life goes on after I have taken my bow

screw that machine and its straight line
that constant tone is so damn asinine
I'll choose my departure date and time






Saturday, August 6, 2016

That night

a breath so cold in the heated night

a whisper so warm to melt the ice

the moon so low to touch its face

the moment too quick

the fool so out of pace

and the time lingers still

in the aching, beating pulse

when shadows danced with light

across your face that night