Just drinking my head on straight this season and then I’m just trying to keep it together and going straight line quick turnaround quit walking backwards you know I just want you to do big circles you’re going really big circles from the spirals where I’m ever evolving out was a little bit you know then maybe going straight line once in a while because I got to keep my feet moving forward and like I wanted to a lot of things so much energy in a day and I get worn out really fast and then also watching TV and everything goes haywire I just don’t really like watching the TV anymore just leave it outside
Archive for the ‘ Poetry ’ Category
time with fuzzy edges.
time leaking linearity.
sitting on an airplane one afternoon.
on my way home from visiting my father,
who was finishing his life, and would be gone
in a few months.
I’d been looking through photos of my father
when he was a child.
I could see him as a child, and I could see him
as the man who was my father when I was a child,
and I could see him as he was then, a man
preparing to say good-bye.
I was sitting on the plane looking at all the other
passengers. We all woke up somewhere that morning.
Groggily. Knowing we would travel. And we would all
fall asleep somewhere that evening. Cozy. Having arrived.
Now we were in the air.
I could see them all as they were when they were babies,
and I could see them all as the people they were right then,
and I cold see them all in the future somewhere,
leaving their bodies behind.
What is time but a practical and ridiculous way of slicing
tiny slices from a lovely round cake that we could enjoy
just as well, if not better, by keeping it whole, and sharing
all the moments, each and every, now and always, as one.
nothing up my sleeve
these thoughts like rainbows or
other things . . .
loop-de-loop spirals pretending
to be real. as real as imagination.
on and on.
we’ve heard it all before.
they all keep saying the same thing.
but whoever this is here writing this is
still an animal that likes sugar and cuddles
and lives more of less for
comfort and not victory of any kind. . .
would just as soon be cozy
on a rainy day and play scrabble with
loved ones or any friend than
go fight or get noticed or hear someone
say look at that, you did it,
you left your mark,
what mark? I just want
was hounding me
on that cold
I was locked
and I was locked
I turned around
a fire started
I turned around
a gun went off
I turned around
my baby wanted to
give me a book.
Crow kept telling Mr. Bones
that he wanted to fly to the sun.
Mr. Bones tilted his hat back and looked at Crow and yawned.
“It’s been done,” said Mr. Bones, “Icarus, for one…and––you––too,
remember? You’ve done it before––look how that turned out.”
“Not all that bad,” said Crow, “I’m still here, aren’t I? Besides,
this look of burnt to a crisp charred black is rather fashionable in the long run, eh?
So, what’s the harm?”
“Do what you want,” said Mr. Bones. “No way I want to talk you out of it.
But, I’m curious. . . . what’s the big motivation to fly to the sun all of a sudden.”
“I don’t know,” said Crow, “I mean, you gotta do something, right?
You gotta do something. . . . I’m down here–– the sun is up there––
I think it’s time to tango.” And then Crow flew, straight up, to the top
of the sky.
invisible matters as
smoke swirls up into the light
of another nightclub dream.
no clear destination
only fantasy of something like happiness
or bliss or maybe just victory.
fire is as easy as the lighter in your jacket pocket
but then the conversation is a maze of clever
double entendres and innuendos.
eventually it all becomes blurry and magical––
things go the way they will go, no one can predict it exactly,
and then it is morning again.
what does any of it have to do with me
I live in the house of ashes
it is so cold I can see my breath when I snore
the air barely moves and all that changes is the dust
I live among the memories and echos
invisible but as solid as bricks
I remember love and the fire and the embers
I remember blazes and sound waves and confusion
I remember a sweet soft settling like flowers on the floor
the curtains were drawn and the light became translucent
my thoughts became like wires tangling themselves under the desk
I’m not sure it matters but every now and then I open a window
and throw a piece of paper down to the street.
snow dropped down my back sliding down warm skin sending shock wave and
laughter a little or a lot and
wasn’t expecting that. but. yes. was expecting that.
quite obvious really. the mischief and predictability of the order of things.
I was dreaming.
I was dreaming I was alone in a snowy desert on top of a hill, with a sled
in my hands and about to slide down, fully focused on the ride when,
the sensation of the snow on my skin down my spine woke me up.
And where was I then. I was alone in a snowy desert on top of a hill, with
empty hands, empty arms. Spinning around and around. Hearing something.
Another voice. It was laughing or crying, or both at the same time.
second call lightning bolt
cut by cocktail
Ice caps at the airport bar
waiting to taxi the pain–
stolen moments in front of
another television snowstorm
after the channel
goes off air