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.
balderdash horatio jitters out front dancing to the raindrops.
every second syllable is like some leggy filly full of spice and vinegar.
i step out into the moonlight and the howling begins before i’m even thinking.
neighbors close their windows and disconnect thier phones, oh wait, they can’t do that anymore.
the century is changing color like a clear glass of water with a new drop of red ink every 5 minutes.
the trees look sleepy and peaceful wearing the misty morning but they live so long what would i know.
finally something and then something else but once again it is only the beginning of the mystery.
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.
Myself in a shell of television.
Another manikin football game
very savory cigarette wine
running like a river down
stand people screaming
this is part of a big old
stadium collective they want
one sided windows & have
one deal only.
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
weather like a device to
make him break open and confess.
desire like the drop of water
that splits the boulder in half.
watching the kaleidoscope of his
personalities fly by––
how could they all be so different,
inside the same mind.