March 8, 2017
young acidTongued Erato,
go forward yr foul followThrough,
spitWhisper her cryptic figures.
i’d dampen the barb,
reshapened of fogWebs.
i’ll soften all blows against the liveWire
i’ll try to translate all i need
from freed ashes
from the spillFree gashes in the flare’s hottest fireGrate.
If I could face the palace/Going holed up in a hotel/Is not one way I’d go
March 3, 2017
Still and night wind/
And still standing in/ Deep in the shadow end/
Waiting in the wading pool To see my moon bounce to me some/
Wait! At the airport bar the atmosphere swooned bountiful/
Maybe sating metaphoring mating whoring fourth down plays/
Bountifully Enhanced Last Chancing that face it, basicly it’s too late not to dare/
Back here I’m not so rough, I swoon my own way, I tarry, and my moon’s enough
(photo credit/Jared French/ Clinton)
.mangata: reflection of the moon on the sea at night (Swedish)
February 28, 2017
She goes shy of the very shadows;
completely infused in first section hard-copy news,
She peruses column leads,
Refusing all too-sad reads.
Usually my views.
So sure you got some guy here who’s seriously shy
To fill skies with a gloom-jam just eye-jabbed in.
It can kill a guy.
But the goo you stand up against and
The two tons of blue mood you face
Too often. Too fierce to soften & go.
This man here could not just stand there,
She can’t relate
To the cinema I saw so late
She says they blur more black than white.
She says they end not..just not right.
February 24, 2017
Neruda’s “impalpable ash”
In the fray of my own tiny ruins.
“If I touch/ near the fire/
And supports the clearing away all
Makes way to take less blinding steps away
From cave to climax
I’ve come to have left out
Crucial rescue tools
From my matutinal
Lost-combination locked bag of tricks.
In touch information.
(3 yrs back)
February 23, 2017
February 22, 2017
Stoicism is a prison/
Though I break out/
Though I break down/
Through the pull of a merciful act/
I can be old and too weak to hold back/
I can imagine a troubled
panicked angel tangled double;
One cat caught in a grate/
A girl unfair in a wheelchair/
Nears and dares her balance, her endurance, her tolerance/
She Strains all of her weight/
She shows the pain that she’s used to on her face/
and they’re both free
She and the cat both refuse to
Like those that might see
February 16, 2017
how Art thou? Do you drink from the deep sink of inspired creations at an art museum, gallery, or maybe a street art fair on a street near you?sometimes?
Do you have something on one of your walls that only you could only fall for?
And, can’t help but stare?
It’s an important thing,dontcha think?
It has been from an early age for me.
I’m told that soon after I found my father who had killed himself (the Hemingway), while all the distraught adults who knew and loved him were off balance with emotional and practical adjustments (like selling the house and moving on)
One forgotten first son had got into several paint cans and expressed quite a colorful statement on the backside of the new house for sale.
I was perched high for me
in a pinepitchtree
and waited out what I did
as I watched our house’s back side
where I painted from all the paint cans
stacked out back. Though very new plans
made us move away from that life.
Daddy had died and left that life.
Somebody and something could only cover
a french girl with hair from the girl in Breathless
was our art teacher that visited
Miss Blue’s 3rd grade class,
and liked my painting so much
she asked if she could take it
for a contest, or a book she was working on.
The blurry greens and blacks,
browns and blues, was a ship deep in a storm.
I never saw it again but
somebody and something could only recover
still, tie me to the mast.
I must get the next good grasp
still, the next limb up
to see some.