SOME SKETCHY SANCTUM

December 4, 2017

 

Some seem to see the floor of the sea

as a sketchy, yet effective sanctuary.

They’re thinking, I think, that it’s tucked away

good. &  Could be quite quiet.

Sure would be  you’d dream good there.

Surely, it goes  you must breathe free much slower.

Sure,  bluegreen cracks for surface lightening.

But, You’ll see  that jeweled fishes,

Stilled  with  witness,

Flee at the softest flourish.

And bets are..sandbeds there are busy with movement.

How can my dreams take when I’m floating awake?

 

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Splash something stronger at the base of my pint glass

It’s  more  fertile  earth

For to birth the guts & gas

One might need at night

To go on   & drive clear off

Dark  high-wire  highways

Onto red dirt, rolling on cooling red dirt, to dead ends

So bleak  a laugh comes out as a clearing cough

RYE INROADS

August 4, 2017

On  inroads, scraping,

& Faced with less escaping;

One  reclamation.

.

.

I’ve  erased  all boasts

Of   encroaching  clarity.

Thought I’d caught a glimpse.

 

IF I MINDED

June 7, 2017

I’ve been biding my live time

My trivial “real”-life trials

All the challanges this chuff can ignore

All the more he might’ve  imagined

If i minded any more

For somehow here  and not

For somewhere not

RICHARDSON

April 27, 2017

 

” Had Richardson sat in the piercing shade…”

You’ll say,  “In lieu of  with us   in the

Cruel, as a rule, sun on us.

He’d, it’d suffice to say,  suffer less,   unless

It’d be meaningful to a man like him to  show.”

I’ll  go,  “Sure enough, he’ll tough it home to suffer,  tho’

I think that ,yes, later at  blackest ink late,

He’ll love chopping onions, through all of their skins,

To sweeten his red sauce.  String section perfecting chaos as its tuning just begins.

One escape, esconsed in wet white cotton drapings,

Kind  chimey  showers

Keep rhythms  in Richardson’s shapings.

They  can   steepen,   that man’s dreams’  healing powers.”

 

 

 

Please presume It’s unsure for you as well

Assume  We’re leaning

Into Leaving

(an intangible caress)

I lean into

The careening custody  of my mess.

 

 

An ordinary miracle

Might  make my day  good night.

An everyday freak  hailstorm

Should soften the  certain gravitas of  agony..

Would my monday to monday/ Gone on to a good gravy, when

My  dumptruck  of good luck   sails in?

All this will be laid to waste.

Then  strong  sprouts/ in not long/ will  no doubt

Green  the  place.

.

.

.

.

.

(5 yrs back)

 

 

 

 

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
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
my work.

II

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
my work.

 

 

still, tie me to the mast.

and

I must get the next good grasp
still, the next limb up
to see some.

C L U B R O O M

February 15, 2017

 

 

Wanda wanted a room

To tend to her wounds,

A room right

Door open to noirnight

Open enough not to catch her kite.

Her wounds would not be

Upon her face  facile to see.

Bruising blows  drubbing freedom

Inside, inside some

Clubroom.

..

 

 

 

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{to the rest of us that must  rest, too)

CONCISION IN THE COPSE

February 10, 2017

 

 

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If I lost strict control  some

I could prick all billion bubbles

If I left  my lost  some

I could remangle my mumbles

‘Till concision  at any cost cums

I’d come  to untangle dareknots

‘Till a guilt spilt relief

Stains the air & remains there