I SEE MY PRE-DOOM ROOM

July 24, 2017

 

 

I sweat my bed.

I do all  but dread  there,

One hundred undraped  dreamscapes.

I’d replay and replay

Heaven’s elevator tunes on tape.

Is it true  I did

Fluid-loss & exhaustion,

All that turning and tossing?

I sweat my bed.

First thing is shower head to head,

It takes cold water to weigh

This old man awake to stay down,

Away from high ground.

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I’d  walked  hard

To find my feet,

To find a way unled

In this far town.

Winds of that farthest town

Of hers are zephyrean dread.

BOWIE

January 11, 2016

 

bowie does Jacque Brel in 73/ RIP, M’MainMan

 

 

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MAN DOWN

January 9, 2016

He’d foreseen that

At the time that  the finest human being

He’d known

Had gone

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He must run,

Walk from his home,

His people,

His work for money,

& Leave  to somehow grieve.

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He’d get to his strongest car

Make it pull him somewhere North

Resist  radio music/ Go  raw/

Shunning  distraction/No drink/

Long as he could go

As  long  as    Merciful

Quiet   come

 

 

 

 

It started with you and I hurrying to catch a just waiting old bus. We’re loaded with bags & bundles. The archaic bus starts to move away then stops for us. We step up, an older unlikely looking driver, a short, shaggy grey haired woman in a smock-like shift is standing, away from the wheel, welcomes us. There’s room for us to sit on opposite sides of somehow open area in the center of this crowded bus. We let down our loads. The woman behind the seat i drape my coat on become obviously relieved when I re-drape it so it doesn’t drape into her space.

The train/bus moves and mainly flushed imagery outside the windows move by and demand my attention away from your smile & nod across the way/ you’re in a place just off the windowed panorama./ Soon I call over, “Look Dear, the city we love”/ & cimematically the chiaroscuro  of the lit skyline curves away.

Our clothes change to the clothes of a past time; cloth heavier, less well-fit, colors wrong./ Our bodies change./To strangers./ But we readily accept this subtle, bizarre shift. Images still slide by outside. After some time they stop. Our kindly driver is walking us up into an old shop of  older clothes. I undress completely to re-change, but the new clothes are newly ill-fitting. It seems that the proprietor of the place that it seems we’ve broken into is coming too quick so we rush to re-dress back into our less awkward costume. As odd, new bodies in old attire, we rush again back to our bus/train.

I’ve got a POV shot  to where you’re outside on a corner, and I’m inside without a word./ You’re queen-waving with a warmly resigned smile and I’m waving all the while./ Movement ramps up immensely./Leaning into windsweep/ Up on the front boat lip/ The oldest woman driver nods and calls over it all, something like (somehow) “Leap forth now!”

I swim in strong strokes. the waves are steady & uniform too.

I’m standing dressed but still looking like some one else,/ looking for someone else/ Others look unfamiliar/ face to face/ Then, someone I know,/ also bearing an older,different appearance/But I recognize her/ She calmly shows a shy smile./ Faces still proceed/ Like looking into a swirling dance room floor at a bustling Gala or ball./ I strain and strain again to re-see her./ But  awoke.

I’ve seeked and seen the one we lost this week.

 

THEN GRACIOUS PASSION

November 24, 2015

 

 

In a time  we hide

We vent, & veer off, She & I’d,

We could   hash out   the passions of  grief.

&  Briefly we’d agree that

Like artistic  admissions,

All  grievings are respectable, gracious, acceptable   passions.

(And if all would just go

and we’d accept them so…)

Oh, Then we two could  nearly see it how it  should go.

 

 

SILENT FOR INNOCENT

November 16, 2015

Agonizingly,  A  friend, and wise king,  He

Begged  for  his  life.

I woke  &  witnessed his naked strife.

As softly he spoke out his pleas,

Softer, I called my  “All Mercy”.

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If only,  as when our women grieve,

I should wear a veil, head bent.

I would shield  my  damning  grief,

And all my disillusionments.

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.                                                      (from at least 5 years back

I’m  m.mustly…/

I am stammering/ I must/ Fail to believe  it/

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Clamoring chime bells/ Of  mercy/

A Rhyming of rain & relief/

When paired/

W/ death’s despair/

It’s cleanly/ So messy/

Supremely/ good grief.

TENTATIVE

December 17, 2012

(AFTER MERELY 3 DAYS * NIGHTS OF UNFOCUSSED HEARTBREAK,

i NEED FOR THIS TO BE REPEATED)     

………….                  “TENTATIVE”

 

 

It’s a wild shame that  the same child

That’s able to verbalize,

That  can  say:

“Here today,

Gone tomorrow”

Is  so  fresh,

She shouldn’t.

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.                     No apologies to William Blake & all those tender, tentative 

songs of innocence

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may all young innocent victims of senseless violence Rest In Peace

jesus wept