MY OWN PARADE

April 18, 2017

 

Walking, mostly neat in clockwork close meter,

Warmer ghosts  from my former  features;

All the roles, All the resume’,

Falling in line,  Just the crew to rescue me.

Faded as sad old soldiers, parted.

(Vain fantasies say  old glories stay guarded)

Again, always, They had  heaved it all in a heavy chest.

Again, always, they had heaved in their chest

Taking it to heart & head.

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I’ll call it for you  my own VFW

hall. I have my own tall tales to tell,

We’ll share lies, & libations.

I’ll wear my  mightier  pen.

I’ll share  sham wisdom  wide open.

But first, false memories in verse.

& what’s worst,  I’ll con, & confide  open.

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“I’m ready to go anywhere/ I’m ready for to fade/ Into my own parade”

—————-Dylan (the troubadour one), from “Mr. Tambourine Man”

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“Every hero  becomes a bore,  at last.”  -Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

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.                                                                                                                       (5 yrs back)

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C O L O R S

January 11, 2014

I got word from my brother,

A suggestion from one lover;

It’s a fine time to fill in those spaces,

I’ll take on cyber lawyers, to fill out a cyber will.

Cards splayed out on the table,

A gasp goes down  ’round the drawn crowd,

As they turn to peak at my color

Already leaking from my face. They cannot wait.

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And I turn up  to seek her colour,

Already flushing her chest and cheek.

I can very hardly wait

She’ll  start  to  try  to  speak…

And I’ll find and see

All in all, the riches mined & left shining

After finalities,

Are just filthy lucre

Aside memories

 

 

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 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 & loved him were off balance with emotional & practical adjustments (like selling the house and moving on)
a 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
that 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 in a storm.
I never saw it again but
somebody and something could only recover
that work.

still, tie me to the mast.

and

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

I.

always, it was his alleys  to town

then, streetlighted streets  through and through town

then, Dawn’s alleys all the way, aways and up  from downtown

II.

call off yr search

It’s all been a hoax

I haven’t been far

I have only been barely fair

I’ve barely fought my fog-like fugue

It’s hugely due to pointless and errant

innertubing,  buoyant

On turbulent,   or at least

Aimless  sees

A FOND, OLD, FARAWAY ROOM

October 24, 2012

“Anyone who falls in love is searching for the missing pieces of themselves.  So anyone who’s in love gets sad when they think of their lovers.  It’s like stepping back inside a room you have fond memories of. One you haven’t seen in a long time…”

“.. A fond, old, faraway room?”

“Exactly.”

-from “Kafka On The Shore”, Hanuki Murakami

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We mind that there mustn’t be dust

On those closed blinds.

Behind  those  blinds,

We  find  us.

We find ourselves  salving

Our sore selves,

Saving  us  so

Fleetingly.   Completely.

And after each chapter,

Which did us delirious,

It can be  meant as some payment,

It can serve to defray..

It can’t save us, when in a night and a day,

without fail, We derail.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I choose the rooms that I live in with care,
the windows are small and the walls almost bare,
there’s only one bed and there’s only one prayer;
I listen all night for your step on the stair”

Leonard Cohen, from “Tonight Will be Fine”

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It might have been  one long light

In the laundromat that set her off

When it flickered & popped

Everyone up late

Our eyes were hypnotized some

All bets were off

On what might happen

She was the first to go

To distract us from our books & hand-machines,

Pull us from our puzzles, same, our magazines

Her  saying all that nonsense

Interrupted that late night scene

Her calling names out

All intense, her pleas

We stared some & stuck out someone’d stop her

Her call to fallen reveries

Her own effin reveries

Old Movies

March 15, 2011

The contract’s  been settled

Just lacking the signatures

Our sold childhood home

We’re  taking the figurines

As is”  assisted us some

Their testings  so thorough

I kidded  “Where did the body go?”

They paid  wire guys, fire guys,

Paid pipe men, insect, & inspect men

& I don’t think they found

What we lost there

Those scenes there have escaped

The theater there.

BEAUTY AND BLACK

January 20, 2011

If you’re too tired to talk

If it’s too late for listening

My little time to tell you

But I think  I just must  tell you both

My dreams were dark   no  darker

Much darker than your bedroom

I’m afraid  and I need to tell you

I want to tell you to hug me

And to let me under your blankets.

One morning I saw you and they were off

I stood  and  stared

You were the very best thing I ever saw

Both of you were so good   I cried.

I don’t want to wake you

Just my little time to tell you  both

My dreams were dark   no   darker.

Honky Tonk & Poetry

October 1, 2009

My memory and Ann Arbor holds dear to its temporary possession of this place in the 70’s,  a way cool midwest  college town version of one right as rain  honky tonk  joint in heaven, “Mr. Flood’s Party” it was called.

It was named after a poem. I need to dedicate the reading of this thing to the spirit of Jerry Jeff Walker, Gram Parsons,& Lucinda Williams.  Here’s to ya then 

   MR. FLOOD’S PARTY       -EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON

Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night
Over the hill between the town below
And the forsaken upland hermitage
That held as much as he should ever know
On earth again of home, paused warily.
The road was his with not a native near;
And Eben, having leisure, said aloud,
For no man else in Tilbury Town to hear:

“Well, Mr. Flood, we have the harvest moon
Again, and we may not have many more;
The bird is on the wing, the poet says,
And you and I have said it here before:
Drink to the bird.” He raised up to the light
The jug that he had gone so far to fill,
And answered huskily: “Well, Mr. Flood,
Since you propose it, I believe I will.”

Alone, as if enduring to the end
A valiant armor of sacred hopes outworn,
He stood there in the middle of the road
Like Roland’s ghost winding a silent horn.
Below him, in the town among the trees,
Where friends of other days had honored him,
A phantom salutation of the dead
Rang thinly till old Eben’s eyes were dim.

Then, as a mother lays her sleeping child
Down tenderly, fearing it may awake,
He set the jug down slowly at his feet
With trembling care, knowing that most things break;
And only when assured that on firm earth
It stood, as the uncertain lives of men
Assuredly did not, he paced away,
And with his hand extended paused again:

“Well, Mr. Flood, we have not met like this
In a long time; and many a change has come
To both of us, I fear, since last it was
We had a drop together. Welcome home!”
Convivially returning with himself,
Again he raised the jug up to the light;
And with an acquiescent quaver said:
“Well, Mr. Flood, if you insist, I might.

“Only a very little, Mr. Flood—
For auld lang syne. No more, sir; that will do.”
So, for the time, apparently it did,
And Eben evidently thought so too;
For soon amid the silver loneliness
Of night he lifted up his voice and sang,
Secure, with only two moons listening,
Until the whole harmonious landscape rang—

“For auld lang syne.” The weary throat gave out,
The last word wavered; and the song being done,
He raised again the jug regretfully
And shook his head, and was again alone.
There was not much that was ahead of him,
And there was nothing in the town below—
Where strangers would have shut the many doors
That many friends had opened long ago.