My uneasy manner may wear
Against a midnight and on
Persistent are
Green bottle shards

again & again
Against a reef

a Lighthouse
over sees

yet overlooks

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G A U G E S

September 11, 2018

 

 

“Life is short, and Art long; the crisis fleeting; experience perilous, and decision difficult.” -Hippocrates

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.“In the fog you are sheltered against the outside world, face to face with your inner self. Nebulat ergo cogito.” (fog therefore I think) -Umberto Eco
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There’s fog.
Then, there’s people landing planes at all hours.
There’s dogs chasing birds
on runways. And one way those people in those towers
can plan to, and see to, land planes is
the guts to go with the gauges.
They heartfelt  dealt with data,
Trusted all they’d seen
on their farforeign &; onlyman-made monitor screen.
As dogs flushed their fog,
hands hover over lights
and cover their old bets,
their usual action.
,
, from 2009

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

My Lofty Thoughts

November 24, 2017

It’s not been my story   to take inventory/

It’s  I can’t even fake  the worry

About what I have, What would I want/

I suppose  I could pose  but I can’t/

It’s  said/

An  unexamined  life

Is  good  as  dead/

I said/

It’s  a body afloat, & its solid thoughts  float too, y’know/

& My Lofty thoughts  not  caught  oughta ride

On all tides too  High and low

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.                                                                        (from way back)

SHE WAS THE FIRST TO GO

August 18, 2017

 

 

 

It might have been one long neon light

In the laundromat that set her off

When it flickered & popped

At us/ All of us 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, also  our magazines

Her  saying all that nonsense  fouled by fire

Interrupted  that late night scene

Her  calling  names  out

All intense,  Her pleas

We stared some  & stuck out that someone’d stop her

Her call to fallen reveries

Her  own  effin reveries

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(2012)

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.

OF FINAL NIGHTS

July 16, 2017

 

 

 

The taste of  spray,

Back splayed against the lighthouse wall,

Is saltier/ The roar of  final nights

Saddled on sea wall gusts

Is Fiercer/ When strength one requires

To withstand and understand  such threats

Is steadier/ The beacon’s cliff path

Is grounds for  light/

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(from 2011)

 

from Dark

June 14, 2017

I’ll start.  It’s so dark you’ll know

Your thefts of thoughts

There  left to grow

Then grabbed!

Black  blossoms

Profuse

Still proceeding from its seeds  plus

Silence, from its silence.

.

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Upon  a  pond

Where big calm mists meet surfaces

Water bug clouds  dance down aways

And I stand to see through tree trances

This moon is broken enough to lend to substance

For  near and far bearings,  distances,

And  at first. existences.

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I swear here’s where the strings swell in

 

ASSIGNMENT BLAME

May 23, 2017

paper_stacks_by_tamsone-dq1d9a

Still nights I will not change I will cringe

I’m tightly bound to make  my inner fringe

Break down  in private next door rooms

They’ll up & drop tears  from my say  they assume

I’ve meant no harm  though my charm

Might be misplaced /  an anvil fills my frail arms

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“The Artist’s Dream” by Emil Holarek

Emil Holarek

B U R D E N S

May 18, 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PETITIONS

“The blind man loves you with his eyes, the deaf man with his music.  The hospital, the battlefield, the torture room, serve you with numberless petitions. On this most ordinary night, so bearable, so plentiful in grave distractions, touch this worthless ink, this work of shame. Inform me from the great height of your beauty.”

-Leonard Cohen, “Petitions”, from Death Of A Ladies Man

 

 

 

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U N B U R D E N E D

One  way  to  be  unburdened

Might be   small talk, not hearsay,

A  Big-hearted  acumen,

Bare  arms,  &  mercy