April 21, 2017
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)
April 8, 2017
An imaginary friend, a French kid, he calls
(They call the wind mistral)
All the Northern winter wind..mistral.
En Francais, one says, Eventhough baby jesus…
Creche shepherds are threatened by mistral.
They hold on to their hats, insteada solomnly go
Doffing their fuckin desert chapeaux.
March 22, 2017
West, we rode & wrested away of, save the olde facades of Savannah.
When in Jesus-sodden Southern Georgia
Some sign solomn told me “try him”,
I ran & ran that mantra by
& waited ’till my lips straightened.
Here, I take my sweet (& dear, fleeting) time
Rake up raw data…
I’m readyish I guess for you to take my order
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.
February 10, 2017
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
February 4, 2017
“May our miracles
…Not be cruel.”
I tipped my head up,
Away from my novel.
From some televangelistic
Noise at the end of Pop’s assisted-living room.
The old & Southern bible guy
Was odd about numbers, too.
Not magic mathematics about chapters & verse,
But worse, what words add up to,
& seven is this
& five is that.
His numbers were different from mine.
Maybe, I was getting it wrong.
The old & Southern crowd was all nodding.
It takes a stadium.
Tho’ mostly sure that’s it.
(7 yrs back)
August 8, 2016
“It’s a desperately vexatious thing, that after all one’s reflections and quiet determinations, we should be ruled by moods that one can’t calculate on beforehand.” ―
George Eliot, Adam Bede
She’s pulling up stakes.
For fulfilling dreams wait for her there.
Somewhere else. Somewhere farther
From this dry dream here.
I love her so I can let it go.
From two hundred to twelve hundred
Miles to walk, away.
It stands to reason that
I understand It’s a good plan to move,
It gets me in the throat.
I could call it logical.
I get it./ We’ve yet to use unwise love.
“I’ve got a good hooded coat.”
I guess it makes some sense.
It gets me to make no move.
It got me in my throat.
It’s all a saddish & maddening wishing well.
I’m still a man
Who can sit so still
July 16, 2016
A different diffident is afoot.
But still when all’s been said
But still not done,
When waiting was a silent art worth it.
Now acting up mustn’t be shushed.
Not a tragedy of errors.
I’m fit to plot my way by fears,
By mist-led thoughts, clear by hushed omens,
Past icons, on through all the usual cues,
On to unknown, outta town one way roads. less lost
June 20, 2016
I can’t transfix my P.O.V.
I can’t transfix enough.
I can remix some sub dubbed copy.
I’ll crop the stills until they’re still enough
June 15, 2016
When told Fool’s Gold is all that
When it’s anything but,
Instead of taking out yr wallet for faking out
Don’t make out that yr already over the ruse
Wontcha smile (finally, fer christsakes) and refuse.
Smile and refuse