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.”
April 21, 2017
Please presume It’s unsure for you as well
Assume We’re leaning
(an intangible caress)
I lean into
The careening custody of my mess.
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 24, 2017
Neruda’s “impalpable ash”
In the fray of my own tiny ruins.
“If I touch/ near the fire/
And supports the clearing away all
Makes way to take less blinding steps away
From cave to climax
I’ve come to have left out
Crucial rescue tools
From my matutinal
Lost-combination locked bag of tricks.
In touch information.
(3 yrs back)
February 14, 2017
Eyes out to recognize passion:
It’s flatbacked against a dark wall
In the basement, burrowing deeper into sad shadow.
I’d bet it’s hiding some, a child’s cruel game.
When people see they’re empty
They write in to newspapers & ask real advice,
Exposing & espousing about
“Spicing up” their love lives.
Girls & boys buying new nightclothes,
Sex-scents, and other eaus,
Bought to butter up their battered beaus,
Enhancing romance drugs
From teevee, junk mail,
And toys that are tools
For fixing whats failed.
Someone new/ anything new.
Venture steps forward
Away from the old?
Nature’s warmblooded creatures
Home in on settleings less cold.
love is stages of undress”
. (from 2009)
February 8, 2017
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)
January 26, 2017
If I should shift off my myth-making, not forsaking my pathos,
I could concede defeat on conceits I’ve concealed,
Turn tail on my inner errant paths,
& Find my feet, for far, afield.
January 13, 2017
1 ONE WINTER ADDITION
teachers to small children
the world over
pastors to parish
they all will tell the pretty truth
(aside the pretty lies, “pretty lies”)
that crystalline snowflakes
are unique. unique.
and maybe later in both
and sunday school classes
(and in all their varieties the world over)
small children might make snowflakes for themselves
they’ll fold lacy paper exactly in half
with a good crease
and taking their round-ended scissors
they’ll cut their very own unique cuts
so that when everyone unfolds their lacy paper
and lifts it above their heads
everyone can laugh at their uniquenesses
but one thing that ministers & mentors
rabbis & nuns will fail to add
is that those one-of-a-kind snowflakes
in their descent
on icy black currents
all their night fall
2 STILL, NOT STILL
It’s the coldest morning this year
And the Farmer’s Almanac says this year
There’s gonna be a winter of ’em
Me, I won’t mind
I like how loud the still is
forty years ago a brother from Chicago
called the cold wind
I wonder if it’s still true
I wonder if “that muthafuckin Hawk”
is still cursed & bundled against
in the only city cited for its big blow.
When island settings lose their place
When our mornings sun there
warms our skin, bare,
There’s these shade floral sanctuaries,
And, I’m betting, perfect for setting your eyes on…
God’s perfect line, one horizon.
When all won’t free you,
Won’t call you from all this freezing
Point of view,
This illusionary season,
(from a decade ago)