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 12, 2017
Blackened breezes rustle
Sacred/ olive trees, skies muscled thick.
I took a sight that set me more lost
More sour than seasick.
I see him, knees bloodied,
Face drawn/ down
I was being/ once/
Just a man also.
I spied/ by my back down
To my murk/
I cried/ by my own shadow,
But did not cry out,
To interrupt all that too intimate.
When I was a young/ more willful man,
I fasted/ from dawn friday
Until the last of easter/ Today
I’m past that/ I take the families
To the best italian place,
For sacrificial lamb & blood red wine
& all before that, maybe grace.
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 8, 2017
young acidTongued Erato,
go forward yr foul followThrough,
spitWhisper her cryptic figures.
i’d dampen the barb,
reshapened of fogWebs.
i’ll soften all blows against the liveWire
i’ll try to translate all i need
from freed ashes
from the spillFree gashes in the flare’s hottest fireGrate.
If I could face the palace/Going holed up in a hotel/Is not one way I’d go
February 23, 2017
February 22, 2017
Stoicism is a prison/
Though I break out/
Though I break down/
Through the pull of a merciful act/
I can be old and too weak to hold back/
I can imagine a troubled
panicked angel tangled double;
One cat caught in a grate/
A girl unfair in a wheelchair/
Nears and dares her balance, her endurance, her tolerance/
She Strains all of her weight/
She shows the pain that she’s used to on her face/
and they’re both free
She and the cat both refuse to
Like those that might see
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 8, 2017
February 6, 2017
When we get a might old & quite daft/
We better wear sweaters as we waffle whether there’s a cold air night draft/
When we don’t remember/ all the holidays in september/
When we won’t remember/ When the hearth needs more timber/
We’d do windows wide open mornings/ & doors too snow storming/
Fruit left last long past their sweet-point/
Just short of when vermin/ just cavort into the joint/
We’ll start to tell our dreams, last night/
It’s a cinch/ we’ll end on that rain-drenched island, right?/
We’ll toss & turn on real green moss/
& you can barely feel we’re wearing wet white/
On a hunch/ Our punchlines/ Without fail/ Will get filled in/
On a promise/ Our premises will trail off & off & off again/
We’ll lose the car keys of sensibility/
We’ll lose some to the dark scenes of seniority
We will never forget to never let go