Please presume It’s unsure for you as well

Assume  We’re leaning

Into Leaving

(an intangible caress)

I lean into

The careening custody  of my mess.

1 PART ALONE

October 27, 2016

 

 

 

“Where will I be  When I go back home?

Who will I see  When I’m all alone?

And What’ll I do?”

–David Crosby, from “Where Will I be?”

.

.

The main I’ve heard

Is that people want a partner

“So I don’t die alone”

,

umm, I Embrace,  Tho’ waste,  my own time.

.

At the end of all my nights

I might had been clean & clever enough

For her to had laughed, and had left

Her hand on my thigh

As I wait down the night sky

Toughening up for day.

A D A P T I O N

July 31, 2016

 

 

Ink can slip onto  and stain a page

I think it might permeate a world around

It that can see it then re-see it  new

and adapt it to a stage.

The symbals clash, the lights rush up. Both Astound

A staring crowd.    So start up yr. casual

Stroll from the wings, not forgetting yr. casual

Role.

 

 

.

.

(from 6 yrs ago)

S P L A S H

May 15, 2016

 

flying things instinctively know

to dry out their wings, first,

to try out their wings, & go.

 

surfacing a splendid splash,

surviving a fearful fall and crash,

take time off  to dry off &

shake off the surprise of failure.

wake up  and walk off what,

and where you are

before  you forget to prepare for it

all  to dare

the first time,  again.

 

.

.

.

.                                             (FROM 2009)

BEFORE AUTHENTICITY

May 2, 2016

There’s wait  then it’s takes eight hands to handle a casket

There’s swearing  at yr insides/ & for authorities

There’s wait  when you take yr few dreams to task

Then sweating out all yr insides  before authenticity

OFF/ON

April 27, 2016

 

 I have staved off   lost passions

 I’ve held on cold cliff holds

I stayed and endured elements,

Harsh and all part of a hard whole

Where   lost passions

Sounding far, in the fog,

Meaning more  in a quiet man

Than a kind word,

Can  work

To urge  his stoic stand

On

.

.

.

.
                                                                         (from 2009)

 

ADVENTUALLY

December 24, 2015

“the inevitability of
heart death and heart soar and heart sick and heart ache..”

-Evelyn Adams/

https://tenaciousiceberg.wordpress.com/2015/12/04/writers-wall-as-tall-as-the-sky/

.

It could be worst

When I would hear

It from good sources,

Maybe a back-alley liar.

His last words.

.

Not a sliver as clever as Wilde,

But ever so slightly, absolutely abstract & absurd

His last words

Might all have been,  “I’ve waited. Awhile.

All night. Save dawn. I’ve waited. Until

Watching was silly.

No cues came. No signs sang.

No news hit the front porch.

I waited & watched.

I still wait for bell rang.

I still hold a torch.

CRUMBLED

November 19, 2015

 

 

 

It’s more than coincidence how

That “pillow”  rhymes/w  “shadow”.

If I had to,

& the sense  to know,

I’d set dark dreams aside.

If I lied some, & thought things

As tied up,

I’d fake it some, I’d hope

For a wide enough break,

& loose rope,

& in this broken cup

I hold my spirits up.

.

.

.Heraclitus: “. the essence of things has the habit to hide”

 

“Very little grows on jagged rock/Be grounded/Be crumbled/

So wildflowers will come up”          -Rumi

.

.

.

.

(from years ago)

CommOnnuique’

October 4, 2015

While you come out and say

You might await some communique’

I might just wait some

To formulate  some take on

Raw data  streaming onto the tarmac

(Surreally As filmstrip spills off a reel)

This all filling files somewhere

There must be plenty

Taking place.

.

Night, when there might have been plenty

Taking place

I escaped unscathed, tho’ scattered

It remains to be seen & heard

If I would make  it matter

It can be  there may be  plenty

Taking place.

.

.

.

(from 2012)

J U S T

May 9, 2015

I.     Lost

.

For now, awhile, I won’t let you pull me from the wreckage

But, how  you hold my hand, for both of us

Until the jaws of life  arrives/

Tho’ I’m not at a lost of words, I’m lost

In thought, “I’m lost”, I thought,

“And hiding from the hidden costs.”

.
 II.  Birdsong
.

I’ll dare to speak of sparrows

in shrapnel filled WW I battlefield winds,

in sharp scarlet dawns

they’ll sing to find their kind

if they’ve  lived,

a song will find its way back,

between the  blood & budding daybreak

.
   III.    J U S T
.

it could be/ a branch of a tree

perched at a high hill

would have a new bud  just

breaking through/ it would be just for you

and in time  a blossom. You’d just

lift yr arm up/ and pull it down/ just in time

to drink it through

with yr deepest stealing breath.///

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