Cue cool breeze cutting
through the damp clothes and
knocking hats to flying
and men to running after
hats
and cue the lightening
just before the thunder in
the distance, and yet
always moving closer
to the running and the
flying and the cueing
and the cussing and then
scene
i’d like to stand in awe
but i feel standing irreverent
given the weight of your presence
rain comes slowly
regardless of it’s speed.
It always sweeps so
deliberately, so
absolutely over
any piece of land
that it so chooses.
But it is the rain.
It will dampen and
drench and muddy
and make difficult to drive
but it is the rain
and only fools
can drown in it.
there are at least 2,752
reasons to remember
never let our defenses down
to enlist to prevent to
cock the gun pull the trigger
let the end justify the means
wave flags from every window to
call for the heads of those who plotted
who plot who still thirst and hunger and strap
bombs to themselves in the name of some god
or another
but
there are at least 2,752
reasons to remember
that when the call devolves from
cry to battle cry death leads
to death
why can’t we remember it’s fiction that
defeated factions fall into submission and forget
their pain their hatred their revenge for the sake of safety?
why can’t we remember the man who’s lost his brother the mother
who’s lost her son the lover who’s lost love by bomb or bullet
breathes eats drinks
sleeps thinks speaks death?
so
let’s love without hatred
live without revenge
remember the lives of those we loved
without forgetting we just can’t go on
this way
There is a monster in my bedroom
locked there every morning until
every evening when I let him free.
He is all the things I did not do
and every ‘I forgot’ and ‘maybe tomorrow’
and ‘I’ll find time this Saturday’
and he is a monster.
Thank goodness I have made
to lock him up each day, or
surely he’d have killed me.
He’d kill us all, I’m sure.
But he has not breached
my sturdy bedroom lock,
nor has he made to open
one of the many windows
(and just as well, for
ground-floor is not so
great a leap).
He is a monster, and he is
locked in my bedroom every
morning until every evening
when I let him free.
I’m not looking at the clock
except maybe on birthdays.
Working hard, but
for a limited time only.
For seventy or so years I’ll labor,
and then I’m going home.
And at home is where
I’ll shed my clothes,
shed my skin,
shed my muscles,
shed my bones.
I’ll sit at the table.
We’ll all sit around the table,
like a giant family reunion.
We’ll bow our heads and say grace,
and I’ll hold hands with my Father.
Rasputin stares at the cold cold ground
and Rasputin walks around
with a sword in his walkingstick
and a bottle-opener in his bible
Rasputin walks around on the ground
Rasputin cast a spell on his stereo
and Rasputin never lets a record spin
but he listens patiently
for the music he would like to see
Rasputin walks around on the ground
i am god and god is a wolf
birthing everything to have
it eaten
and in my hands is destruction
and in my head is the destroyer
of what is good
or what i love, at least
the hunger pains they
ebb and flow
and i doubt its worth
as there is no finality
to be found
forever hunting
Free-styling,
Free-wheeling,
spilling out impromptu thoughts
that somehow fit,
that somehow hint
at an intelligence greater
or a greater intelligence,
whichever the case may be
in which the mystery
is somehow solved
of how to not make an ass,
whilst standing on stage.
The mood gets heavier
just as the curtains close
on the window to the world,
blocking and blurring the
big back yard of ours
by vision only.
The rodents sleep deep
and underground, while
the dogs and deer and things
roam and wander overland,
looking up now and then
at the great birds flying.
But the mood is the important thing,
and I can hardly lift it
when those curtains are shut.
no, I can hardly make
anything better
inside.
Her marble features,
An angelic patina.
But with deeper eyes,
A window to the within.
Like broken porcelain
Pieced back together,
Still ceaselessly fractured
By hairlines whispering
Of a previous break.
gaudy curves that seemed filled
with sugar
perfect like the rolling hills
of tennessee, only pleasantly
excessive
lawless dark brown hair
matching her face
with metal pertruding
through her lower-left lip
she was lost, her figure
filling out a mold made
from fantasties grown stale
and muddied by years
of dissilusionment
and cold
and in the middle of
directing her to muskegon,
after my eyes had travelled the
breadth of her voluptious
body, i told her about it
i told her about her beauty,
i said “you’re gorgeous…
by the way”
and she paused
smiling
with one foot out the door
and didn’t say thanks
she left me for muskegon
with something hidden
inside of a smile and
a pause
perfect like a picture
i cant feel my toes when
i numb them from the run from my
fears which i hope i can escape in
this here present reality. the naturally
deposited ground would feel gritty
if my feet were any more capable
of feeling but instead the sandpaper
texture turns silk and the catharsis
from the pain i attempt to induce
becomes something much more like
a back rub or lullaby slowly rocking me
to sleep.
the autmn decent
chills my chemical roots
and i’m
falling through the smoke
shedding weight to
diminish the rate
this is it
it reminds me of you
take another drag
close eyes
hide
It all worked out so perfectly
with the storm lifting
the fever breaking
the cough enduring
the drizzle coming now-and-then
with just enough body aches
and mud-puddles to know
that what had happened
had happened, and
we can’t change the past
but we can better the future.
Except when it comes to
bad weather and
flu viruses.
