Winding down with a
cold glass of milk and a
hand full of chips that have
fallen on the floor and a
cookie for desert
and the Tonight show on the
Television.
Shut The Fuck Up Leno.
*click*
(This marks the 1,000th post on The Sieve and The Sand.)
inborn function
provision unction
conjunction junction
its true what they say you know
you cant just go around
creating and recreating
and rerecreating new wordsies
people notice
fight back and
disappreciate your fine arts
music pulses and
people emerge from houses
when winter turns its back.
Don’t eat the peanuts
unless you’ve got an iron gullet
or don’t fear death
or at least Salmonella.
You know,
Turtles have Salmonella on their
shells,
but they do just fine as turtles.
And anyway, Salmonella is just a
Virus.
Do you know how small a
Virus is?
though short lived
thou wert nice
and a brief glimpse
of the freedom
that couldest be,
glimpsed from afar
from my pseudo-job
maybe i’m weird because
i don’t believe in stories
or i’m probably a complicated
asshole or something worse
and if i had all the money
you know good god i’d spend it
and ride some epic binges
all the way into a herse
i think you can point fingers
and throw mud on the canvas
keep sticking your ideas
in the sky made of brick
but i intend to be open
fields of green and digging
at the truth beneath all
of you institutionalists
my friend says he cannot stand next to ledges
for fear someday out of curiosity
he’ll simply leap without considering the
consequences
my fear lies more in the thought
that somewhere out there
people are standing next to ledges
and i’ll be curious if they’re ticklish
behind the knees
soon the end will come
and then where will we be
when all of the boasting
and all of the toasting
has reached the end
forevernevermore
and never comes again
forevernevermore
around me,
i watch everything happening
knowing that it affects others,
cerebrally but not experientially,
feeling secure within my monetary safe,
while the world around
begins to burn.
you are alive
and you are real
and you have feelings
because you’re real
and all these people
they are real
and they are breathing
because they’re real
you see buildings
they are real
they have windows,
which are real
you’re stealing words
which aren’t real
from real artists,
your ideal
the wind is blowing
it is real
on this planet
which is real
slowly spinning
like a wheel
through a void
a void is real
all these people
they are real
and they are walking
on a wheel.
my home of eternal night
lit not by moon or sun or stars
or anything at all of right
but this time there is hope
i can see it like light
glowing two years
maybe three
from now
The man with the trumpet
said it best:
“Welcome to Beale Street folks. If you
don’t get it here,
You’re better off
Without it”
florescent radioactive sugar poison
my tongue embraces you as though
you do not claim to be an earthworm
i’ll suck you sugar free before
you’re swallowed and your friends
are pursued in the same manner
i like to follow hearts
to wherever they go
’till they crash
in some firey mess
down the middle of the
street where i am
surely walking
like bogart.
on top of snake mountain
prayer flags wrapped on stones
raise hopes to false gods
friendship is discussed
basked in sunshine then
our knees rattle
the whole way home
taking us shaking
past restaurants serving
dog hoping they dont
beat them before they serve
them to soften the meat
with adrenaline as we’ve
heard
knowing snake mountain
is headless
as it failed to devour
the city
Walking Softly in the
House the King built.
Not that king, the other king,
and not that house, the other house.
Nope, not the hill,
on the corner,
just down the road from
The Daisy.
Strapping up,
plugging in,
click click click BANG
And then, there was Music
in the House that the King built.
The other king
Beat feet across
hard cement walks
and painted-on
crosswalks and
‘it’s only a half-mile
in to town’ becomes
‘we can almost see
the sign on the
Horizon’
But the cops have
nothing against
Three White Boys
on the east side
of Downtown
memphis
what is real and what is right,
i wish you’d sleep with me tonight
and appease this passing fantasy,
from which reason and thought do flee.
i’ve been waiting for my
train to come
afraid it’s been here
all along
i know my life’s no
picnic in a field
but i also know
i’m wrong
bob builds his
buildings all in the way
i could clearly see
past them any day
it’s not as hard
as i’d like it to be
exactly why i
couldn’t say
It’s colder than it should be but
not colder than I’m used to so
I wander through the city streets
and people point and laugh
And the smells and sounds are beautiful
But the wind cuts deep and scarcely I
have enough time to disappear
behind the safe enclosure of
yet another
Rib Joint
the sieve and the sand 
You must be logged in to post a comment.