Potholed road full busload, rumble cloud rain,
Hole in sky angers fly, groan they all in pain,
Flooded way joy at bay, no relief respite,
Begged it rain summer’s pain, scorching day and night,
You prayed it god brought it, the monsoon’s delight,
Don’t grumble slip tumble, curse it as a plight.

Not many people know
where the old road goes
I’m older now and it seems
there are more and more
       paved roads
that lead to nowhere —
   most of the time

As a kid, living miles up
  a rough potholed,
country road — a hike away
from the edge a small town
  out in the sticks,..
you come to know onliness,
blind to a journey alone

   I never stepped on
cracks in a town sidewalk —
  never learned what
  "superstitious" was,
    like the other kids
        from town

It wasn't the cracks
  in the sidewalk
I feared to tread;
steppin' on 'em breaks nothing
  already broken —

It was just all so different
than the long walk home
where that old road goes —
grandma always said:
"follow the creek upstream;
it'll always lead you back
  where you belong"

   The washboards
in the steep narrow road
up the hill, were like
  muddy stair steps
in the rainy season

Sometimes I followed
on up the creek below
to the upper log bridge
     swimmin' hole,..
where I learned to listen
to the sweet melody
of unclouded days;
and for a moment
I thought I belonged

     I still haven't
found my way out
  of this memory
I’m holding onto —
because life is just
an unstoppable
season, passing by
    on its own;
   like the way
     rainwater
  in the swollen
creek bed flows:

   And I'm just
another passing September
no one will remember —

   most of the time


Jesse Stillwater ... September 2018

Chaos humdrum of roaring engines.
The lost siren between concrete slabs
Ricocheting its scream throughout
the hallway streets,
already echoing with horns and yells.

Sleepless and ever burning,
the city lurches on
in agonizing sounds
muffled between high rise pristine glass
and shanty shacks painted with dust.

The frantic commotion of agonized madness,
In zigzag traffic and potholed roads.
The stop and start of hustle and frustration
Rises and falls like a dancing dust storm.

Everything present in a quieter world
is lost in the struggle of city life.
There's no peace or silence here.
Just constant exhaustion in the luminescent roar of human chaos.

26 Dec. 2015

I never cared much for car talk,
But when he speaks, I'm intrigued,
And I don't know why.

Most men speak in tones that imply
I don't know anything,
Can't understand simple machines,
Have never seen an engine block,
And just want to watch as they talk.
But he is genuinely fascinated
With systems and forces,
And wants to share.
His passion consumes me,
And I listen, hoping to learn.

On switchbacking forest roads,
Over potholed washboard,
By steep cliff dropoffs,
My head swims with emergency "what ifs"
But not with him.
He flies over loose gravel
And I squeal with euphoric trust and delight.
He drives twice the posted speed,
And I find myself shamelessly sunk
Into a wet seat.
He pumps the brakes
And I'm bowing to the king,
Brazenly hoping that someday
He'll flip a carnal handbrake turn,
Wondering if he cares enough to show off,
Seduced like so many before me
By oil, rubber, and gasoline.

I wasn't the one, you weren't alone,
You were just in need of a friend.
But I was there when you needed
someone to listen, I wasn't your
friend but unbiased ears never
            tell you false lies..

I'll tell you what you don't want to hear.

I'm car when you crossed the road,
         hit and run on your road
of potholed truths that others
                                         filled in.


I wasn't a friend, you weren't alone,
you were just in need of a voice.
But I was there when you needed
someone's truth. I wasn't your
friend we'd only just met.
      
I'll tell you what you don't want to hear.

I'm the car when you crossed the road,
         hit and run on your tarmac
of potholed truths that others
                                         filled in.
With false gratitude cos they charged
you for the air they filled you with.

I was a friend, new off the press no secrets
    no lies to hold back. filling you with
the honesty you had missed.
           Not your bestie, just a new face
in your reflection with no need to be

                              two faced....

narrow potholed roads
long winding switchbacks
blind corners that lead
the chosen to heaven

the rest of us
sinners

rotting slash piles
in a clear cut
fireweed rising
from raw earth

in this land of trees
the forest is forgotten

You were supposed to be
sunrise above the bluest sea,
a beautiful melody
my lifetime guarantee.

Instead…

You were a potholed road
A river that never flowed
An abandoned abode
A violent storm that made my world implode.

City bus
My ******* pulling
from the rumble and rattle
on top of the potholed pavement

Sideways moving
like a roll of film
Panorama life
yet only a picture
since it doesn't feel real

Detached
devoid
But the rattle pulls me back
I'm intact
I'm alive
The bus makes a crack

Am I an audience member in my own life?
Or is this dysphoria impermanent?

Watch out, the stove is hot.
White iron teeth that will bite your tongue,
split chapped lips,
then eat salt and vinegar crisps.

Sharp streaks of nerves,
grinning with missing incisors
drip in lines down your chin
of green and brown copper.

If I had a fish pond
to throw these dimes into,
I would never have to know
where they came from,
why they didn't fall out of
my coat with the turned up collar.

Unwashed wool wraps and rots
round warped shoulders,
gnarling strained fingers
between ball and socket joints.

Fussy tea cakes and strands of hair
relinquished to the wind
hobble up and down outdoor train stations,
old-fashioned floral prints swept aside,
a puppet show of sickly chicken legs
pocked, potholed and pickpocketed.

Lost in the war, between couch cushions,
baked into blackberry crumble
in go egg whites, out come memories
of snow that tightroped power lines,
good dogs that stayed,
coauthors of the oxford english dictionary.

Badly rolled cigarette smoke in the streets
writes gregorian poetry for darned socks
snagged on shoddy repair jobs,
splintered wooden bones.
Pour yourself a stiffer drink,
it’s going to be a gangrenous winter.

Out of madness came serenity
gliding barefoot
across potholed pavements

Swathed in saffron
folded cloth falling gracefully
over peaceful form

Shaven scalp
beatific countenance
eyes cast downwards in respect

Alms bowl held to chest
accepting of all given
accepting if nothing given

Radiant
Present
Awake

A lesson in motionless motion

It’s that rough patch, not to be confused with that soft grass. Where its greener on the other side they say. So I put that clichéd line on replay, as my mind wonders away from its looped track and I find my soul drawn to this one rough patch. The one where the rain forgot to fall, though my depression looms like clouds ready to burst at its red taped seems. Ready to break free and quench the forsaken dreams, of those entangled in its constricting theme and the lack of what should motivate them to break free from this quilted piece of the so called American Dream. But this feathered ideology has just as much rooted truth as the forsaken grass. Ripped from the ground and held up by the masses, YOU think this drought will force the skies to fall to its knees and weep? You think my rain dance of soft spoken discipline and firm handed compassion is enough for Noah to build the ark? Send them in two by two with their quilted grass and torn seams. Bound in red tape, tax payer hate, and a world on their shoulders that’s now forced to their plates. Where chipped out bricks and clothes with rips meet the checkered grasses and one way trips down potholed streets. Where ‘broke’ is the culture, ‘cracked’ is the future, and ‘shattered’ is a person’s understanding of their purpose. Built on burnt out grass, rusted out fences, and busted out dreams. Of NBA stardom and NFL leagues. Only to be replaced with NBA sneakers and NFL ****. But that grass is green, don’t get me wrong. There’s that other side that we all try to focus on. Where positivity pushes mowers and helps plant seed, were people are built up like stalks using Jacks magic beans. Only to face the giants of our new reality, as these 12 year old doors close with a bells final ring. Forced in the world full of giant inequity, but that nice summer breeze always put me at easy. As I tie up the silver lining of my last pair of torn up jeans. Squinting from the light reflecting off these sky scrapping beams, of that ‘pulled up by my own boot straps’ ideology. That keeps on ripping up grass in the place of their concreted schemes. A foundation built on an inherited legacy of rolled up cotton sleeves. Only to be replaces with shiny new cuffs, Italian fitted fiends, and a lack a communal understanding. For those without an equitable ground to plant their dirt stained feet. Whose souls lack the foundation of an inherited concrete. Whose footsteps find only patches with the occasional green grass, stemming from the rain’s 7-3 schedule that never seems to last. Void of enough time for their neglected patches to be sown, for their budding grasses to be grown, and misguided shoes to be souled. But the inherited rain continues to fall and some grasses remain green, enough to keep the majority screened to this water tower of inequality. Or at least content as their grasses get wet, cultivated by willful ignorance and an acquired colorblind sense. A sense of understanding as we judge our lawns the same. Remembering our own discoloration as our colorblind eyes takes aim. To pelt our vibrant lawn with the care it so desperately needs, making sure to fill in the spots where our grasses meet our weeds. Forgetting that our feet once stood in a plot of browned out patches, as we stand within the greener side not to be confused with the softer grasses.

Friday is an old day now
Where black and blue skies meet
Where the same people walk -
the same potholed streets
Intrigue in the afternoon breeze
Barbecued meat , perfumed ladies ,
the flowers of Spring , the wild onions of
the field , warm meals
Fridays rolling up the streets
The same old cars , the same urban
scenes* ...

Money hungry,
the hairy blacked belly,
growls like a street mutt guarding his,
conquered bird,
his belly shines rib bones,
his nose is dry,
too many nights,
prowling potholed downtown slummed streets,
his rib cage glows,
like a diamond,
or a pond late at night,
his paws are sore and bulge like his glorious-mutt-society-tortured eyes,
I offer him my silence,
still,
with my eyes on his,
my body sore with long legs lovers,
and sleepless A.M. Nights,
and we both agree,
to part ways,
and leave him to his bird,
and me to the nights,
and that seemingly endless orange illuminated road,
with my paws in my pockets,
looking for my bird.

.
From their private jets,
The primal privileged
Spot a spark earthwards,
The glint of the rolling
Out of guillotines.

Guillotines so tall, waiting,
Just for them and they know
It was coming, as they know
They have it coming.

The rabble they so despise,
Yet pander for as they pull
Wool and leave all in cold,
The wretched who someday
Read injustice in the leaves,
The Princes of sham, cloven,
Always bearing woven bags,
Carpet dreams of desperate,
Down trodden, never fearing
To be trampled, till the blade
Is shining in the searing light
Of new day.

For retribution is a fable
The reptilian upper classes
Are cold to see as it strikes,
Their forked tongues,
Eventual as slimy winter
Strangles themselves
In a hollow cave,
Unmarked.

Even the dirt is soiled
With their fame, their
Scaled names, even
Sun will not shine
On the bloodied blots
They have wrought.

Such murderous stiffs,
Who enslaved all warmth
And empathizers in a rug
Fit for a tomb.  And all their
Art as false as they!

The earthy shall rise
And salt their mortal
Wounds, songs will not be sung
For the indifferent masters
Who now pour into streets
Made for severed muck.

The only beauty they left:
Opulent, soppy-red coiffured heads
As they roll on the potholed,
Sooty pavements.

Sleepy moon beams kiss the morning sky
Goodbye, as they slip  into the cerulean on
High.

I’d been walkin all night, the morning air
Unwinding the curls from my tangled hair.  As I drug
My emotions through potholed streets.

Tires crunching sand the sweepers missed,
Sliver boxes clicking the lights from green to
Red, steam clouds rise in a royal ascension
Bathing passers by in a ghostly hue.

Pulling my coat tightly I slipped though
Their procession unnoticed, ears pressed to phones,
Eyes lowered to ground, hands gripped on purse straps.
I sit watching the wisp of early risers become a
Thunderous herd or late risers walking nowhere.

I’d been walkin all night, the morning air
Damp against my face, cool and electric
Condensing on my cheeks, dripping down
My face where my tears should be. If I
Won’t cry for myself most certainly  the morning air
Will do it for me.  

AD

He sweats in Nephilim
and has nightmares of little men named Dave
Life is the giant slayer
of the thirteen year old boy afraid to shower at the school gym
But that was long ago over many potholed highways of chance and circumstance

Today's pockets have fishhook's sewn in the threads , borne bare from reaching for too much and beyond

Delete my words of care and condemn them to your black hole of desperation

Eternal bound frauds cut the bubble wrapped dragons of division and petrify their legacy in granite monuments on lawns that never raised a leaf to this life

He spends his work squabbling, haggling over a rupee
Foul mouths, abuses and all that drains his energy
You couldn’t tell if he is drunk just pretending to be sober
Battling through a rotten life, his ordeal never really over!
But when night comes and the half ball silver glows
Leaving behind the muck, he can stop being morose
He neither reflects on his misery nor feels the need to weep
On a six by six potholed floor, quickly he falls asleep!
Are you not curious to know if dreams visit him then?
With sweet angels with words of love or beautiful women
No curses no shouting men, only friends surrounding him
Hugging him, cheering him, he is a winner in his dream!
Or the same evils haunt him, the ones that storm his day
Mock him, spit on his face, kick him out of their way
He struggles to find his way out, shouting curses in his sleep
There’s no light or end of the tunnel, he doesn’t know to weep!

through her window, she watched
sun shafts through the trees, a transient
tapestry on her potholed lane

a half dozen eggs sat beside her bowl
ready to be beat for the scramble; a half dozen
hours after her street was alight with noise

first the pernicious pop of the zip guns
then the cops '38s; then the howling of the
sirens, the howling of the survivors

mostly Chico's mama and sister
who watched him gunned down, and tried to plug
his half dozen holes with their hands

the street doesn't remember, she thought,
even with a biography of black blood dried
in its cracks and crevices

if it did, surely it would protest, or
make a solemn sound when the dawn shed
all that honest light on dark death

she cracked the eggs, put them
in the hot lard, not bothering with the bowl
breaking yolks blindly in the black skillet

Life's a shame
***** weather
And broken pain
A life so cold
A summer ago
Lost in a haze
I could not see
Could not touch
The things meant for me

Don't give me death
Just set me free

Wounded wounds
The kind that bleed
I've stitched myself
Beneath Ohio skies
Potholed roads
Traveled long ago
Lead to nowhere
I've been
Wanting to leave

Don't give me death
Just set me free

.
Sadness drapes my shoulders
in black clouded blisters
dropping hazy shadows
at a bus stop called nowhere
Blank stare passengers
read out of date magazines
as I sit on the first step
tossing quarters at pigeons
having bird *** in the park

I watch as my fingers twist around
a kite string seeking merely a breeze,
arctic or otherwise to drag me down
the potholed one way street
that leads past your door
Skinned knees and a bruised heart
outline the address where
I once felt welcome,
at least the mat said so

When I hear my name called
over barking dogs and lawn mowers
in need of tune up
and as I look above the silhouette
of the man I used to be
I see myself, choking on his dreams
in a "deliveries only" alleyway
littered with false destinies
and realize I am home

~




Mars flashed like a plane coming in
brightness and rotation of color
reminded me of stock footage
nuclear tests on an atoll
      reds and oranges play in blue hues

wisps of black cloud impeded my view
and I thought about young men in trenches
love and comradery I would never know
Mars peaked back into view
      I considered Russian and Chinese prophecy

my own heartbeat became a marching army
covering the land in mist and smoke
thunderous explosions disjointing doorframes
whimpering children under dusty grey rubble
       loudspeakers reassuring danger has passed

golden curtains  move with the wind fire creates
a scorched lawn with a twisted fence
Pennsylvania Avenue potholed and transient
beyond that the ghettos smolder  
a nation bleeds life back into poisoned soil
       a lone perched eagle surveys before soaring into the dawn    /

two people embracing
on the potholed curbside,
a car splash-zone
loving,
risking the ire of the overzealous
parking monitor
on the off chance-
they remember what it meant
to cling onto someone else
heart rooted firmly in another.

I wish I could warn you about the Salton sea
Of its panicked shores
Of bottomfeeders
Topside once more
It's stenched coasts
Lush green migraines and migration
Boasting of the lives & liberty cost
Drowning in the murk of men’s habitual need
To improve upon ruination

I wish I could caution you to an endorheic basin
Of its perennial purpose
Of many fertile farms
Impregnated by men & their desire to quench desire
It is a natural ****
It is buried deep in the salinity of quest & reason
Give them structure from which to exalt
Give yourself a *******
Working the cracks and the cross of concrete which is potholed & pitted

I wish I could show you a river valley ahead of it’s time
Of its eventual need to exist
Of dependent mockingbirds
& cattled egrets
An uneven ***** on which mother colorado rests your beleaguered complaints
Drink up while it lasts
A memorandum to a family
That dried up the poisoned well

I wish we could fall to our knees
We don’t
We raise our hands to the sky
Take me dear lord
But first
Let me take a selfie
Let me edit my life
Let me apply a filter over this endless malcontent
& then when it isn’t enough
Let me blame you

My road deeply potholed
  with those left behind

Resurfaced with pain
  all casualties mine

A road often fatal
  to family and friends

No roses to line it
  as it twisted and bent

When forced to look back,
  I see nothing but blood

From my hands to the cradle
  on those that I’ve loved

If you ask me my reason
  for acting this way

With eyes straight ahead,
  I’d have nothing to say

The road getting shorter
  compressed in the light

Behind me those bodies
  that questioned my flight

The deeper I travel
  newer endings begin

This toll mine to pay
—heading further within

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2017)

Idle Thoughts


When I write of a rose should
I add the adjective beautiful
I have never seen an ugly rose. Therefore, all roses are stunning
But we can argue about whether we like red or white ones.
When I kissed her tender lips was
It since she had kissed a lot before?
I held around her waist tenderly- a new adjective- and she gazed
At me likewise well I'm not a Russian given to bear hugs.
Her ***** was like a fairy- tale
I ask you, not a moist ulcer then.
Fairy tales is about *** starved princess's with long hair in a tower
A prisoner of her father's idea of chastity and no knitting needle  
The curvature of her lower back
Struts out like ski-jump in the Alps
Petals falls of roses one by one and blinded by irrational by love
We see again after an operation cataract and daylight seeps in.
The road surface too potholed
No one asphalts my road anymore.

Forty years of bad road,
  a path of broken glass

Potholed memories line my thoughts,
  devil waiting fast

Daring me—“Retrace your steps,
  your quickest way back home”

Forty years of shattered dreams,
  —the future paved in stone

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)

I'm that piece of torn ,
worn out jacket ,
that knows every move you've made .
I created that frazzled attitude that rises up
roaring from your solitude
. . . don't mess with me .

I'm the one who twists your tornado .
The one who makes the truth hard to swallow .
Like I said , don't mess with me .

I've got no excuses for reasons I don't need .
Touch me and see .

I'm the one who paved your breaks , not the one who potholed the double takes , ruffled your
feathers . . . nor will attend your wake .

So drink your liquid grapes of wrath .
All I have to say ?
"Don't Mess With Me !"