a tacky canvas that
pitcher-dribble reaped,
like an infant in the highchair,
no cherrios to eat.
mundane messes like
blood on your knee,
gravel in between;
bend, but grit your teeth.
white was so boring, though
color cannot be undone,
until a final draw ends,
and entropy starts to run.
watercolor, was it?
the dye won’t wash away.
don’t you see me,
****** by graffiti
like the coffee stains on
my tie, the ink at the
top of my naked sleeve;
leading edges that bleed.
if you shudder at the unholy
messes, the incongruent seams,
i took too much of your time
already, ask once, i’ll let you be.
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 6:15 PM UTC
Birds Dont Sing and
i know you asked me why;
you said I never knew
the places that you do -
corner store with the
Corvette Cassette, or the
urbanite Chinatown,
Origins of your youth.
i may not know them but
i do know Lovely You and
Lovers Rock too, where we
spent an hour washing the
stone with tactile tips.
a Lilly of my day, as
at night, or, oh-no, Oh
Devil in disguise.
when i look with my eyes
i see So Many Details,
strings from Kites zigging
a bedroom span, zagging
back across, No Rules,
like the rivers or roots we grew by.
attempting to Think Feel
my way through the space -
no not forever, but yes
Everything Goes; like how
You Hear Colours while
i try to draw them out
of what i return to you.
like light, only of a kind
before the reflection, a reply,
now i'm Giving up that Feeling
i don't know how,
we broke something inside.
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 11:40 AM UTC
grey-blue
my day’s first sight.
the chest lid opens
for a moment;
through my ungilded pane,
golden light.
covers not of cotton
hold me in a sleepy state;
alarming sounds outside,
mechanical monsters
speeding by - i should
charge a different rate.
washed and dressed,
the coffee steeped.
brown stains spatter
the porcelain platter;
a tacky canvas that
pitcher-dribble reaped.
your scent-leavened my room;
now i’m just citrus and oak.
(a lonesome, near empty glass,
speckled by dried bubbles)
like spindrift from waves,
hazy memories, smoke –
i return to the edge of my bed
rain filling the gutter,
sounding the roof
pans of metal, mossy
cakes softening the tap-tap- tap.
– lightheaded, I shudder
what were the last words
you wept? a final stinging truth.
filling the void of a clear-cut
heart is now overnight trick;
succession may give me roots,
like my hemlock and alder youth.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 9:10 PM UTC
tea-cream earth underoak
lying drenched in sun gleam
streams, a sky in between
the green sheets laid upon
and the beamyblues
breezes blew past
our post-modern monument,
and I shuddered like the towers,
as i was amply leafed.
strong winds knocked
branches loose, falling from
seventy-four inches up in the air.
a logjam tore a hole
inside my artesian mouth.
still, fresh spring water
found a way out,
taking a ride in a turnstile
cycling through
riffle and pool
all the way to its end.
clothes soaked, made holey,
by rain no righteous men know;
I tried my hand with a needle and thread
still trying to forgive,
a soft fabric to sow.
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 3:36 AM UTC
here is one possibility -
the adoration is rooted
in your fresh quality.
i've never met any one
quite like you before.
that novelty is inspired,
held internally; hopeful.
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 3:08 PM UTC
it's the fire inside,
if what i read is truth.
constrained by
steeled sheets,
the chains wrap
clockwise around;
a shell to weather
the storm, inside.
thick skin,
leather shoes,
words that drive the loop -
if mary ever
left her room,
color would play a tune.
every item studied
makes us die; bite
the apple then
taste the lies.
living on the inside,
a hope in favor
of saferseas.
always playing
hide-and-seek,
as if soaking in
truths might flood
tubs, never
setting me free.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 1:59 AM UTC
at season's ending
thank the sage man who inspires
not once; forever.
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 5:30 PM UTC
and the echo you called out
(we lied to ourselves the first six weeks;)
had the whole town irked;
(spending time in an alley's shadow)
an honest tongue only after you won.
(your sophomoric soul and my reflective streets.)
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 9:12 PM UTC
bones of a body
are not meant to stand strong like
long spanning bridges
Nov 26, 2016
Nov 26, 2016 at 3:23 PM UTC
the chains of our
youth did not exist
as you may recall;
decisions made by
the flip of a switch,
seconds before hands
rose towards the sky.
novel textures fit
between fingers; smooth,
crisp – colors perfected by the
unwieldy and wild.
all a respite for
a world upon which hands
lay straight lines.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 4:10 PM UTC