My old trumpets and trombone slides
Sit unopened and cured with the dusty attics formaldehyde aromas.
My lips dry up like mummified beef to their ancient smell of old black bibles and their taped up cardboard tombs. I find myself unable to break their mossy temple structures where I practiced my classical studies and could feel my whole kingly persona taming auditoriums and thrones of asp faced judges. But now my structure and stamina ruined and gone like a ginger bread piano.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 4:12 PM UTC
Its ok if you came alone
You didn't miss much
Unless you noticed
The woman who
Touched the
Longest mustache
In Poland.
She was drunk
And laughed
At the names
Of every cartoon
He resembled.
I felt like a ****
Watching
Them murmur
Their wry
Whispers.
Unaware
Of the mans friend
With giant white ears.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 5:26 AM UTC
My golden brass
Did you hear a silver tone.
One day I remembered the sound we made.
Oh boy with thirteen trys
I played the song of things.
The sound was a still like a drop of rain.
Great full Holst composed his eyes in vain.
And now im chopping my lips with my dreaded lay over.
Five years ago and now im searching the twenties
For old photographs about the way I played.
My heart stops and excepts the choices I made.
Because the future now the preseant is grey like a grave.
I still dream of film and simpler days.
Like it was still ambitious
When I see trombones sliding and clarinets deciding
What reed made the sound of jazz.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC
All night I head inside rain water.
Getting back the women I failed.
My heavy jacket feels like stray cats.
Then A garbage can upon the street.
Becomes some other racoons ocean dream.
He opens the door in ring tailed underwear.
And forgets about the skunk waiting
Under the bushes ontop of spongy beardes of moss.
The business isnt worth the trouble
For me against the passion to find
Another way inside a house of plastic
Bins.
But mine is wooden and strong and Ill be able
To dry my arms and go another day
Of traveling through the pools
Of open water.
And singing here comes the rain again.
Let it fall again and forever until the streets
Dry in clouds of ambitious steam.
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 6:08 AM UTC
Bigfoots a jack ***
Strange
He pured us both
Whiskey.
We talked about darwin,
And Goodals new book.
But now hes trying to **** me!
Vegitaraian?
We thought he did.
But now hes trying to **** me.
Its getting dark
I cant smell the cave anymore.
His brown face sounded like a
Blender.
I was just another elk
With them I slept
Like white bones.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
Why care about the coronglais (English Horns) music.
Of course the brass I speak of is woodwind.
Masters of sound are older then the Tux-
Edos choking boughtie on my white neck.
The pub next door never will hear opera
The way a glass of hard ale fills me.
All a reason to say hiphop is jazz.
The old lady with scotch breath doesnt show
Me how ice melts in her mouth like twelve octaves.
On the concert halls roof cellos fall off the gutters
Like drops of rain. The rare wood burns the hobos
Metal warm fire and we finally walk with purpose.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 6:44 PM UTC
shes sleeping
And chrystal ssnow
Floats to rest like me.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 1:43 AM UTC
I think of the waves
Crashing into the ****
The rocks are sturdy there
In west port washington.
And on the rocks
A shorebird got closer
To where
I stood proud
On the unmovable
Pile of boulders.
I could tell you
This was it.
But a star fish
Exposed the air I breath
In a moment of beauty.
The waves flicker like lite bulbs.
The split seconds are eons
With out times way of saying
Got ya now.
You know
How the you
And ocean.
Meet in the shores
And die in the earth.
How can the spirit of mythology
Tell me the rocks where once human.
And the boy told his mother you swollowed
A pebble.
He returned to free his uncles.
They called him the stone boy.
if I stand here for four days
Ill break down like gravel in the grange.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
Enupuph to throw away scores of iron shirts.
How heavy do you think a cord of wood
Weighs. Its exausting and pointless to be
Acurate when time cost more then dollars.
The head that hides me never alters the
Way something alive has to die. Even
Pine bleeds like pulp juice from the new sharp ax.
All around my neihborhood im being
Looked at by the trees when the wedge cracks through
Why am I splitting through the years of storms.
I hate hearing how alive my tree is.
The pines point of view is much higher then mine.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 7:40 PM UTC
I wish henry didnt do the thoughts that he thought
Was his suicide.
I wish henry could talk.
The point being henry is gone.
Feels like the empty pit of an ocean poem.
The empty walrus has a beard
In it grows the bankers heart
And the crooks on wall street.
My father wasnt what destroyed
The crazy heart of a thurough poet.
Im to normal to feel the big haul
Of the god of henry.
But never the stinking less.
The god that kills poets.
The god who always comes back for more.
If the posh bar in new york closed
Henry would of went next door.
Henry would of been around
A little more to know where he sits
In the book store.
The ****** way to be perfect
Was the nastiest game in
Snowy Michigan.
There ought to be fences on that bridge.
But he would of just climbed over.
Mr. Bones what made henry do it.
Mr. Bones what made henry
Killed henry like the banker
And the revolver from
Oaklahoma.
Empty is every ship returning home.
Henry isnt on the list of survivors stranded
In the aftermath.
Captain henry stayed on board.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC