Bush Ranger, Bush Ranger, what ridge do you roam?
Law dogs come a call’in and you ain’t at home.
Hear the hounds bay’in, hard on your trail.
They’ll slather and snap til you flee Caesar’s pale.
From mountains to prairies to islands in seas
Break ground with a pick, lay line on your knees.
Bring the sweet water from bubbling springs
to bathe green babies and see sprouting wings.
Flowers appear in the late summer sun,
auguring rewards in days almost come.
Layering blossoms build the great buds,
sticky and fragrant with crystals of love.
Late in the evening on a new moon’s fall night,
feet pad through shadows pierced by flashlights.
Not a word is spoken as the plants are shorn,
lightened of the harvest for which they were born
Bush Ranger, Bush Ranger, what ridge do you roam?
Law dogs come a call’in and you ain’t at home.
With shovels and buckets and pockets of seeds
you’re a sowing the wide world with Solomon’s ****
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC
how does gold get into a fish’s eye?
eye
open
eye
staring
never
chances
missed
gold
fish eyes’
cupid
loves
glitter
attraction’s
O flash
finis shadeless
nothing windows
shutter reflection
aperture unblinking
lidless eye
creature’s grasping
contorted gasping
portal gaping
self’s
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 9:16 PM UTC
His tired jump boots filled up with pebbly sand.
Foot followed foot at a weary leaden pace
as he trudged on the sunset wind swept strand.
Fatigue drew lines upon his sunburned face.
A sad girl sat twirling a blazing brand.
She dreamed the furthest birth of nascent stars.
Heavy wood crutches rested at her side.
Her withered white legs were trapped by steel bars
He silently approached her as she softly cried.
Pain was offered for pain as lonely eye caught eye.
He wept mute as she sat mourning in a grief unspoiled.
Their tender psychic boundaries touched and then recoiled.
A wave washed gently over his broken tongues
as a hungry purple sea consumed the sun.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 9:02 PM UTC
Passage
The bones of our friendship accuse me,
brittle; not gleaming, dull and dry, resonant of forgetfulness
their facticity desiccating, chipping, drifting
into obscure cracks in the ossuary of recollection.
Each mute bone is a stick upon taught silence
rat-tat-tatting a twisting wheezing death roll
bones drumming for an audience of none,
echoing through the past,
oblivious to the cadence of the living.
There is no salvation from the wheel.
You turn and spin,
a constellation in my memories.
Rat-tat-tat
Amogasidi!
Do not be deterred.
Align the maze.
Open the door from Samsara!
Rat-tat-tat.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
The bones of our friendship accuse me,
brittle; not gleaming, dull and dry, resonant of forgetfulness
their facticity desiccating, chipping, drifting
into obscure cracks in the ossuary of recollection.
Each mute bone is a stick upon taught silence
rat-tat-tatting a twisting wheezing death roll
bones drumming for an audience of none,
echoing through the past,
oblivious to the cadence of the living.
There is no salvation from the wheel.
You turn and spin,
a constellation in my memories.
Rat-tat-tat
Amogasidi!
Do not be deterred.
Align the maze.
Open the door from Samsara!
Rat-tat-tat.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
Moonlit concrete canyons echo with howls.
Signal midnight terror! Packs are on the prowl!
Demonic toothy grins with lunar glow aglint
suggest savage passions with more than a hint.
Cowering sheep paralyzed with fright
look to wary shepherds on guard through the night.
Ravenous rovers mate fang to fleece,
predatory prowlers drawn by plaintive bleats.
Lobos fear no shepherds’ dogs nor bullets from their guns,
they only fear the cage, wolves were born to run.
Death may be their destiny but living is the chase.
They’ll run the neon jungle ‘til they’re killed or catch a case.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC
Strap him to a gurney.
Put a needle in his arm.
Time has grown short.
A clock ticks away
final moments.
Cold figures stand the watch;
no compassion, empty souls.
Aztec priests, gift givers,
administer vengeance
Fly on burdened spirit.
Sleep dog, sleep.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 11:07 AM UTC
Pounding Rhade rhythms knock on many doors
spirits curl upon the world tree
open portal, Poteau Mitan
axis between worlds
access to the land behind the mirror
bodies gyrate, caper madly,
steeds of flesh, wild-eyed and flecked with foam
absent of self await the riders
tightened goat hides rumble forbidden prayers
summoned spirits mount the lucky
Legba, doorman, admits the few
stamping beasts
Ogun, warrior, tests with savage fury
strong hearts’ courage
Accompong, judge, gives the verdict
Who will be blessed?
Who will be ridden?
chalices gibber in the black
lolling tongues
whitened eyes
give evidence of favor
a gift of knowledge from the undead
people behind the mirror
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 11:02 AM UTC
Dear Sirs,
He loved your magazine.
At night
it took him to places
where he could never go,
to warm and smiling lands,
to adventures in the paradise of his dreams.
He met happy friendly people,
who enjoyed life,
who had lives,
people who went
where they wanted
to do
what they pleased,
people who had no care
but for the next experience,
the ultimate daiquiri
the best bite of lobster,
who dealt with weighty questions
about
the marbling of steak,
the proper age of spring lamb,
the quality of truffles in Perigord.
He lay awake
at night
and wondered
about the snow depth in Aspen,
about climbing the Matterhorn,
about accommodations in Katmandu.
He imagined
Malay shadow play
on the ceiling of his house,
smiling Sherpas serving steaming tea
on the blue ice glaciers of Mt. Everest.
He dreamed
of
finger dancing in Chang Mai,
outrigger races in Tahiti,
a mysterious rendezvous
on the Orient Express,
lazy boat rides
on the Danube,
a visit
to Kafka’s house.
He loved your magazine.
He loved its’ breadth,
it’s many pages,
it’s thick cover.
He liked to tape it
to his chest
in the morning
when his house slammed open,
when he lock-stepped to the yard.
He felt its comforting girth
a glossy pulp breastplate
armor for a paladin
in a savage island’s
waking nightmare
of
numbing terror,
grinding fear,
sudden death.
He strolled about the yard
in sunlight without warmth
nodding to devils he knew
ignoring the ones he didn’t
deflecting their knowing looks.
Defense was automatic:
prison is a universe of deceit,
lies are the coin of its realms,
in the market place of its interactions
charlatans abound and falsity reigns
undisturbed by facts or connection
to an outside world.
A man can be
whoever he chooses.
Behind the walls
it only requires
imagination.
The best liars
present a blank façade.
a conscious mirror reflects nothing.
it lies without effort.
But,
behind the reflection,
the liar dreads
front street’s abhorrent truths;
weaknesses revealed
raw nerves exposed
by
dueling tongues’escalation.
Under constant observation
in a search lit world
touche
means more than point.
Face is
the sole possession of the ******
Loss of face is an injury to the soul.
Shame
triggers combat
mean street’s rock ‘n roll
the back alley ballet
injured egos’
minuet d’mort.
And so the duet began;
two bored men
picking at the scabs
of each others weaknesses
each wound answered with another.
Their hot blood’s impassioned words
attracted schooling convicts cruising the yard.
The observers circled ominously
the hint of ******
a carnal lure.
No one chose sides
it was a private affair.
Crocodilian eyes peered
out of the non-committal murk
awaiting a feast of suffering
reflexively prepared
to slide into the mix,
to make turbulent
the stagnant pool
of prison life.
Fury’s moment
relieves the boredom.
A crowd of cruel eyes
illumined the arena.
Fangs flashed
in their savage attentions’ glare.
Contending wills
weighed
by a deadly balance
clashed
with the gnash of steels.
Shanks fenced
point counterpoint.
A gladiator fell
his heart punctured
by a screwdriver blade.
The writhing form
grew still.
Life soaked the concrete.
Blood brought bedlam,
a contagious frothing madness,
goons, gunfire, and choking gas,
a grim entertainment’s finale.
Laughter and derisive shouts,
the demons’ choral refrain,
were funeral music
for a loser’s journey
on a gurney to the morgue,
and the pages
of a magazine
lay scarlet on the ground,
fantasies
trampled
under sullen jealous feet.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 10:56 AM UTC
Tongues of fire stab the sky;
fiery discharge from the mouths of serried bells
Thunder rumbles through still air;
death’s express trained on someone’s nowhere.
Dark clouds roil in the distance;
destruction’s twisted smoke.
A shrill bird sings.
The pockmarked face of mother earth
recoils at the touch of invading ghosts.
Foot follows foot through mud and tall grass.
Torment is a green maze.
Turn, twist, walk in paranoid silence;
nightmare topiary.
No exit,
only a door to Hell
Lives rush past terror-filled eyes;
spirits leak into the earth.
There is no requiem—
only keening women to pipe us on.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC