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Brad Lambert Sep 2014
The beginning of the end.
Raindrops stoke the fire. Two drops.
Earthquake rumbles out in silent tremors.
I begin to forget why I’m even here.
No renaissance man ever went fishing
alone before dusk or after dawn.
How else would a tree know
if his roots had overgrown?
Gathered around a bonfire
drinking up each other’s thoughts.
Horses neigh from the barn, so thirsty.
Some flames do change and trick us;
Stallions ranging the prairie, all ablaze.
Fall can make green into orangey-reds
or subtle arrangements of browns and grays.
Crisp and so dead, yet with the color of fire too.
And how about that ridge above the tree-line.
Trees all burnt down some forty fires ago,
but you can still see the line. Two trees
standing next to one another. Moon grows.
Stained glass done how the Aztecs would’ve done it.
Clothes made off like a silk worm’s constricting cocoon.
Moths gathered around the source, clamoring for candlelight.
A single leaf lazily dropping in the dead heat of a summer night
frenzied me, got me all pensive from midnight to high noon
wondering what Autumn could possibly bring if I just sit
here on this boulder until the first inch of snow.
Woodpecker knocks on wood, superstitious.
Fall borrows life, lending it to Spring.
Fishing at night, catch then release.

He does empty out some forests,
he does freeze the night lakes over,
he makes deaths out to be gold
and outrageously gorgeous affairs.
Non-morbid is the circling of life.
Birds sent southward in the thousands at his say,
Leaving him to prepare to sap life from the trees– Newly lifeless elder trees.
Always borrowing.    Always borrowing.
I will sit on this stone
and watch the ditch flow.
Memories are the thickest:
Two slices of provolone,
ham and Dijon mustard
on Dakota wheat bread.
Walking along his fence browsing
left to right, north to south like reading a book
or scanning through paintings in a museum.
Knots in wood fences are the same.
He takes a bite, offers me one.
It is Autumn and the trees are turning.
Freshly dewed yearning still beguiles me today.
Crisp and so dead. Fall does change and trick us.
With his eyes green as ivy clinging to brick.
Brown in fading shades making curls
on the leaves. Burning newspaper.
Trees have set this city on fire.
Breath is now seen in the air.
Signal fires light as Winter
makes her way in.
I have only one
question for
And here comes autumn once again.
Brad Lambert Sep 2014
"I swear, the sun rose early today,"
you went a’whisperin’ on the roof.
Hands behind your head watching
orange become blue – I agree.

The lightpost out front shines blue
‘fore horizon eats the sky for keeps.
We pose red tiger lilies in the soil
as the sun elopes with morning.

Garage with an iron stove
and a growing wood stock.
Two beds pushed together.
Yea, these are frosty nights.

Dreamin’ of lilies, leg hairs,
moths and swoopin’ bats,
noses with honest angles,
leg squeezin' that be thigh
squeezin' before dying fires.
Hair’s a bit dry, then damp.
Callouses show guitar string
familiarity. Just as before,
you’re quiet. A sunset
approaches, rarity.
Stoking the fire
until the room
grows cold,
rare and raw
in deed and in action.
Intrepid and convoluted.
Purposeless language so thick
and unable to expression o’makin’!
Non-motion! Unbeauty and polluted flair!
I spit words like curses at the bee-stingin’ burn!
Ain’t been no words like those I spat as his Luckiest Strike
met my forearm. And the pain fades. And my arm crossin’ over his.
I can tell by the look on his face as I take his mark away – No regrets!

Skinny as an ostrich thigh. Hair bristled and wet.
Grass dying under the pressure of bare feet.
No climactic conclusion or sequel to undefeat.
“Take a dip in the ditch right creeping to dawn.”*

Spitting into shot glasses
until we both set it straight.
Thunder claps before lightning leaps skyward.
Well-steeped tea makes a brown into tan
into clearest of steam,
filling up the kettle.
How anxious.
So anxious.
Brad Lambert Sep 2014
It was a man touching his David.
Sculptin’ culture on the contraire.

She drew her lips into a smile.
Four chips in two teeth.

Sketchin’ her out on beach-sandpapers.
Making for days, sculpting.

Making love for days and
being *** for a night or so.

Yea, that’s his David.
That’s his masterful piece.

Call that a non-Goliath.
Call her five foot and four.
Brad Lambert Jul 2014
"I went back home when things got ugly."
O' things be a'gettin' uglier-ugly these days.
These days spent slipping into subtle sub-absurdities.
These days spent alone with the maimed voices of vocal minds.

I caught a ratta-boar-ship sailin' across the mellow seas.
Its engine burned on days past and the trimmings of willow trees.
Oil pools and plumes. How all colors do break!
Tongue-in-cheek statements cross my illogical state.

I’m all a’breakin’ down on these dead-leaf mounds.
The rabbit breaks swiftly at the neck without sound.
I pledge fanfare to the reeds in the marshes between woods.
Aye, this confidence had been borne of harshness, all raked.

You line'd and fume'd– body and mind and breath.
Yea, my love burns long before fleeting into death.
Spin some honey in mud, them lies are laced with truths.
Honey hunted down from them hives all exhumed.

I exclaim, for I know.
Facts gathered from sea-salt snows
were read concisely and plain.
One must share what one knows:

This craft berates waves.
So intent on indexing all of those days.
Such absurdity. How vexing.
Confusion! Confusion! So bent and off-putting.
‘Twas Confusion who first sank in simple, mud-less footing.
Her clumsiness could not be stayed, nor postponed or ever-praised.
No, not by slipshod attempts at brewing a lightly-dark grey.
Spare drops a'dribblin' 'round the base of the water tower.
Shadows of clouds with night approaching by the hour.
Knocks a’rappin’ on a door hung without hinges.
Stomachs full of hunger. Hearts fearing blood.
Lungs on smoke-binges. Forest fires during floods.
My body's burnt-out on them rank soul-singes.
Confusion bating breath through chapped-lip fringes
whilst catching fish without string.
As the sun at dawn and the moon at dusk,
steam rises when eyes have been cast far from us.

Waters be a'ripplin' beneath your trudge-boots.
In the marshes makin' movements in the moonlight.
Only patience will bring the sunlight.
"I’m raking harshness in the morning."
Brad Lambert Apr 2014
All's wet in the woods.
Big bets been placed and diced in them forests.
Austrian pines are never to be trusted–
I'm never to be trusted so much, too.
So much for them healthy spines!
That's a question mark if your frame ends a sentence.
So much for good times and good measure!
They plain-prohibited plants in the soil –
That there's my soil and we all share the sun.
Listen to that, son.
Shaking overhead.
Summer storms rumble loud.
All's loud overhead.
Calling it out, the thunder warns me so:

Wind in the trees!
Wind in the trees!
Rain on the grass and
wind in the trees!

Blades of grass where
wind only breathes.
Patterin' on grass–
Whooshin' through trees!

And what was first to fillin' the woods?
It was feet on the soil and toes in the sand.
Plants in the soil and bare feet in the sand.
Skinny boys have been dipped all skinny in streams.
Sun's been refractin' for years in them streams.
The night was borne of embers in winds and
blankets made out as whole as that sky.
Mountains breathing out across their own flat feet with
whispers in wind's breath humming through the blue mountain's teeth:

Drums in the woods
be drum-circlin' them flames.
Roots in the woods
done wrap-choked my heartstrings.

Beats in the wild
be drum-beatin' us tame.
Whips in the wild
done whip-shaped his heartstrings.

Never had I heard a call like that.
Howling and hopeful, hoping to be whole.
That mountain's been chipped all dusty in streams.
Them streams been runnin' across them whole-skins.
Howl and be happy.
Paint night-skies on his leg.
Brush them tendrils from them eyes,
howlin' and bein' happy.
I hear the wind and I wonder if cedar pines are to be trusted.
I feel the soil, chilled and wet beneath the grass.
The storm has passed overhead.
Smellin' green grass and mild mosses.
I'm seein' stars overhead.
Fingers runnin' across them foggy windows.
I think of the wind and the rain–
We will see.

*Wind in the trees!
Wind in the trees!
Rain on the grass and
wind in the trees!

Sorrow blows where
no man can breathe.
Rain patters on grass–
Wind in the trees.
Brad Lambert Apr 2014
Paled-peach moonlight and plagiary.
Some hearts since broken.
I lost a card under a tree.
No words since spoken.
Forgot where I was bent to be.
Smokin’ on spices.
His body’s gone, sent out to sea.
Sugarless spices.

Wrote a tale and called it my own work–
These are not my own words,
they're nothin' but ruminations of
the echoes of my own two feet 'gainst
panes of glass:

Fetishes and fish scales.
Tattoo inks traipsing through
brushed bodies and dyed sinks.
*****, breadth, and beach-sand pales.
Set-to-stun eyes drawn where
none but sunrise had been.
Entertained and enticed.
Spending nights scrubbing meat,
washing scents from my skin.
****** if he remembers.
This mind's been done, drawn out,
all's swift-diced 'fore dawn's out–
Yea, I remember him.

Opening doors.
Listening deep into the dusk's din,
there's nothin' but the hum of a fan
through stark, sterile silence–
Sentimental foot-prints in the sand.

Silver-seamed sunsets.
Sole sailors soul-searchin’ whole seas.
Forest fire sunsets.
Forgettin’ where we ought to be.
I never think of you.
You best not dare to think of me.
Morn’s made out like bruised fruit
fallen 'neath forget-me-not trees.
Brad Lambert Apr 2014
Grass does grow green in Spring.
Snowmelt's been done, drawn out.
Aye, how you all feign complacency.
(I kiss men at dusk in the street light.)
I've been restless all night, goin' on about them
rimed hearts and their timely, metered whispers in ears:

O' they say he's got a stellar mind
but that his bones carry weights unkind
and unknown to the modern man's heart.

O' they say we'll never know just how
hard he fell; he loved you then and now
he spends his days aching from rapt thoughts.

O' they say he's bound to collapse in
but what do they know of whisperin'
and weights of wanting– So heavy still!

You hold them pages to the flames, what delusions!
Hearts be weighted with bells and ringing.
You've wrapped thoughts 'round index and thumb, such confusion–
Heavy-weighted with iron shavings.

You never go far for anything.
You're wont to be needin' some more swell.
You see the water run from the well.

And everyone here is moving a bit too slow.
And I'm getting a bit too restless.
And every day passes without something to show–
And I am feeling rather restless.

I was just a'pacin' through them woods.
I'm prone to be wantin' some more swell.
I have drank the water from the well.

No, I was just a'snappin' down on some smoked skin.
And everyone since drives me straight moot.
No, I was just ponderin' that moment– Some sin!
Yea, every day since I've felt clumsy.

They'd call it a whoopsy-daisy slip
into loose and hazy days and nights.
Whip-lashing from nails; scratches down backs.

There ain't no more whistlin' nay howlin' in this place.
Hush now, until the well runs bone-dry.
There ain't no wratch who's been wretch'd out like you– Some chase!
Hush'd and still, this well's gone and ran dry.
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