At last the autumn
wind has stripped
the branches bare.
Even insubordinate
trees now stretch

their naked limbs
along a leaf of sky;

timber ledger lines
compose a staff
where birds rest
as quarter notes,
the nested chimes
of winter’s song.

You and I unlace
our leather boots.

We wait for snow,
white and absolute,
to change the score,
to blanket measured
roots, a silent chorus.

I remember how the blood
on the tip of each blade
of grass in the sun
where it had splashed
made them look
like tiny swords you see
in picture books
when my friend placed
his hand on a stone
and took a knife to his finger
right through the bone
for pointing out the faults
of his father to his face
who later hung himself
in disgrace and the son
with the stump
by his right thumb
felt the pain
one thousand times
as he flung his father's shame
all around praying for
a cleansing rain to come
water the flowers by the grave
and wash the sheen of his sin
away to make everything
all clean and green once again.

Oh, those poor
peasants
without a ***
to **** in
who celebrate their
thin-skinned twittering
king ascending
in his gilded elevator
of gold stolen
from the empty plates
of those
who do pay taxes
with real axes
to grind
it boggles my mind
just what in
the hell
could they have been
thinking
I mean, Sweet
Jesus, we'll all be
refugees
in the end.


Where e're we go, we celebrate
The land that makes us refugees,
From fear of priests with empty plates
From guilt and weeping effigies.

--Shane MacClowan, "Thousands Are Sailing"

i've met you before,
watched you mutate,
witnessed the moment you crumble
and usually i lend a hand
in putting you back together

i've seen who you are,
a self prescribed new birth,
but still the same sad sack that felt like
you had to leave it all behind
to really start over

i've laughed at you in secret,
knowing that will never do the trick,
no amount of outward reimagining could
ever undo the fact that you
will never love who lives within

i've learned from you, finally,
watching my own potential destiny,
as it unfurls slowly and surely in the
same steady footfalls that
only ever lead to self destruction

i've longed to let go of you,
but without my own permission,
i always came back to the place where
you stand still in time stuck
battling between ego and self

i've met you before,
seen where this takes us,
and this time i've decided to forget
my innate empathic impulses
and to run like hell

He had a way
with a pen,
my friend
the part-time
con artist, full-
time drunkard
with twinkles
in his eyes
like stardust,
and wrinkles
from laughter
as loud as
a clap of thunder,
and it was
really a wonder
to watch him draw
his last breath
with such depth
like an outline
of a shadow,
a sinkhole
in the shade
on the side
of a dark ridge.

Droplets of dark divine
                       rain
Don't really taste
                       of              
Wine, but water  
  
Still I savour those small things
Ringing out the night's nothings
On the wind's bitter gifts

Til there is nothing left
And I have outlived myself
The cyclone leaves pirouette
Down into moon-glow
Puddles, ripples

The moment will soon be past
Eight thousand hours or so, I have tasted
But a fleeting crumb of the universe
Myself

Forever outliving myself until
The Sun's beams stain the clouds
Then who will look upon this frightened page
And see my soul in theirs?

I sit alone beneath a dry hood
That patters like the slated roof
On days you slept scared

Of rain and thunder
I am all there is again
The page gets wetter and wetter

As the words fade out

In my shining spotlight the rabbit scampers
Across the fields, its bright white eyes, and stops
Crouching in the dewy grass of a foggy night
In the pale-faced cold wind of winter

In the light of the supermoon
In the light rain fog of November
And what is fog?
In the darkness
Something that I remember

The glowing leaves pile up in my pockets
Yellow ones burn like lemon flames, green like pears
They all find their way someday between the pages
Of my stained petal books

And I always find my way
Into the Moon's light,
Where blue sea laps softly on smooth stones
Of the shore
Of the skin
And the silence
Of the night

15 years old:
invite a group of friends over
to sit in my empty living room
with brand new wood floors -
we’re renovating

proof: I’m not poor

16 years old:
hang out of my sister’s
bedroom window,
swing into wet mulch,
steal away to twone’s
to get hammered and
touch my first ****

proof: I’m not afraid

18 years old:
lament over the fact
that I’m the last senior
alive without a cell phone

you got the flip, *****,
happy birthday

proof: I’m one of you

21 years old:
rip six foot bongs,
squirt jaeger bombs
into mouths from a gallon jug,
***** black sushi sacrifice

proof: I can hang

22 years old:
get caught with drugs
in 90 degree Arizona desert,
make friends with drug dog,
tell the truth while you take a ****,
sit in a cell and make plans
to call brother for bail

proof: the truth won’t always set me free

11 years old:
go into a department store
with my auntie,
heavy footsteps follow,
head to the juniors department,
heavy footsteps follow,
turn round, see an old man,
think, ‘he must be shopping for
his granddaughter’

proof: innocence is blind

have to ***, head to the bathroom,
heavy footsteps follow
with ragged breathing,
watch as Velcro sneakers stand
just beyond the door my stall,
curl into a ball and
wait, wait, wait,
as my brain takes on silent screaming

proof: I am nothing but prey

hear the next stall door
creak open,
watch feet walk in and legs
begin to bend,
explode out of stall
into store,
find auntie and begin
hyperventilation and
true demonstration of fear

proof: I am a woman now

I didn't intend to wind up here tonight, typing a sick excuse for a poem into my phone from a dive.

But that crazy South African really put the hook in me, apealing to my vanity and persona, as if an alcoholic ex-soldier could own such.

In the background of my thoughts go pieces of other poems, pieces of memories, tired revelations cried out into the darkness.

So sick of people asking me why I'm sad, and them forgetting what my answer is five minutes later, when that new girl or new guy walks by.

I have more to say, but I know that no matter what I spit onto page will make no difference in the long run.

So bartender, I need another shot.