were we
sunbleached concrete
or were we
flakes under eyes
deep in
the spring?

you might have been
a bug bite
or a whisper of
tap water on
my dirt stained
leather sandals

(no arch support
to be found
under my feet
this summer)

watch slowly as
the whitewashed
brick wall starts
to crumble and fall

were we not so
colorful that
even sunbleached concrete
found a rainbow under
our triple refined
driftwood bench?

(driftwood
that's a good
metaphor try
to remember it.)

there's just something
about the air hovering
directly above the cleanest
pavement you've ever seen
something dry and
slightly hopeless

something that looks
like every season
took its toll on
the sidewalk
and then left to
just left of the right.

when was the last time
you threw out the dress
and wore the
garment bag instead?

(i'll tell you here and now
it's not the most
comfortable idea but
it is an idea.)

we're all so highly
pigmented that
we give each other
headaches
we give
ourselves
headaches sometimes
don't we?

the whole world is so
loud with color
but i have discovered a
cure so extraordinary
it has never been recommended
before or since this moment.

falling asleep
on sunbleached concrete
is sure to wash the color
from where it pours
out the folds of your
knees and elbows and
guaranteed to clean your
skin of all things pertaining
to any season besides
your papery old age.

My father is an old truck
Sunbleached red

Breathes broken bottles
A faulty catalytic converter throat
All the smoke trapped inside

But the nicotine helps his brain function

Cinderblock sturdy
But skinny
A single pillar holding the roof up

A man built in a time when you had to tell things it was time to die
Leave them in a field somewhere and forget about

How do you write a love poem to a car of a man
Built in a time without airbags?
A car of a man who crashed with you inside so many times
You learned about rebuilding from experience
From trial and error

And how do you forgive a man who can no longer tell you he’s sorry?

Trucks
Don’t feel
Don’t give up
Don’t hurt you on purpose

Sometimes something inside just breaks
And no one catches it
And maybe you crash
Break a nose
Black an eye

As far as I know
I am not a broken man
But I’ve learned where all the parts go

And if I am my father’s son
A mechanic more often than a car maybe
Then I will be fine

The truck is dying
And beyond repair

You forgive it for that
It is old and past its time

And maybe it can’t say that it’s sorry

But there is a field somewhere that you plan on leaving it
To collect weeds
And rust
And be forgotten

So you forgive it

Ah, the lips, and ah, what cheeks;
Methinks though, you are not too deep.
What sunbleached tresses frame your face,
Even though you're lacking taste;
Your laugh tears out the soul of me,
And you're quite bent, it's plain to see.

Now touch me not, with your white hand:
Anemic sprites, I cannot stand;
Fix me not, in your blue eyes,
For I don't want to hear those sighs.
I'm sure your organs are complete-
But I care not, to hear you bleat!

being a discarded paper bag
in a sunbleached ditch roadside
moment, i rode past on the
stifled cycled exhaust fumes of
the intercity from oamaru back
home: second home, fifth home; how
many times have i left home,
now? being a stinging
sensation in the back of the
throat of some lost child
(me), some lost ******
human (obviously
me), this is the only thing
i'll ever regret being a
{oh, i am just a}
thought process cycling,
stifled, thinking, through
ultraviolet-polarised perspex
there, with
you with him, and he's
making you smile, and my
head hurts
just
a little more and i
fall
a little further down, like
apples drop from trees, like
lies drop from your insides,
and i mutter something stupid and true,
like: "i'll get over it this
time" and stay still stay
still, i will get over it this
time, just i, yours {never} truly. so, do
you get that feeling
like you're losing something,
(because i don't need you)
like you're caught mid-fading,
(because i don't want you)
but you can't figure out why?

i hope you feel it in your smile
tonight, darling.

Grounded on my mat of morning-moist loam, the trees gossip with one another and the birds call out suggestions. My lungs **** down the sunbleached air as my skin engulfs the remnants of last night's rain. Somewhere, caught between a down dog and a forward fold I thought of you. The clay rich dirt kisses my forehead as my breath makes love to the wind and my soul whispers 'thank you.

splayed
with a deathmask as gaunt
as in life

metacarpals and phalanges,
liberated (in vain) of rubbery
connective tissues

ribs and spine,
so surprisingly human,
sunbleached

bones that may as well have been mine
but weren’t for whatever reason
(or no reason at all)

what karmic debt
could this poor specimen have possibly incurred
to be pinned, naked and fleshless, in a glass-paned box for all to see for all foreseeable eternity?

mayhap beauty is, itself
criminal
when it goes without a price tag.

it wasn't until years too late
that the oceans once painting
your skin into a weepy
vacation canvas finally
dried and made their salty
descent down your throat.

i hope that one day
you find your mind wandering
back to some sunbleached
air conditioned antique shop
a cool and dim refuge of
kitschy proportions

and i hope one day you can finally
appreciate an afternoon that
may or may not have held
your greenesque day of peace

(by greenesque i mean that
not only was it green but
it also held whispers of the last
chapter in your favorite book
the part where all the pieces fall in place
and nobody is happy with the outcome)

you're just a bundle of
nerves and memories
the kind that keep you up at night
and your hair uneven lengths
the kind that flash before your eyes
through grainy old photographs
and pictures engraved so deep
inside a screen you question
whether or not they
ever even happened.

there are gravel roads
somewhere out there
that smell like home and
kind cold water in a july drought

and i sincerely hope
that you someday find
one of those state-parkish
leafy hollow spring hills
settled deep somewhere
inside your heart

and i hope that someday
you drive all alone for an hour
park on the side of the road and
watch the woods for no reason
except to listen to every love song you
ever knew in your youth
and i hope that your breathing stays steady
and your eyes stay dry and starkissed.

i would cross my fingers
shut my eyes and tie my
esophagus in a knot if i knew
my wishes could grant you peace

and i hope that when you're older
your beachside sunburns and
deep fried fatigue are washed away
by all the seasons of upstate mountain air.

FRUITS OF MY LABOR /BASKET OF BLESSINGS  

Started with pennies gathering dandelions from here to the horizon
lincoln heads exchanged for licorice  and a bad case of sunburn......
FRUITS OF MY LABOR  

Soon fall will be making it's call,gently landing, billowing and lining curbs and fence rows.
For a few counted as a blessing for the neighbors and friends that would rather pay a young man to do their raking .
FRUITS OF MY LABOR  

Daily read is an addictive need ,getting out that fresh news is not just a muse ,so a lot of rolling held down with a rubberband ,new bike a new route , Once a month collections left me with a lot more clout.
FRUITS OF MY LABOR  

Some farm boys born into it others just dropped at the gate,rows that grow and sunbleached blisters soon to be their fate. Bales to buck  or the need to ****  those crops that are used to feed. Piece work pay not much reason to stay.
FRUITS OF MY LABOR  

Once only a happy thought for the new munchies that were bought ,soon those plates would be my new fate,hot wet & busy from the starting gate,regular pay & food of the day left many reasons to stay,kitchen camaraderie helping to nurture a future.
FRUITS OF MY LABOR

Boys and their shovels bonded like Lassie without getting sassie ,cooling air brings more flakes ,daily rituals measured & treasured unless they lay on a pathway or roof
piling high brings a sigh, met with manic pressure,pay increasing by the weight, gold awaits as you clear those gates.
FRUITS OF MY LABOR  

Hurry up and wait but still stand straight,little sleep, lots to clean ,Haze grey and underway,mechanical monkeys maintain fast flyers,give it all,life or death play it out until your last breath.
FRUITS OF MY LABOR

Hard trails tell lots of tales ,mostly dollars marked by sweat, spent quick but  with little regret,Heavy metal ways marking days,calloused ,corroded smoothness eroded,
but clean , polish a few layers of paint makes for a quick sale.
FRUITS OF MY LABOR  

Settling in, picket fence with no chagrin,time card stamped life revamped,to travail with no avail  ,endless hours all devoured ,no gain without pain gladly paying penance for our sliver of pie,Anchor & chain bring great weight, left with none when it is done.
FRUITS OF MY LABOR  

Started a race already ahead several steps ahead of the pace,taking it all in anything to produce a grin,rising never to find a prize,suddenly crash & burn at every turn,burning bridges missing mates, finally awakened to an open gate honesty with myself lifted all the weight.
FRUITS OF MY LABOR

Due date time to wait,no choice for pink or blue, advice in the air now even strangers seem to care,instant true love ,positive protection will be their recollection,daily reaching for the teaching to make that simple glow grow.
FRUITS OF MY LABOR  

So as we roll on all we can ask is a new dawn ,learning to live with what we gave, Hopefully blessed with lessons learned in hindsight ,may the light shine on us even at night bringing bounty to all stages of life.
FRUITS OF MY LABOR. R.C.

my parents once told me
to never love someone
more than he loves myself
for it will be the death of me
but i guess i have died thousand times
for i easily fell for someone
with their little habits
the little curve that appears when
he smiles
his sunbleached skin
flashes of emotions
that appear across his face
but oh my
he turned my heart to shambles
for he held cigs like no one ever did
and drink stuffs that he should not drink
spread words of love
with empty feelings
as if love is just an empty shell
i once thought that
he was a saint
for that was the reason
he shines more than anybody else
but he is just like
any other people
a wolf covered in sheep skin

I was there when you fell from heaven
the fire in the sky burns,
blazoned by the jade
tint of satan's Greek fire

the air was poisoned with the unholiness of you

it's easy to blame coincidence
if I am broken, perhaps I cannot fix you

my eyes are replaced with slabs of molten rock and the soulfire gaze
sears your shadow from your towering image

you are yourself and reflection
an end and a beginning

the steps toward dawn
and it's sunbleached essence
baptizes and breathes

death into life

but dusk comes not long after
closer than sin
thicker than bad blood

there's no light at the end of the tunnel
just the passing glimmer of your
one last wish

there's no light at the end of the tunnel
i won't dance with the devil
there will be no
one last kiss

07/04/2018

nothing compared to the unabashed, intoxicated fun we had at three in the morning on independence day when we sat on the front porch at the patterson's house and played the music our parents raised us on. we sang to every word without fail, a constant cloud of smoke lingering above our heads and the fire in the middle of the circle reflected in everyone's eyes, everyone was glowing, everyone looked ******* beautiful. i told jj to play "pour some sugar on me" and he asked me if i really wanted everyone to sing, but he didn't need an answer. he knew he had to do it. cal took a swig from a bottle of camarena and grabbed my hand - we whipped our sunbleached curls in rapid synchronicity and for four minutes and twenty seven seconds, the only thing that mattered was our music and the neon explosions in the sky.

I like my hairy legs,
They make me feel like a sunbleached cowboy.
They make me feel like a long, lean man with elegant lines and a strong forehead.
I like it when they’re blonde
And they just glisten on my skin.
Like a faux-protection or a cloak,
A delicate barrier between myself
And the world.

Or really I guess I just like the way it looks:
Textured
But smooth.

It looks wild but soft.

A landscape.

I think the hair compliments
The shape of me very well.

I’m always amazed how the hair grows everywhere,
Even on the back of my knees
There is hair

And I like my boyish pretty toes.

I guess I like the sort of genderless aspect to my legs.

From far away they shout
I AM A WOMAN!

But from near they could be anyone’s: hairy with little scars here and there, hairy toes with some dead skin in the toe nail creases. A sort of chunky pink toe there on the end.

A bit of dry callous on my heels. A strong, curved calf muscle. The hollows at my ankles, the delicate depression behind my ankle bones just before the rigid wrinkles of my Achilles tendon.

I like the bulging veins in the arch of my foot when I point my toes
How they press their purple faces against my see-thru skin
Squeezed by the muscles that bump against one another beneath the hard arched bones above
I like the little bubbles of fat that pad my heels, turning bright yellow when I stand on them
Never-smooth legs that even when freshly shaved still prickle
Like a cactus
“Don’t get too comfortable here” they say
These beautiful legs aren’t for rubbing and lounging though my calves love to be pressured

These legs are made for exploration

Eyes searching desperately for answers I do not have
I cannot give,
Won't give.

The resonance of pain too much
Can't filter it,
Even endurance groans heavily at the need to press on

Illusions cast shadows all the time
You pick the ones you want,
Like,
Desperately need.

You believe them,
Questioning them gently,
till you fool yourself with plausible reasons.
You won't go to the core,
You're afraid of what lives there.

Taunting with its pretty whitewashed name
Nightmares parading as daydreams
Its the perfect master of deception
No one escapes it
It knows you so intricately,
Where every seed of doubt remains unwatered
twisting every nerve given to compulsion,
Deftly it hides you amongst the comfortable lies.

Applause,
Bravo,
A standing ovation
The illusuionst,
every slight of mind, sheer perfection!

What need is there of our pretty sunbleached truth
When you are your own masterful pretty little liar.

Now look what you've done,
Made your cake of clotted fears and twisted fruits
A recipe for disaster
Shhhh,
Mastermind of the tears of one.

Has a nice ring to it,
Don't you think?

he turned his ocean eyes
to bear into mine.
i could feel the waves crash around.
sure, i know the difference between he and i.
Neptune to a jellyfish.
still, he holds me
like the god of the sea.
his sea salt skin, rubbed
free of impurities.
his sunbleached hair
and watertanned chest,
they tower over me.
he towers over me-
his infinite stare,
the turbulent crests.
surely i'll be caught
in the undertow.

Of all the seasons, summer
is timeless.
The summerblown cornfield,
windwaving sunbleached white gold,
is forever,
and the time of wild strawberries,
small and freely given,
is outside time.

Happy dreams too
are timeless.
On waking I am filled with
an oceangrey
mistgrey
cloudgrey
regret
that the dream was not reality.
Yet I am glad to have felt joy,
and the beauty overcomes the sadness,
as the sweet wild sound of the pibroch
transcends the lament
that gave it birth.

Of all the seasons, summer
is timeless.
The summerblown cornfield,
windwaving sunbleached white gold,
is forever,
and the time of wild strawberries,
small and freely given,
is outside time.

Happy dreams too
are timeless.
On waking I am filled
with an oceangrey
mistgrey
cloudgrey
regret
that the dream was not reality.
Yet I am glad to have felt joy,
and the beauty overcomes the sadness,
as the sweet wild sound of the pibroch
transcends the lament
that gave it birth.