"tow" poems - Hello Poetry

"tow" poems

Not easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, then I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it, Staying put according to habit. You didn't just tow me an inch, no-- Nor leave me to set my small bald eye Skyward again, without hope, of course, Of apprehending blueness, or stars. That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake Masked among black rocks as a black rock In the white hiatus of winter-- Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure In the million perfectly-chisled Cheeks alighting each moment to melt My cheeks of basalt. They turned to tears, Angels weeping over dull natures, But didn't convince me. Those tears froze. Each dead head had a visor of ice. And I slept on like a bent finger. The first thing I was was sheer air And the locked drops rising in dew Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay Dense and expressionless round about. I didn't know what to make of it. I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded To pour myself out like a fluid Among bird feet and the stems of plants. I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once. Tree and stone glittered, without shadows. My finger-length grew lucent as glass. I started to bud like a March twig: An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg. From stone to cloud, so I ascended. Now I resemble a sort of god Floating through the air in my soul-shift Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.

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39.3k

Not easy to state the change you made. If I'm alive now, then I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it, Staying put according to habit. You didn't just tow me an inch, no-- Nor leave me to set my small bald eye Skyward again, without hope, of course, Of apprehending blueness, or stars. That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake Masked among black rocks as a black rock In the white hiatus of winter-- Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure In the million perfectly-chisled Cheeks alighting each moment to melt My cheeks of basalt. They turned to tears, Angels weeping over dull natures, But didn't convince me. Those tears froze. Each dead head had a visor of ice. And I slept on like a bent finger. The first thing I was was sheer air And the locked drops rising in dew Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay Dense and expressionless round about. I didn't know what to make of it. I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded To pour myself out like a fluid Among bird feet and the stems of plants. I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once. Tree and stone glittered, without shadows. My finger-length grew lucent as glass. I started to bud like a March twig: An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg. From stone to cloud, so I ascended. Now I resemble a sort of god Floating through the air in my soul-shift Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.

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lady craighead played the blues on a stand-up samick in the ***** room along side the parsons project and squabbling dogs and night moves stairs creek up the mezzanine trek wool sheets slide on finished floors little angels play late into the seventh (a closing match nearing the midnight hour) croaking toads and cicada sing in the blue moon musty smells and mothballs settle deep in the vault the kettle boils and cat coils as the pump house rolls its heavy drawl the red phone rings and bird clock sings (behind the ruddy stall) a sleeman variation of the ruy lopez employed heartily by the incomparable master jack marble toast burning wringer wash churning chris craft running near the old carp canoe rooster calls and west wind squalls rustle through the porch screen door chicken *** pies and rogue flies linger a rocker chair placed near the sepia face (softened by the intricate frame) donkey in tow (with a fastened *** maggie in her dreams of green tambourines the nocturnes reflections and whispering gospel bells tractors pull on the grinder stone horses lay still in the mid-day sun a trump card is fingered at the furnace click (crosswords and puzzles are next!) while the sparrow *and that **** rabid fox* are drowning deep in castles well

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Mar 14, 2017

Mar 14, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC

Mulholland Lane

lady craighead played the blues on a stand-up samick in the ***** room along side the parsons project and squabbling dogs and night moves stairs creek up the mezzanine trek wool sheets slide on finished floors little angels play late into the seventh (a closing match nearing the midnight hour) croaking toads and cicada sing in the blue moon musty smells and mothballs settle deep in the vault the kettle boils and cat coils as the pump house rolls its heavy drawl the red phone rings and bird clock sings (behind the ruddy stall) a sleeman variation of the ruy lopez employed heartily by the incomparable master jack marble toast burning wringer wash churning chris craft running near the old carp canoe rooster calls and west wind squalls rustle through the porch screen door chicken *** pies and rogue flies linger a rocker chair placed near the sepia face (softened by the intricate frame) donkey in tow (with a fastened *** maggie in her dreams of green tambourines the nocturnes reflections and whispering gospel bells tractors pull on the grinder stone horses lay still in the mid-day sun a trump card is fingered at the furnace click (crosswords and puzzles are next!) while the sparrow *and that **** rabid fox* are drowning deep in castles well

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If I travelled, across the landscape of my mind, And, I chose to take you with me – guess what you might find? I’d talk you into many things, I’d make you see the sea. We would buy some wood Pay by cheque, which you would check And build an arc upon an ark. And you’d, set sail with me! Whether we had the weather or not We’d sail a week, and you’d feel so weak You’ll beg me for dry land! And so, we’d end the feat on our two feet And, tow; toe-to toe. Until ashore, we land. We’d shout aloud, if that’s allowed? To see if we’re alone? We’d find we are and start to panic But get woken by the phone. Steve Collins. 24/8/10

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Aug 24, 2010

Aug 24, 2010 at 1:06 PM UTC

Homophone Dream

If I travelled, across the landscape of my mind, And, I chose to take you with me – guess what you might find? I’d talk you into many things, I’d make you see the sea. We would buy some wood Pay by cheque, which you would check And build an arc upon an ark. And you’d, set sail with me! Whether we had the weather or not We’d sail a week, and you’d feel so weak You’ll beg me for dry land! And so, we’d end the feat on our two feet And, tow; toe-to toe. Until ashore, we land. We’d shout aloud, if that’s allowed? To see if we’re alone? We’d find we are and start to panic But get woken by the phone. Steve Collins. 24/8/10

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Raised in this floating world, forever deep. You can’t drain the ocean Decidedly from down south of here You can’t un-trace the roots. You can’t lie and say, “This isn’t where I grew up” You can’t deny the fruits of what was planted two generations ago when your grandpatents arrived from the Philippines, seeds in tow soil for the taking You can’t confiscate what they claimed when they planted their flags into the moon-white sand of a beach in Florida on a far side of the planet their forefarthers have never seen You can’t say those flags weren’t there when wind came You can't ***** out that pride of country, cut off its native tongue and its acquired taste, or pass up the plate of fried lumpia and rice passed down from the kitchen of your Daddylol feeding seven kids day in and out with tomatoes he planted, chickens he raised, Malonggay leaves he grew with thumbs so green they wrote in the papers about it He was a farmer Your grandmother, a nurse And i was writer And this is our story You can’t erase the letters of your name, your lineage written all over it like a map of everywhere we been You can’t take back the words in Tagalog and Chavacano your Lola Shirley must have sang your mother to sleep with You can’t take their dreams You can't just wake up one day and undo the ripple effects their moves created across waters 10,000 miles east of here, the rolling waves they curled into or the faraway shores they washed up upon Bottled messages in hand Our legends held within You can’t say centuries from now that they won’t feel it when their feet hit the sand of their own frontier beside the waves we stayed making a history written in deep water for those who come after you to sail above and beyond.

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Nov 24, 2018

Nov 24, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC

Raised in this floating world, forever deep. You can’t drain the ocean Decidedly from down south of here You can’t un-trace the roots. You can’t lie and say, “This isn’t where I grew up” You can’t deny the fruits of what was planted two generations ago when your grandpatents arrived from the Philippines, seeds in tow soil for the taking You can’t confiscate what they claimed when they planted their flags into the moon-white sand of a beach in Florida on a far side of the planet their forefarthers have never seen You can’t say those flags weren’t there when wind came You can't ***** out that pride of country, cut off its native tongue and its acquired taste, or pass up the plate of fried lumpia and rice passed down from the kitchen of your Daddylol feeding seven kids day in and out with tomatoes he planted, chickens he raised, Malonggay leaves he grew with thumbs so green they wrote in the papers about it He was a farmer Your grandmother, a nurse And i was writer And this is our story You can’t erase the letters of your name, your lineage written all over it like a map of everywhere we been You can’t take back the words in Tagalog and Chavacano your Lola Shirley must have sang your mother to sleep with You can’t take their dreams You can't just wake up one day and undo the ripple effects their moves created across waters 10,000 miles east of here, the rolling waves they curled into or the faraway shores they washed up upon Bottled messages in hand Our legends held within You can’t say centuries from now that they won’t feel it when their feet hit the sand of their own frontier beside the waves we stayed making a history written in deep water for those who come after you to sail above and beyond.

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Lady, your room is lousy with flowers. When you kick me out, that's what I'll remember, Me, sitting here bored as a loepard In your jungle of wine-bottle lamps, Velvet pillows the color of blood pudding And the white china flying fish from Italy. I forget you, hearing the cut flowers Sipping their liquids from assorted pots, Pitchers and Coronation goblets Like Monday drunkards. The milky berries Bow down, a local constellation, Toward their admirers in the tabletop: Mobs of eyeballs looking up. Are those petals of leaves you've paried with them --- Those green-striped ovals of silver tissue? The red geraniums I know. Friends, friends. They stink of armpits And the invovled maladies of autumn, Musky as a lovebed the morning after. My nostrils prickle with nostalgia. Henna hags:cloth of your cloth. They tow old water thick as fog. The roses in the Toby jug Gave up the ghost last night. High time. Their yellow corsets were ready to split. You snored, and I heard the petals unlatch, Tapping and ticking like nervous fingers. You should have junked them before they died. Daybreak discovered the bureau lid Littered with Chinese hands. Now I'm stared at By chrysanthemums the size Of Holofernes' head, dipped in the same Magenta as this fubsy sofa. In the mirror their doubles back them up. Listen: your tenant mice Are rattling the ******* packets. Fine flour Muffles their bird feet: they whistle for joy. And you doze on, nose to the wall. This mizzle fits me like a sad jacket. How did we make it up to your attic? You handed me gin in a glass bud vase. We slept like stones. Lady, what am I doing With a lung full of dust and a tongue of wood, Knee-deep in the cold swamped by flowers?

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14.7k

Lady, your room is lousy with flowers. When you kick me out, that's what I'll remember, Me, sitting here bored as a loepard In your jungle of wine-bottle lamps, Velvet pillows the color of blood pudding And the white china flying fish from Italy. I forget you, hearing the cut flowers Sipping their liquids from assorted pots, Pitchers and Coronation goblets Like Monday drunkards. The milky berries Bow down, a local constellation, Toward their admirers in the tabletop: Mobs of eyeballs looking up. Are those petals of leaves you've paried with them --- Those green-striped ovals of silver tissue? The red geraniums I know. Friends, friends. They stink of armpits And the invovled maladies of autumn, Musky as a lovebed the morning after. My nostrils prickle with nostalgia. Henna hags:cloth of your cloth. They tow old water thick as fog. The roses in the Toby jug Gave up the ghost last night. High time. Their yellow corsets were ready to split. You snored, and I heard the petals unlatch, Tapping and ticking like nervous fingers. You should have junked them before they died. Daybreak discovered the bureau lid Littered with Chinese hands. Now I'm stared at By chrysanthemums the size Of Holofernes' head, dipped in the same Magenta as this fubsy sofa. In the mirror their doubles back them up. Listen: your tenant mice Are rattling the ******* packets. Fine flour Muffles their bird feet: they whistle for joy. And you doze on, nose to the wall. This mizzle fits me like a sad jacket. How did we make it up to your attic? You handed me gin in a glass bud vase. We slept like stones. Lady, what am I doing With a lung full of dust and a tongue of wood, Knee-deep in the cold swamped by flowers?

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When people ask me Why poetry Why not pick a paying profession Take hold this truth That I'm laying on you In which there is a valuable lesson If you do what you like You're going to find Life holds treasure in wonder Instead of the dough Taking you out in its tow And then pulling you under When you're doing things Think more the gifts they bring And not money to be made When people ask me Why poetry Do I really need to say

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Apr 19, 2018

Apr 19, 2018 at 12:48 PM UTC

When people ask me Why poetry Why not pick a paying profession Take hold this truth That I'm laying on you In which there is a valuable lesson If you do what you like You're going to find Life holds treasure in wonder Instead of the dough Taking you out in its tow And then pulling you under When you're doing things Think more the gifts they bring And not money to be made When people ask me Why poetry Do I really need to say

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Some say I entertain But I write to maintain My own **** down my own lane You want **** go ask mane Maybe I ask for fame Probably go for the money and dames Go on rari's and cadi's instead of trains Or atleast go lit over all my mains (If I had some) Everybody I know now they stains One thing to another so quick they been prayin For justice, to be loved, some **** they all be sayin Maybe y'all expect me to be slayin But nah I am payin Taxes and rent I owe From this person I been fakin Maybe now I'm on a low Started off high but **** happens you know Like riding a car and you get stopped to tow Maybe I look worse, dusty like I came from the dough Or ***** as **** like my other boys' fro But for real tho No roast no show Maybe I need this to grow Harsh when you on your own on the road I'm seeing **** too early hoppin like a toad Like seeing a video on youtube and it forgot to load Probably changed so much I am hard to decode May be considered weird but I guess that's my mode So I don't write to entertain I don't want all that fame **** the world now I love the train But I write to explain. One's mind trying to be sane

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Apr 1, 2017

Apr 1, 2017 at 7:55 PM UTC

Some say I entertain But I write to maintain My own **** down my own lane You want **** go ask mane Maybe I ask for fame Probably go for the money and dames Go on rari's and cadi's instead of trains Or atleast go lit over all my mains (If I had some) Everybody I know now they stains One thing to another so quick they been prayin For justice, to be loved, some **** they all be sayin Maybe y'all expect me to be slayin But nah I am payin Taxes and rent I owe From this person I been fakin Maybe now I'm on a low Started off high but **** happens you know Like riding a car and you get stopped to tow Maybe I look worse, dusty like I came from the dough Or ***** as **** like my other boys' fro But for real tho No roast no show Maybe I need this to grow Harsh when you on your own on the road I'm seeing **** too early hoppin like a toad Like seeing a video on youtube and it forgot to load Probably changed so much I am hard to decode May be considered weird but I guess that's my mode So I don't write to entertain I don't want all that fame **** the world now I love the train But I write to explain. One's mind trying to be sane

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I fished a movie hoping to cast a reel that catches a keeper hook, line, and sinker I waded in line smiling the tackle box optimism in my sights butterfly's in my net visions of a hotrod I look up at the marque with a good cast and reel my boats singing a song that's hooked on love I enter the theatre among the trees branching towards my spot such forestry I race past the mainstream hotrod in tow I take to my seat setting anchor to a fun outing as the lights abate skip to my Lou at bay watching the cast make a splash Logan Robertson 8/2/2018

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Aug 2, 2018

Aug 2, 2018 at 3:21 PM UTC

logan-robertson

I Caught a Movie

I fished a movie hoping to cast a reel that catches a keeper hook, line, and sinker I waded in line smiling the tackle box optimism in my sights butterfly's in my net visions of a hotrod I look up at the marque with a good cast and reel my boats singing a song that's hooked on love I enter the theatre among the trees branching towards my spot such forestry I race past the mainstream hotrod in tow I take to my seat setting anchor to a fun outing as the lights abate skip to my Lou at bay watching the cast make a splash Logan Robertson 8/2/2018

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One Summer's night looking out the back window at the back garden My! I couldn't get over it, how bright it was You'd think the sun was still shining The Big Moon casting its ghostly pallor over everything Like an Enchantress's dark spell The strange cold beauty of it, it held me enthralled I could only stand there watching, silently in awe; Suddenly, a peculiar thought came into my head I smiled at its outrageous suggestion Then grabbing my sunglasses and my old deck chair I went out into the garden and sat right down there underneath the stars Bathing in the silvery light of the moon's cold rays, Well I tell you, all the night creatures going about their night business They all did a double take "Hey, that's the funny human bloke, what's he doin' out this late", Even the cat came over and rubbed her eyes," Wait a minute ", she said, " this isn't right, you're not supposed to come out at night ": Sensing their curiosity and their general discomfiture I lowered my shades and looking at them all gathered there in the shiny bright dark, I said " Don't worry gang, don't be alarmed, no! don't be aghast It's only.... well, it's only Great Art. II I don't know But it seems Wherever I go Great Art is never far behind In tow.

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Mar 17, 2018

Mar 17, 2018 at 8:25 AM UTC

One Summer's night looking out the back window at the back garden My! I couldn't get over it, how bright it was You'd think the sun was still shining The Big Moon casting its ghostly pallor over everything Like an Enchantress's dark spell The strange cold beauty of it, it held me enthralled I could only stand there watching, silently in awe; Suddenly, a peculiar thought came into my head I smiled at its outrageous suggestion Then grabbing my sunglasses and my old deck chair I went out into the garden and sat right down there underneath the stars Bathing in the silvery light of the moon's cold rays, Well I tell you, all the night creatures going about their night business They all did a double take "Hey, that's the funny human bloke, what's he doin' out this late", Even the cat came over and rubbed her eyes," Wait a minute ", she said, " this isn't right, you're not supposed to come out at night ": Sensing their curiosity and their general discomfiture I lowered my shades and looking at them all gathered there in the shiny bright dark, I said " Don't worry gang, don't be alarmed, no! don't be aghast It's only.... well, it's only Great Art. II I don't know But it seems Wherever I go Great Art is never far behind In tow.

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you sowed this **** into my brain... why do you even "think" that i want... you? i, want your children... the meme-mutation is what i'm after... and there are plenty of useful idiots to allow me to process the intermediating processes for: the sigma, "accomplishment"; which is unlike what infected mushroom's - trance party track sounds like, outside of my own head. why do these people even think i'm after their genes of memes? i want, their infantile replicas... i want to craft a worthwhile curiosity, on a canvas, that that they call their gene replicas, children, and... like why called me... easy meat.. einfachfleisch... what? i'm not here for these news' anchors... i'm here for their children... nibble nibble nibble chew chow cow tow and main... prawn crackers... ah... news anchors are easy targets... slightly pointless 20x bulls eye honing devices... it's their children... i want their children... i want their cognition to become replica of wheelchair bound infirmaries; why? oh... you know... football and wrestling, given the Qatar investment plan... the whole sport "thing" became a tad bit boring... had to resort to secondary sources of entertainment; children of news anchors? the secondary, "last", albeit, the best resort; schindler... required a list, to become reincarnated... and revive a **** a heartlessness of an reincarnation anomaly: i.e.: what, a limited number of people, to begin with?! so the rest is primitive "a.i."? now i'm starting to think... thank the blue indians for their culinary innovations... but when it comes to their theology? **** 'em; did i advocate that? if i did... within what pronoun guarantee of advocacy? playing the grammar card... which pronoun? the plural singular, or the singular plural, or the gender neutral? thank you jean-paul sartre, for the... "i"... i simply love, this revised concept of a unit... the revision clinging to the royalist affirmation of pronouns... i.e. 1 would say... so... and 1... would, so, will, do so. **** the pronoun debate in Canadian politics... if i have to resort to this? then i will... like your plain citizen... may "i" speak within the confines, of the royal, one, given the example: one might suppose... to be the former, and the current, highest, etiquette? gender neutrality of pronouns... last time i checked... one was never allowed pronoun stature... why not address this conundrum, to begin with?! oh, right... too late... too many loud mouths without a guillotine... so, basically, a cow fart's worth of argumentation.

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Aug 2, 2018

Aug 2, 2018 at 11:51 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

you sowed this **** into my brain... why do you even "think" that i want... you? i, want your children... the meme-mutation is what i'm after... and there are plenty of useful idiots to allow me to process the intermediating processes for: the sigma, "accomplishment"; which is unlike what infected mushroom's - trance party track sounds like, outside of my own head. why do these people even think i'm after their genes of memes? i want, their infantile replicas... i want to craft a worthwhile curiosity, on a canvas, that that they call their gene replicas, children, and... like why called me... easy meat.. einfachfleisch... what? i'm not here for these news' anchors... i'm here for their children... nibble nibble nibble chew chow cow tow and main... prawn crackers... ah... news anchors are easy targets... slightly pointless 20x bulls eye honing devices... it's their children... i want their children... i want their cognition to become replica of wheelchair bound infirmaries; why? oh... you know... football and wrestling, given the Qatar investment plan... the whole sport "thing" became a tad bit boring... had to resort to secondary sources of entertainment; children of news anchors? the secondary, "last", albeit, the best resort; schindler... required a list, to become reincarnated... and revive a **** a heartlessness of an reincarnation anomaly: i.e.: what, a limited number of people, to begin with?! so the rest is primitive "a.i."? now i'm starting to think... thank the blue indians for their culinary innovations... but when it comes to their theology? **** 'em; did i advocate that? if i did... within what pronoun guarantee of advocacy? playing the grammar card... which pronoun? the plural singular, or the singular plural, or the gender neutral? thank you jean-paul sartre, for the... "i"... i simply love, this revised concept of a unit... the revision clinging to the royalist affirmation of pronouns... i.e. 1 would say... so... and 1... would, so, will, do so. **** the pronoun debate in Canadian politics... if i have to resort to this? then i will... like your plain citizen... may "i" speak within the confines, of the royal, one, given the example: one might suppose... to be the former, and the current, highest, etiquette? gender neutrality of pronouns... last time i checked... one was never allowed pronoun stature... why not address this conundrum, to begin with?! oh, right... too late... too many loud mouths without a guillotine... so, basically, a cow fart's worth of argumentation.

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# *Laying in bed all day with silky thoughts in a champagne haze **An empty glass of water rests barren on the floor her eyes light up as he enters through the door** With every stride across the room whispered lyrics begin to bloom In an encore from the night before in her memories now begins a brand new score **Thrums echo as the rythmn keeps time inside each beat slight murmurs crescendo and a long symphonic overture erupts** He draws his notes in the cream of her curves Dismantling her inhibitions soothing her nerves Tongues in a waltz senerading to thunderous beats in a rhythm more shattering than the rolling waves of the Sea **Lights flicker as his eyes roll visions of grandeur in tow breathless they gasp for air not wanting this moment to soon disappear** Driving urgency tenderly drizzle ending one where the other begins melting in the stillness of tangled bodies and limp limbs* #

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Jun 4, 2018

Jun 4, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC

A Collaboration with TSPoetry

# *Laying in bed all day with silky thoughts in a champagne haze **An empty glass of water rests barren on the floor her eyes light up as he enters through the door** With every stride across the room whispered lyrics begin to bloom In an encore from the night before in her memories now begins a brand new score **Thrums echo as the rythmn keeps time inside each beat slight murmurs crescendo and a long symphonic overture erupts** He draws his notes in the cream of her curves Dismantling her inhibitions soothing her nerves Tongues in a waltz senerading to thunderous beats in a rhythm more shattering than the rolling waves of the Sea **Lights flicker as his eyes roll visions of grandeur in tow breathless they gasp for air not wanting this moment to soon disappear** Driving urgency tenderly drizzle ending one where the other begins melting in the stillness of tangled bodies and limp limbs* #

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There is no moral code When time is an icy road Where you cannot stop Or you'll be stuck in the cold ground When the temperature drops Snow collects in my frosty frown And starts to linger On my frostbite fingers While I keep sliding On the line we're riding I see icy roads Leading to icy modes Of acting Impacting The way we treat each other The same way we beat each other To the finish line Of our frigid time Time isn't nice When it's ice But it's all we know Time continually goes The challenges grow Buried in snow Trying to go uphill is a nasty nope Sliding downhill is a slippery slope If you momentarily lose your control You're pulled over by the cops on patrol Everything is covered in snow Even the cars being towed Their owners gave away their agency And are at the tow truck driver's mercy They rely on him to get them to safety So they cunningly wear his jersey There are things we want Acquired by tease and taunt We drive on top of bodies To gain traction on the street We do what is naughty To have enough to eat I careen through time Without seeing a dime Everything looks so plain In this frozen rain When the ordinary life Is within my sight I look for something more Only to see a frozen door There is ice on the road There is ice in my heart I can't handle the load In the back of my cart Until I decide To abide By the slide And glide On the edge of control and freedom There are other cars and I'll lead them

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Jan 17, 2018

Jan 17, 2018 at 2:03 AM UTC

There is no moral code When time is an icy road Where you cannot stop Or you'll be stuck in the cold ground When the temperature drops Snow collects in my frosty frown And starts to linger On my frostbite fingers While I keep sliding On the line we're riding I see icy roads Leading to icy modes Of acting Impacting The way we treat each other The same way we beat each other To the finish line Of our frigid time Time isn't nice When it's ice But it's all we know Time continually goes The challenges grow Buried in snow Trying to go uphill is a nasty nope Sliding downhill is a slippery slope If you momentarily lose your control You're pulled over by the cops on patrol Everything is covered in snow Even the cars being towed Their owners gave away their agency And are at the tow truck driver's mercy They rely on him to get them to safety So they cunningly wear his jersey There are things we want Acquired by tease and taunt We drive on top of bodies To gain traction on the street We do what is naughty To have enough to eat I careen through time Without seeing a dime Everything looks so plain In this frozen rain When the ordinary life Is within my sight I look for something more Only to see a frozen door There is ice on the road There is ice in my heart I can't handle the load In the back of my cart Until I decide To abide By the slide And glide On the edge of control and freedom There are other cars and I'll lead them

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Drivin’ with the kids in tow Windows down, nowhere to go Hands outside, feel wind blow On country roads, fields passin’ slow. Saw a hayrack sittin’ by a fence “Rocks for Sale – Fifty Cents” Thought I, it makes no earthly sense To demand for rocks some recompense. But the sign - unique enough to hail (I protested - but to no avail) The missus and the kids prevailed A sale you see, is still a sale! Before day and feelings I did mar Realizing for the course it’s par I turned around and stopped the car It’s what I’ve become, and whom we are . To the rack and rocks the kids did sprint I got closer, had to squint So I could read the finer print Kids might have seen, but care they din’t. Said the bigger rocks did cost a buck I knew then that I was out of luck Between a hard place and a rock I’m stuck ‘Twas bait and switch, and smelled like muck. But the kids had picked from rocks galore Put them in the trunk to store The rack was less some rocks times four And the coffee can had four bucks more! PwL 5/16/15

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May 16, 2015

May 16, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC

Drivin’ with the kids in tow Windows down, nowhere to go Hands outside, feel wind blow On country roads, fields passin’ slow. Saw a hayrack sittin’ by a fence “Rocks for Sale – Fifty Cents” Thought I, it makes no earthly sense To demand for rocks some recompense. But the sign - unique enough to hail (I protested - but to no avail) The missus and the kids prevailed A sale you see, is still a sale! Before day and feelings I did mar Realizing for the course it’s par I turned around and stopped the car It’s what I’ve become, and whom we are . To the rack and rocks the kids did sprint I got closer, had to squint So I could read the finer print Kids might have seen, but care they din’t. Said the bigger rocks did cost a buck I knew then that I was out of luck Between a hard place and a rock I’m stuck ‘Twas bait and switch, and smelled like muck. But the kids had picked from rocks galore Put them in the trunk to store The rack was less some rocks times four And the coffee can had four bucks more! PwL 5/16/15

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Partly darkened and part in light A time when the stars and sun shared the sky Bear witness to two behemoths wielding might Impending clash foreseen to go awry Two trains of thoughts charging from opposite ends Each bearing their own solid ideals Their flags that flew with conflicting brands Convictions they carry on beaten, weary wheels Almost an eternity, the time is soon Seconds lasted before they finally would meet Feeling of dread like the cloud covered moon With war cries of whistles, they would greet No possible way that they could miss War waged in steeled wills and forged metals Anticipate the moment, their couplings would kiss Unleashing a barrage of predestined reprisals Sheer destruction as they ate into each other All in tow haphazardly derailed A clash made of brute strength and power A result of when decisiveness had failed All was motionless save for the light of day The two lay dead; spent currencies in coal Fire and smoke had emerged from the fray Signifying that the two have met their goal Their cargo now freed, engaging in petty skirmish Lunging and wrestling as they fought for dominance Determination to overwhelm; never to languish Jousting fists fueled by pent-up vengeance Almost at end this long drawn battle Much like a storm to be patiently ridden out When the last of the debris should settle Then would be lifted the dusty veil of doubt The sun has now risen revealing the aftermath Shedding light on the devastation incurred Dark thoughts possess the most potent of wraths But nothing could beat the muscle of the written word Looking back I've realised the harm I've caused Found great solace in the dark words I've governed Life still hurls; it can never be paused Just dust yourself off for you're better off enlightened

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Sep 29, 2014

Sep 29, 2014 at 5:14 AM UTC

Collision Course (III)

Partly darkened and part in light A time when the stars and sun shared the sky Bear witness to two behemoths wielding might Impending clash foreseen to go awry Two trains of thoughts charging from opposite ends Each bearing their own solid ideals Their flags that flew with conflicting brands Convictions they carry on beaten, weary wheels Almost an eternity, the time is soon Seconds lasted before they finally would meet Feeling of dread like the cloud covered moon With war cries of whistles, they would greet No possible way that they could miss War waged in steeled wills and forged metals Anticipate the moment, their couplings would kiss Unleashing a barrage of predestined reprisals Sheer destruction as they ate into each other All in tow haphazardly derailed A clash made of brute strength and power A result of when decisiveness had failed All was motionless save for the light of day The two lay dead; spent currencies in coal Fire and smoke had emerged from the fray Signifying that the two have met their goal Their cargo now freed, engaging in petty skirmish Lunging and wrestling as they fought for dominance Determination to overwhelm; never to languish Jousting fists fueled by pent-up vengeance Almost at end this long drawn battle Much like a storm to be patiently ridden out When the last of the debris should settle Then would be lifted the dusty veil of doubt The sun has now risen revealing the aftermath Shedding light on the devastation incurred Dark thoughts possess the most potent of wraths But nothing could beat the muscle of the written word Looking back I've realised the harm I've caused Found great solace in the dark words I've governed Life still hurls; it can never be paused Just dust yourself off for you're better off enlightened

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These eyes have felt their fair share of tears that burn Forgive my eyes for they are yet so green They have seen much but still they do not learn These lungs have breathed The air both fresh and acrid Forgive them for they are yet so green They only do what they must when all runs turbid These ears they've heard Hurtful promises and whispers that have stung Forgive my ears for they are yet so green They're know not to ignore the language of forked tongues These lips have served The most callous of opinions Forgive them for they are yet so green They can't seem to curb pent up notions These hands have grown tired From shielding my tear-stricken face Forgive these hands for they are yet so green They're still so afraid to welcome the gift of future days These legs are sore For they have travelled far Forgive them for they are yet so green They knew better than to enter through doors left slightly ajar This mind is weary From thinking of a life meant only for dreamers Forgive my mind for it is yet so green They know not of the inexistence of greener pastures This heart... My heart Pounding each beat that betrays Beats with an anvil in tow Forgive it for it is yet so green It's having more trouble than it cares to show This face I wear A weathered mask I'm unready to shed Forgive it for it is yet so green There's still life in it... For there's yet much to be said

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May 21, 2015

May 21, 2015 at 12:54 PM UTC

These eyes have felt their fair share of tears that burn Forgive my eyes for they are yet so green They have seen much but still they do not learn These lungs have breathed The air both fresh and acrid Forgive them for they are yet so green They only do what they must when all runs turbid These ears they've heard Hurtful promises and whispers that have stung Forgive my ears for they are yet so green They're know not to ignore the language of forked tongues These lips have served The most callous of opinions Forgive them for they are yet so green They can't seem to curb pent up notions These hands have grown tired From shielding my tear-stricken face Forgive these hands for they are yet so green They're still so afraid to welcome the gift of future days These legs are sore For they have travelled far Forgive them for they are yet so green They knew better than to enter through doors left slightly ajar This mind is weary From thinking of a life meant only for dreamers Forgive my mind for it is yet so green They know not of the inexistence of greener pastures This heart... My heart Pounding each beat that betrays Beats with an anvil in tow Forgive it for it is yet so green It's having more trouble than it cares to show This face I wear A weathered mask I'm unready to shed Forgive it for it is yet so green There's still life in it... For there's yet much to be said

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There we where just cruising along But I could tell something was wrong Your temperature was starting to rise And off of you smoke started to rise Then you just up and died I looked to the sky And I cry Why Why now, why you Why Lord, now what do I do I call a tow trunk to come to our aid To pick up the mess that you made He picks up your useless carcass I just want to cuss Never again we'll it be us

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Mar 29, 2016

Mar 29, 2016 at 6:12 PM UTC

There we where just cruising along But I could tell something was wrong Your temperature was starting to rise And off of you smoke started to rise Then you just up and died I looked to the sky And I cry Why Why now, why you Why Lord, now what do I do I call a tow trunk to come to our aid To pick up the mess that you made He picks up your useless carcass I just want to cuss Never again we'll it be us

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II Pet 1:9 coming to mind as I finished, lo, the complexity of this piece, and this: "...lacketh these things is blind and cannot see afar off--" (sonnet #MMMMMMMCDXCIX) How Shakespeare's lines 'non haunt the flag's detail As't waves to bitter winds' capricious sense Of play, with memries of late rallies thence In tow, as all we'd grandly strut through'd pale Before the empty eye of hours that scale Down what we said was living, as pretense Leers through the smoky limelight fading hence Where leaves pile up too thickly for aught bail. Is't cuz I've tried 'gain to be stylish fer What fashion and say Vogue mag swore was due, Tae learn my peers yet scorn attempts in tour? Cuz even when I did succeed and do All that "they" said should be, or called too poor What we thought tops, Death mocks as ere we knew? 07Nov18a

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Nov 11, 2018

Nov 11, 2018 at 4:27 PM UTC

...And How My Vision Seems to Fail--?!

II Pet 1:9 coming to mind as I finished, lo, the complexity of this piece, and this: "...lacketh these things is blind and cannot see afar off--" (sonnet #MMMMMMMCDXCIX) How Shakespeare's lines 'non haunt the flag's detail As't waves to bitter winds' capricious sense Of play, with memries of late rallies thence In tow, as all we'd grandly strut through'd pale Before the empty eye of hours that scale Down what we said was living, as pretense Leers through the smoky limelight fading hence Where leaves pile up too thickly for aught bail. Is't cuz I've tried 'gain to be stylish fer What fashion and say Vogue mag swore was due, Tae learn my peers yet scorn attempts in tour? Cuz even when I did succeed and do All that "they" said should be, or called too poor What we thought tops, Death mocks as ere we knew? 07Nov18a

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Bury me in Paris, when my heart stops and my eyes open wide, next to Beckett or Sarte & de Beauvoir, ménage à trois. Bury me in Paris, where the tourists go, on the Champs-Élysées, or near the home of Picasso. Bury me in Paris where the Seraphs scoff and roll their brown eyes and the saints sell paints on the edge of the Seine’s grime. Bury me in Paris between the pavement and le Métro, take my body to whatever stop, just go. Bury me in Paris on a winter’s night, beneath the Louvre pyramid light. Bury me in Paris with Lady Liberty in tow, make my bed next to de Balzac, next to Marceau. Bury me in Paris at the foot of l’Obélisque accompanied by pharaohs, exhumed. Bury me in Paris, leave me there, I guess, in the hotel room overlooking the Arc. I, fully dressed. Bury me in Paris while listening to Robespierre’s final scream, the silence drowned out only by the guillotine. Bury me in Paris, Montrouge, your angel calls to me, that one who serves macarons at the head of the Tuileries. Bury me in Paris, with the Angel, unimpressed, next to her, I, in eternal rest. Bury me in Paris, toss me off Bir-Hakiem, splashing, or under tour Eiffel in the springtime night, waking. Bury me in Paris, my body yearns to be free and true, but if I am to die in New Orleans, bon Ange de Montrouge, Bury me there with the jazz worms, singing: “Angel, come to me, come to me, Angel, come.”

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Jul 31, 2013

Jul 31, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC

bury me in Paris

Bury me in Paris, when my heart stops and my eyes open wide, next to Beckett or Sarte & de Beauvoir, ménage à trois. Bury me in Paris, where the tourists go, on the Champs-Élysées, or near the home of Picasso. Bury me in Paris where the Seraphs scoff and roll their brown eyes and the saints sell paints on the edge of the Seine’s grime. Bury me in Paris between the pavement and le Métro, take my body to whatever stop, just go. Bury me in Paris on a winter’s night, beneath the Louvre pyramid light. Bury me in Paris with Lady Liberty in tow, make my bed next to de Balzac, next to Marceau. Bury me in Paris at the foot of l’Obélisque accompanied by pharaohs, exhumed. Bury me in Paris, leave me there, I guess, in the hotel room overlooking the Arc. I, fully dressed. Bury me in Paris while listening to Robespierre’s final scream, the silence drowned out only by the guillotine. Bury me in Paris, Montrouge, your angel calls to me, that one who serves macarons at the head of the Tuileries. Bury me in Paris, with the Angel, unimpressed, next to her, I, in eternal rest. Bury me in Paris, toss me off Bir-Hakiem, splashing, or under tour Eiffel in the springtime night, waking. Bury me in Paris, my body yearns to be free and true, but if I am to die in New Orleans, bon Ange de Montrouge, Bury me there with the jazz worms, singing: “Angel, come to me, come to me, Angel, come.”

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A soft spoken lady she was not Neither timid nor fragile Alone she tarried with six girls in tow She set up home while around her was gloom With boldness and courage, she always moved forward Head always held high with dignity and pride She raised her daughters much like soldiers in the army Some fell through the crack but back to her fold, they always hurried She was never sweet or smiled too much It was not for lack of love but more of a disciplined lifestyle She however mellowed once her first grandchild arrived Loving became easier and perhaps she learnt how to smile She taught us to work hard and stick to a schedule If you want to do something, do it to completion Cleanliness was next to godliness or so she reminded us Her hands were always busy minding the flowers or some vegetables I do not miss her like how I used to miss her It seems these days she’s always near when I need her Her life has been rich with children, grandchildren and great grandchildren She may be gone but she left a legacy for generations to come!

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Feb 26, 2013

Feb 26, 2013 at 9:24 AM UTC

A soft spoken lady she was not Neither timid nor fragile Alone she tarried with six girls in tow She set up home while around her was gloom With boldness and courage, she always moved forward Head always held high with dignity and pride She raised her daughters much like soldiers in the army Some fell through the crack but back to her fold, they always hurried She was never sweet or smiled too much It was not for lack of love but more of a disciplined lifestyle She however mellowed once her first grandchild arrived Loving became easier and perhaps she learnt how to smile She taught us to work hard and stick to a schedule If you want to do something, do it to completion Cleanliness was next to godliness or so she reminded us Her hands were always busy minding the flowers or some vegetables I do not miss her like how I used to miss her It seems these days she’s always near when I need her Her life has been rich with children, grandchildren and great grandchildren She may be gone but she left a legacy for generations to come!

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Ahoy Captain Courageous! Cleave not thy ship from soul Past heaving swell through Stormy sleet this spellbinding Siren to seek. Away thee, Ahab! More than Whale, this mistress heaps Thy spirit to take thee Deep ‘neath sandy shoal. She sings... clings... captures. Pour over rocks Impudent-ass officer Soon torn and tattered. You know better than Fools before thee! Yea! Your liquor lapses Dead man dreaming! Admirals and angels Have fallen Afore thee… oh wise one, Ha! Like notches on a barrel Your soul… she’ll tow on her tale.

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Jan 23, 2015

Jan 23, 2015 at 9:21 PM UTC

Ahoy Captain Courageous! Cleave not thy ship from soul Past heaving swell through Stormy sleet this spellbinding Siren to seek. Away thee, Ahab! More than Whale, this mistress heaps Thy spirit to take thee Deep ‘neath sandy shoal. She sings... clings... captures. Pour over rocks Impudent-ass officer Soon torn and tattered. You know better than Fools before thee! Yea! Your liquor lapses Dead man dreaming! Admirals and angels Have fallen Afore thee… oh wise one, Ha! Like notches on a barrel Your soul… she’ll tow on her tale.

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A child wakes up , to mosquito bites, and Christ-on-a-bike-it’s-diwali , the fiesta of lights. the welcome vibes of halcyon tarried as hugs and gifts and smiles are carried, and waving her wrinkles mid-air ,daadi says today! god , to his land was ferried. Afar, the bronze herald of worship time, the temple bell goes off in a celestial chime. and cometh the priest , for the fire-ritual, line my pockets now , come on , be spiritual. but duh! your dhoti hast no pockets , saintly dummy; tsk.. fret ye not , for it goes straight into my tummy. mid-morning now , and mummy’s high-strung; ‘dust it well and dust it thorough and dust it till you burst a lung’. ‘garam pakode’ !! cries papa in his croaking tenor , ‘but one by one’ and now he begins with the manners. mummy is the last one , picking over the bones, she always has been , for what a family she owns. A muezzin somewhere cries the holy decree heads bow down and a pigeon flies free, from the onion dome , below the staccato claps ‘Ooparwala ! … ‘ the muezzin gasps , and ‘Ooparwala!.. ‘ a crowd chants in tow , and ‘Oops ! … ‘ the bird sheds it’s something and ***** soars high , and takes a bow . hey presto! the night has come. the moonless night of the homecoming lord. sweetmeats and sugars and syrups and us , laddu-barfi , well , that strikes a chord . Lakshmi , her owl , the glutton god with his mouse , revered an’ pleased an’ fed an’ flattered , and coaxed never to leave the house while out there , bombs and crackers burst and batter. The witch’s hour already , and the man ain’t home yet the lord is home , to get things straight, while the men all out on a greedy conquest; pennies on the dollar , unwavering faith still, for the beckoning bait . A child wakes up , to mosquito bites gone now is the carnival of lights. a goddess fled , a father bled a child scrapes off the waxy remains , the leftovers of candles ,pains, and no gains.

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Oct 19, 2017

Oct 19, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC

WAXY STAINS FROM DIWALI

A child wakes up , to mosquito bites, and Christ-on-a-bike-it’s-diwali , the fiesta of lights. the welcome vibes of halcyon tarried as hugs and gifts and smiles are carried, and waving her wrinkles mid-air ,daadi says today! god , to his land was ferried. Afar, the bronze herald of worship time, the temple bell goes off in a celestial chime. and cometh the priest , for the fire-ritual, line my pockets now , come on , be spiritual. but duh! your dhoti hast no pockets , saintly dummy; tsk.. fret ye not , for it goes straight into my tummy. mid-morning now , and mummy’s high-strung; ‘dust it well and dust it thorough and dust it till you burst a lung’. ‘garam pakode’ !! cries papa in his croaking tenor , ‘but one by one’ and now he begins with the manners. mummy is the last one , picking over the bones, she always has been , for what a family she owns. A muezzin somewhere cries the holy decree heads bow down and a pigeon flies free, from the onion dome , below the staccato claps ‘Ooparwala ! … ‘ the muezzin gasps , and ‘Ooparwala!.. ‘ a crowd chants in tow , and ‘Oops ! … ‘ the bird sheds it’s something and ***** soars high , and takes a bow . hey presto! the night has come. the moonless night of the homecoming lord. sweetmeats and sugars and syrups and us , laddu-barfi , well , that strikes a chord . Lakshmi , her owl , the glutton god with his mouse , revered an’ pleased an’ fed an’ flattered , and coaxed never to leave the house while out there , bombs and crackers burst and batter. The witch’s hour already , and the man ain’t home yet the lord is home , to get things straight, while the men all out on a greedy conquest; pennies on the dollar , unwavering faith still, for the beckoning bait . A child wakes up , to mosquito bites gone now is the carnival of lights. a goddess fled , a father bled a child scrapes off the waxy remains , the leftovers of candles ,pains, and no gains.

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This terribleness. The blur of traffic lights and puddles paints Los Angeles on my face at night. It's so hard to know who will doze in my blind spots. Sunflower seeds and ******* lining the carpet. I sat on the front porch for five hours gutting the wolves from my appendices. Usually the headaches go away with the squashing of the lights. Fluorescents are the worst, halogens second, and 60-watt 120-volt light bulb the bane of my existence. I look at my phone but I cannot summon a quirky 120 character quip. I need excedrin but all I have to grape flavored children's aspirin. I should have asked for the water. How many unfinished glasses of water have I left around this world? Maybe Bruce and I will squash after work. I can hear his weekly catalog of two night stands with those married transient women who drive from Santa B. I hate golf, I could have made carried a career in this resentment. Maybe rolling down the window will alleviate some of this pressure. Maybe it's barometric pressure, The Baby is here in time to drag the houses out to sea. It feels like Michelangelo is carving The David in my head and it's the chiseling I've never wanted. It's Tuesday and the drugs were horrible. They killed five of them today. We wrapped their heads in blankets from the Thrifty, and had to have the interns find clothes that would fit for the Christian caskets. Two days until Giving Thanks Day. I am wrapped in copper and stuck in amber. I am acquitted by nonsense and stipulation, sick with nausea and pushing my forehead into the steering wheel. This is all terrible. The lying I've never told myself. The people that don't even know it's lying. Her and I always seem to escape with our happiness and pleasure in tow. The odds are slim, but our clothes have never fit too tightly.

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Nov 25, 2014

Nov 25, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC

The Neon Alien Blouse

This terribleness. The blur of traffic lights and puddles paints Los Angeles on my face at night. It's so hard to know who will doze in my blind spots. Sunflower seeds and ******* lining the carpet. I sat on the front porch for five hours gutting the wolves from my appendices. Usually the headaches go away with the squashing of the lights. Fluorescents are the worst, halogens second, and 60-watt 120-volt light bulb the bane of my existence. I look at my phone but I cannot summon a quirky 120 character quip. I need excedrin but all I have to grape flavored children's aspirin. I should have asked for the water. How many unfinished glasses of water have I left around this world? Maybe Bruce and I will squash after work. I can hear his weekly catalog of two night stands with those married transient women who drive from Santa B. I hate golf, I could have made carried a career in this resentment. Maybe rolling down the window will alleviate some of this pressure. Maybe it's barometric pressure, The Baby is here in time to drag the houses out to sea. It feels like Michelangelo is carving The David in my head and it's the chiseling I've never wanted. It's Tuesday and the drugs were horrible. They killed five of them today. We wrapped their heads in blankets from the Thrifty, and had to have the interns find clothes that would fit for the Christian caskets. Two days until Giving Thanks Day. I am wrapped in copper and stuck in amber. I am acquitted by nonsense and stipulation, sick with nausea and pushing my forehead into the steering wheel. This is all terrible. The lying I've never told myself. The people that don't even know it's lying. Her and I always seem to escape with our happiness and pleasure in tow. The odds are slim, but our clothes have never fit too tightly.

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Our love was crafted from heavenly bodies. Tow trucks, skyscrapers, and chicken farms separated us. But destiny, fate, and god came together And gave these three damsels a gift. Wrapped in blonde bows, And dry throaty laughs. We are one of the greatest platonic affairs. All of us were given to Hades from our mothers; Their tears fell on the maps they gave us. As the gods weep, we laugh At how we found each other in the mess that surrounds us. All has aligned. Nothing is perfect. But nothing truly beautiful Was born from perfection. We are our sweaty foreheads, Large appetites, Thirst for a knowing, And a hunger for a longing. We are a connection Conceived from something holy and numinous.

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Mar 15, 2021

Mar 15, 2021 at 11:11 PM UTC

simranmodhera819

THE THREE PERSEPHONES

Our love was crafted from heavenly bodies. Tow trucks, skyscrapers, and chicken farms separated us. But destiny, fate, and god came together And gave these three damsels a gift. Wrapped in blonde bows, And dry throaty laughs. We are one of the greatest platonic affairs. All of us were given to Hades from our mothers; Their tears fell on the maps they gave us. As the gods weep, we laugh At how we found each other in the mess that surrounds us. All has aligned. Nothing is perfect. But nothing truly beautiful Was born from perfection. We are our sweaty foreheads, Large appetites, Thirst for a knowing, And a hunger for a longing. We are a connection Conceived from something holy and numinous.

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Thirty three years we go back, Of course I think of you when I hear it. Thirty three years of listening, questioning, understanding... Of course I think of you. My mind isn't a spigot I can turn off and forget the water that flowed through. I think of you when I was proud to be your wife, proud of your accomplishments. What does she know of those? She doesn't know you. She doesn't know you. She hasn't loved you through the rages and disappointments, through the utter giddiness of new fatherhood, through your father's death, your mother's pain. She didn't thrill with each promotion, plan homes, plant gardens, hope for thunder, dance in the rain, live on bagels for lunch, play badminton in the dark. She hasn't dried your tears over a son's illness. She didn't play bridge with friends or know their son who died, the tow -headed little boy who made us think of becoming parents. What comfort can she give? She doesn't know you. She knows this creation you've become in Hollywood jeans and weekend hikes without attachments. She knows your daughters as bait--what a great dad-- your sons as accomplishments; your wife as an anchor who held you down, held you back when all along I thought I was your support. She doesn't know you. And neither do I.

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Apr 19, 2013

Apr 19, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC

Thirty three years we go back, Of course I think of you when I hear it. Thirty three years of listening, questioning, understanding... Of course I think of you. My mind isn't a spigot I can turn off and forget the water that flowed through. I think of you when I was proud to be your wife, proud of your accomplishments. What does she know of those? She doesn't know you. She doesn't know you. She hasn't loved you through the rages and disappointments, through the utter giddiness of new fatherhood, through your father's death, your mother's pain. She didn't thrill with each promotion, plan homes, plant gardens, hope for thunder, dance in the rain, live on bagels for lunch, play badminton in the dark. She hasn't dried your tears over a son's illness. She didn't play bridge with friends or know their son who died, the tow -headed little boy who made us think of becoming parents. What comfort can she give? She doesn't know you. She knows this creation you've become in Hollywood jeans and weekend hikes without attachments. She knows your daughters as bait--what a great dad-- your sons as accomplishments; your wife as an anchor who held you down, held you back when all along I thought I was your support. She doesn't know you. And neither do I.

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Cold beer, a long necked bottle held to my forehead and in my throat, to my lips, so relief comes both ways, glad for it, the double of the cool, helps the day of troubled nothingness, and the long necked bottle makes it worth the extra second of anticipated tasty wait can't drink in the river park, don't cotton to brown paper bags, do it anyway cause the East River tides me over on its way thru the Verrazano Narrows, bound for the Atlantic with me low rider spirit in tow, a devil may care attitude en contrôle this troubadour opened the store at 700am but not a one came looking for a song, but the mail came reliable, with dues due, promises that need keeping, and other items, what the grownups call responsibilities June Monday early eve and the Moran tugboats ply their trade like reliable ****** to the sailors, and their larger than bathtub size toys, turning containers, freighters, into docile boys who do as they are told on their way to ports far there are stick figures outlined on the hexagon paving stones that are so nyc for me, here pedestrian! follow your designated path here pedestrian, you must walk to be safe arrived but I take to the railing, where Isaac-bound and mesmerized, I imagine surfing the churning wakes on the surface of the riveting tides and wonderous wanderlust for where we are bound... no voice heard from the heavens, saying Abraham put down that knife, because I have not passed the test of true belief, perhaps the river's invitation is my test, if I should sing another song here, perhaps it will tale the end of this tell...

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Jun 16, 2014

Jun 16, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC

By the East River, a Cold Beer, on My Forehead...

Cold beer, a long necked bottle held to my forehead and in my throat, to my lips, so relief comes both ways, glad for it, the double of the cool, helps the day of troubled nothingness, and the long necked bottle makes it worth the extra second of anticipated tasty wait can't drink in the river park, don't cotton to brown paper bags, do it anyway cause the East River tides me over on its way thru the Verrazano Narrows, bound for the Atlantic with me low rider spirit in tow, a devil may care attitude en contrôle this troubadour opened the store at 700am but not a one came looking for a song, but the mail came reliable, with dues due, promises that need keeping, and other items, what the grownups call responsibilities June Monday early eve and the Moran tugboats ply their trade like reliable ****** to the sailors, and their larger than bathtub size toys, turning containers, freighters, into docile boys who do as they are told on their way to ports far there are stick figures outlined on the hexagon paving stones that are so nyc for me, here pedestrian! follow your designated path here pedestrian, you must walk to be safe arrived but I take to the railing, where Isaac-bound and mesmerized, I imagine surfing the churning wakes on the surface of the riveting tides and wonderous wanderlust for where we are bound... no voice heard from the heavens, saying Abraham put down that knife, because I have not passed the test of true belief, perhaps the river's invitation is my test, if I should sing another song here, perhaps it will tale the end of this tell...

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