"virgina" poems
Long Valley lay outside my bedroom window
high desert Northern Nevada,
each sunrise
rose
brilliant red
spirals
spires
exploding
in the passing dawn,
to
the petroglyphs
we were drawn.
The asphalt became a dirt road
then the dirt road ended.
Along Long Valley
like some drive through zoo,
herds of wild burros
cattle
sheep
grazing
separated by Pinion pines
the white sage
the dust devils
and the tumble weeds
and a 52 Studebaker body
perfectly preserved
in the high desert dry air
one could only wonder how it got there.
Long Valley had its own expanse
its own vibration to the air
distinct and unique
filled with wonder
way out there.
The petroglyphs
10,000 year old drawings
at once was
the shores of ancient
Lake Lahontan
you could feel it there.
Trying to decipher
the lines and curly cues
circles and swirls
stars and shapes
of
an alien consciousness
from another land
another time.
This was no one rock
but
acres and acres
of generations
communicating with one another
the rocks worn away
from thousands of years of sitting
forming perfect lounge chairs,
perhaps sitting alongside
some receding shore line.
There were stone rock walls carefully stacked
mysteriously standing scattered
in the desert
no one knows what it really means.
While lost in the tones
the scents and vision
of the millennium,
on the hillside
through the Tamarack
and Pinion
there emerged
four wild mustangs
at a distance
on the top of the ridge
not those that wandered
into our Virgina City yards
But wild animals
tied to the horses of the millennium.
Power and Strength
spirit gods
reminding us of where we were.
The winds blew
the black mane
of the male in front
wet from sweat
chest heaving in breath
and then they were gone
over the hill
from where they had come.
The petroglyphs were silent.
The sounds of the winds
the sounds of the small stream
less than a drop
in the once Great Lahontan Sea.
Before the sun went down
we needed to leave
driving along the sides
of dry river beds
up rocky hillsides
along the electrical lines
to the dirt road
to the asphalt
as the Long Valley
sunset shot
spires of red.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 10:26 AM UTC
she came in out of the dark rain
her guns hanging loose at the ready
her worn leather death hand just driftin above
the handle of her colt
eyes searching for the hard glint of steel
in the faces of the saloons crowded floor
but none had noticed her come in from the storm
she walked to the bar and called out
for a whiskey
leaned and let all but gun hand rest
as one of the prettiest bargirls came up
and smiled for a drink
without conversation the girl lead her
to a backroom
and this gypsy's night was filled with hot passions
and the gun hand was forgotten
in the sweet arms of virgina citys sweetest rose
but morning came with the rolling
of the steamtrains whistle
and the sheriff calling out the gun hand
she had laid some dog of a man low
for putting his hands on his woman
now she got to hang
cant be shootin our law abiding folk
we don't take kindly
this gunhand
this leather clad hard riding woman
with the softest sweetest heart
the kindest of souls
wasn't gonna let em hang her
for shooting down a ***** dog of a man
so she kissed sweet rose long an deep
and bid that sweet girl fare thee well
took up her colt
out into the dusty raw heat of
noonday sun she stepped with
her gun hand driftin over the **** of her colt
eyes blazin for the fool of a sheriff
who had come to lay her low in the name of justice
in the name of their lie of a town
they faced eachother and drew pistols
both got off a shot
one fell to the dusty earth
never to rise again
the other laid down pistol
and walked away
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
o, rèmy martin dreamer,
with cheap hen on your breath.
the good brown is not the backwoods
or juul pods in virgina tobacco,
&
maybe the good brown manifests in my hair,
before the ammonia, touching my scalp
and turning it as red as my tongue after
a strawberry lollipop. everything
tastes like you.
&
i wish i could touch you again,
just hold your hand, brush your
elbow, play with your hair.
but i also wish i could drive a thousand
machetes into your flesh, while screaming
&
writhing with trash-sickened fervor .
you are vomit-inducing. you smell
like a thousand patchouli-burning
stoners, but you feel like velvet
and taste like sugar-sweat.
you might be popping a xan right now,
knee-deep in beautiful girls.
and i'm still dope-sick.
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC
Good Lord I loved those old days.
They way that life it glowed.
West Virgina misty mountains-
a girl I used to know.
All the people I done roamed with.
oh the songs that we all sung.
In that subtle little accent-
the sunrise always young.
Thank you for your time Sir.
Pleasure to meetcha Ma'am.
Here's a kettle full of memories-
and a vessel to be manned.
As we ride across the channels.
All our demons strong in tow.
Its every tiny morsel-
that gives us strength to row.
Downward way past furthur.
Always fresh right on the mind.
Is the way the forest parted-
when we left it all behind.
Ah but never to be forsaken.
Somewhere on a shelf.
Is a little piece of all of you-
and a shadow of myself.
Holding a candle tightly.
Keeping up the pace.
An empty highway driving-
simply searching for some grace.
To keep up with ocean.
Then ride up with the wind.
Just to get up in the morning
find another place to swim.
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 1:54 PM UTC
I had this dream a few night ago that I was on a plane and the god **** plane malfunctioned and we started falling from the sky. I just ******* started crying because I knew I woulf probably die. I don't remember anyone else being on the plane. I think it was just me and the pilot. We were both about to ******* crash into the ocean and die. Anyway, when I woke up, I was crying then too. I'm a real pathetic 18 year old baby. How old are people usually when they're in first grade? Back when I was in first grade I would cry during thunderstorms. I remember when Katrina came by. I was really ******* done then. A remember telling my parents that I loved them. I remember I used to have anxiety attacks because I thought that when I died I'd go to hell. I thought I'd go to hell because when I was in 2nd grade I stole like 10 packs of Pokemon cards from some gas station. I still feel guilty about it, but I don't think much about going to hell.
The plane is crashing and it's just me and the pilot. I don't even know his name but I know that we're going to die together.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 3:18 AM UTC
Wicked winds howled senseless from Great Lakes to Navajo
Screaming eulogies for the frantic madmen
And the love of rage they shot their veins black with
And the additive-free sadness that filled their lungs with ashes
Broke down church bells tolled, once, twice, three times on the hour
Resounding enough to wake Virgina her revered dead
The heart of mighty Shenandoah beats in shades of revolutionary red
And DC sleeps uneasy under armed guard
Here is where your mother lies and bleeds empathy to the tune of Suburbia's solemn hymns
And here is where your brother ticks his weight in manic speculation and nervous wondering
And here is where you straddle the nuclear armaments of culture atop the shoulders of those lonely mad giants you hold so dear
A dying breed, a skeletal frame of burning purpose and relentless conviction
The last great hunter of the American Dream
They said their prayers, their rosaries, and their benedictions floated carelessly off to nothing, from nothing
Laid to rest on the edge of a cornfield six feet under cold Earth and laughing heavens
Heads bowed in lurid admiration tempered with contempt
For the soul of the devil of the world to come
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 1:05 AM UTC
Meet me in Kentucky next summer
West Virgina in the fall
I'm just the one you wanna see this winter
Bring a pack
Leave your daddie's Bible
Well sit on some steps
Just kidding each other on the porch come Spring
I'll take you back next summer
My mom told me it wasn't ok to cry
But even the warmest Janurary makes me hide
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC
the old timers in Virgina
couldn't cross that steep ravine
so they designed a span
to bridge the ravine
the spruce timbers which grew
on either side of the ravine's face
made it difficult for the workers
to put the girders into place
over a period of years they
constructed a fine steel span
which was akin to
a rainbow's open fan
the territory could then
be traversed from side to side
the ravine's sheer cutting
wouldn't hamper the old timer's stride
these days in Virgina
in that precipitous gorge country
folks can see their forebears
bridge building ingenuity
the dream of a ravine crossing
came into view
as the pioneer's rainbow wish
did come true
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 10:00 PM UTC
Yours are the secrets
I'll keep
locked beneath
Virgina City ruins;
deep
within the mines.
May they find
a way
to sparkle-
really shine
some multi-faceted
light,
compared to my
fools gold notion,
they will beam their way back
to me
so easily......
but have mounds, hills,
of Earth
to uncover-
shovel from these eyes,
before the clear-cut
night,
when granted
Clarity.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC
The nun rubbed
Anne’s leg stump with ointment
her small hands
moving up and down.
Anne eyed her grimly,
the hands in motion,
the fingers as thin sticks.
How is your leg?
the nun said,
gazing at Anne,
taking in
her grim features.
Hurts and the toes itch
and I go to rub them
and they aren't there,
Anne said.
The nun studied her.
God's blessed child
with the pain.
Must be hurtful.
No leg to stand on
or just the one.
Anne stared at the nun's
black and white headdress,
the pale face,
thin features,
thin lips.
Bet she hasn't done it.
Bet her virgina's closed up
like a bud in winter.
Is that better?
the nun said.
No it isn't,
Anne said,
still fecking hurts.
Language please Anne,
the nun said,
if Sister Agnes were
to hear that
she would not
be pleased.
The nun rubbed
her hands together
wiping the ointment
into her own hands.
Poor child.
But a share
in Our Lord's pain.
Give my back teeth for.
Anne put her hand
to her lips.
Sorry about the language,
Sister, it slipped out.
As the bishop said
to the nun.
Anne smiled.
The nun smiled too.
God's blessed child.
Must be going now,
Anne, you rest
that leg stump.
I will,
Anne said.
The nun walked away,
her hands inside her habit.
She passed Benny
on her way back
to the nursing home
from the lawn where
Anne sat in her chair.
She nodded and smiled.
Benny smiled and nodded.
Anne beckoned him over
to her chair.
Benny walked
to where Anne sat.
What did the penguin
want with you?
he said,
eyeing Anne's
grim face.
Rubbed my fecking leg
with some ointment
to make it softer
she said the silly cow,
Anne said.
Anyway how are you
Skinny Kid?
Benny pulled a chair
next to her
and sat down.
I'm fine,
he said,
staring toward
the leg stump
just beneath
her red skirt.
Does it not work?
he said.
What work?
she said.
The ointment
does it not work?
he said.
Makes it greasy
that's all,
she said.
He watched the red skirt,
the empty space beneath.
Here have a gaze at it,
she said,
lifting her red skirt
so her stump showed.
He gazed at it.
It's not so red
as it was,
he said.
Just as ******* well,
she said,
it was like an
over worked *****
He smiled.
She looked at him
and sighed
and pulled down
the skirt again.
How old are you
now, Kid?
she said.
11 years old,
he replied.
Well I’m 12 years old,
too big for my age
my mother said,
what with my *******
and ***** hair,
Anne said.
What's ***** hair?
he said.
Go ask the sisters,
Anne said,
they'll know.
Benny nodded.
I'll will,
he said,
looking at Anne seriously.
You do that, Kid,
she said.
He looked back
towards the nursing home.
She watched him.
His quiff of brown hair;
the hazel eyes;
the innocent,
she mused.
Push me to the beach
later, Kid,
she said,
I want to have a smoke.
He turned back
to look at her.
Sure,
he said,
any time you want to.
She smiled.
Her best friend.
God be praised,
if God be there.
She sat still
giving him
the big stare.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 7:21 AM UTC
Look what I have seen
there is hole in space
maybe fall in-between
slide from this universe
into one never seen
a new man hole
one step
will let you fall
from this life
to where man has never been
sorry to tell you this
but that hole
is in my brain
yes It looks like a rabbit hole
there is shrubs and stuff
just not trying to fall asleep
or aliases virgina will peep.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 1:54 PM UTC
Pink chiffon
Cotton candy hair
Floral wallpaper
Ashtray filled
of virgina slims
Eyes so dark that her pupils get lost
She gets lost
Sometimes
Forgets to come out of the bathtub
Lost in the tiles
Imagining faces between the cracks
She looks out at the glow of the street lights
A single
Flickers
The dark carnival is coming
She looks down at her ashtray
Thinks about taking it out
The cigarettes turn to caterpillars
she turns to her bookshelf
Watches the books turn to dust
And she wonders what's for dinner
She sits on the davenport, still
The record player begins to play
She twitches
Gets up to look in the mirror
Her face
She notices the wrinkles forming
At the corners of her eyes
Around her lips
She touches them
Remembers the ad for a special lotion in the paper
She stands in the mirror & touches it
Her hand slips through the mirror
Grasps her reflection
Her face begins to fall further
Begins to melt off
She glances quickly at her reflection
Now she stand in a room full of mirrors
Mirrors of all kinds
Melting all around her
-The dark carnival is here
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 9:27 PM UTC
Fresh home from therapy,
and resonate with zeal
**** air cerebral cogs a turn'n
analogous to rack and pinion wheel
hence attempt made to bare soul,
sans thru poetry re: veal
ling avidity, asper barreling neurological
daily kos loaded truck full
heading toward figurative
lifelong landfill deposits
on weekly ******
logical session I unseal
manipulating bothersome issues
controlled via bot size thumbwheel,
which grave undertaking i.e.
professional counseling allows,
enables, and provides opportunistic
gradual process at selfheal
ling oft times necessitates
reviewing silent Virgina reel
comprising the story
of earlier life piecemeal
akin to a slapdash montage
chronicling existential ordeal,
now referencing adenoids
(removal first mention within
poetic endeavor, when young boy)
loosely linkedin with nasopharyngeal
pseudo oral palate
highway tucking each meal
across miniature bridgework,
ma late mum meekly
acceded to doctors orders,
said operation sub
sequently deemed unnecessary
affecting negligible decreasing nasality
predicated on split (bifid
or bifurcated uvula), viz laryngeal
utterances finds me speculating
speculating now, whether taking kneel
ling pose possibly coo dove
wrought divine intercession
giving me super powers ideal
for fighting off being bullied
gloating this instant imagining
bringing beastie boys to heel
actual reality visit my kid self,
a most convenient scapegoat
socially withdraw puny size lad
internalizing hateful barbs glom
ming up significant emotional gearwheel
inferiority complex predominating
supplemented with cumulative
anger, a potent feel
ling exacerbating anxiety prone disposition
courtesy chromosomal
(pop'n mom genes) art of the deal.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 7:50 PM UTC