We Can Be Read

years as chapters bisect life,

sometimes unread

others cluttered with paragraphs,

three daughters and a father,

unseen almost for novel length,

new lives

new mortal possessions ,

at an abstract distance

they had gone,

his bitterness a vile oil

through birth and extension,

then connection made,

grandchild opaque eyes

face untouched by life,

reluctant then relenting

folding away oil infused

parchment skin,

exposing heart and soul

for forgiveness and love

carrion to emotion,

an embrace that reaches

to the outer confines of space,

things would be different,

as he looked to the last pages

already knowing the ending

magpie tales statue stamp 185

 

hands

Funnel Face

wool cocoon,

fold hooded head

coiled into room

waiting for

sundowns wisdom

and the choking solace

without resonance loud,

bitter eyes would

shed tears if seen

burning lips,

wishing for a moment

of flesh,

to savor and devour

in own lair

body sock

 

 

magpie tales statue stamp 185

Palace of the Neon Stars

white leather jeans shirt forgotten

crushed joint spark

 

close to oak tree/

picked up Harley Sprint kicked alive

the virtue of engine noise

as grass gave way to blacktop,

wind swallowed hair flowed out,

riding unicorns to the resting place

of yesterday

 

time bends/

literate words come into mind

long weaver woven sentences

to use

as he sought her out

princess of diamonds and pearls

her rooms would be richly furnished

 

ditch the bike/

clatter of steel

engine splutters into silence,

a burden tugged

hooked on his heart,

emotions break was a wild sea

worrying the conscious

 

diminishing light/

as sun dropped over rooftops

he still searched out the place

The Palace

run down building anointed by graffiti

fractured bricks

rolled  shutter windows

 

snap fingers/

make a wish

saxophone played long drawn notes,

that filtered like nicotine

into his veins

thickening, hardening

flesh pricked cold

 

darkness calls/

not drunk stumbled over steps,

trash septic festering

litter of abused society,

excrement and needles

vibration of notes

lingered in guts and loins

 

stage lit/

by pigeon broken holes

and the princess was there

moving sensual in a half light

full link to reality

saxophone to lips

blonde soul hair,

righting a stool

looked over

swaying

an enhancement to his retina

delft blue panties

bare breasts full as a coming moon

nature to his root

he found the princess of his Palace

the reason of future

blueprint of his plans

banner

 

 

Under Shapes

i have let go the balloon

so all of montana

can see,

red adventurous not dismal

and shallow,

beyond flatness

and interjection of mountain

spike,

i remember the waitress

she with black flat shoes

that squeak,

luscious hips that waved

not so discretely,

in these moments

pulling collar tighter

with the encroaching cold,

that seemed to affect the

mind,

so that all i could do

in conversation or

thought is waffle

3wordwednesday