no more dirty shoes

moon leaves hoofprint clouds

as with horses it races,

old stars more than pieces of rock

show somber interest,

there would be no more

shallowness to  the sun,

as on earth below

with fingers in urn

scattering ashes

feeding eternal foliage,

those hoofbeats drummed your name

quick reflection passing over water

ashamed moon hides,

the longness of souls given to solitude,

ashes scattered in arcs

summer has laid it’s green pasture

as darkness fills the air

fireflies imagined appear

wishing for a net to catch them in

and crush with celestial hammer,

empty urn falls

shattered by hoofbeats,

damp meadow reveals the place

you began,

ambiguous shadows almost bestial,

tears make streets upon your face

all that could be over was,

coming with dust, dreams and flesh

the enchanted

and persistent stars

counterfeit saints and barefoot dancers

as the snow melts

you open the doorway to onions,

crammed in a pan with cubed steak,

beige dress and apron strings

he saw the wineglass

an ashtray close to full,

he still wondered why she shaved

her pubic hair  into a stripe,

going to piss in the small toilet

a room barely used scented of

kerosene and urinals,

you ok she called

peppermint ice cream tones with

hidden expressions,

scratching beard muttered out a reply

zipped up mind still a conflagration of thought,

i wanted to do an english stew

was your day ok

housewife animated advertising jargon

felt like exploding,

the car would still be warm

engine would start quickly,

murmured almost automatic familiarity

those beech tones just as wooden

full of grain and knots,

fifteen years it was comfortable

not likable settled,

he did not question or ask

just lived as he now did with her,

camus  could of written a diary with  them

in with charlie parker soundtrack,

there was no children

they had not found time,

you could crawl back inside yourself

but that would lead to tears

best left to what was

a grisly fetish

slave and domination

abstract interludes,

snapshots of a smoking buddha

fuck hole sanity,

without that crawling cuckoo

jacket on chair

assembled the winning smile,

she came and kissed

long tongue surrounded his mouth

lips soft journals of praise,

now feeling ok

sat back and spoke as if released

watching her

not knowing her

Sleep Bugs

mad dreams and medicine

i don’t know if either help,

body more a carcass

cast off bedding

allowing chill to bite

soon when a season twists

it will be warm

but till that occurs

sleep evasive

those small bugs of slumber

crawling everywhere

but in my eyes,

quick to become husks

on the breath that creates them

seething mass

leaving me untouched

alcohol can disperse them

fear of naked flame,

if only what i know

seen from the back of my eyes

whats true

those synaptic snapshots

of what was , is, will be

eradicating normal transient thought

more bugs with darker intention

those that bring displeasure

turn night into serrated pain

i want for them

knowing i will be covered

and absorbed

Bending Buick’s

morning translation,
light has a language
that breathes
it stretches shadows
burns across carpets
bends buicks in shop windows
and lights faye wrays face,
my own portion
a partition of day
comes as townes van sings,
i smoke what i rolled
drink what i poured
fragments glitter skitterish
off the glass,
diamonds to the day
abstract punctuation to my thoughts
i think of voices
carried on this light
marching along on lung feet
into my mind
and everyone sounds like scott,
even james garner in his multicolored
mac concealing all of my yesterdays
and his genuine concern,
i need a buick to drive
to see if i can find
him my morning connector
that friend of early light
who now is silent
yet converses in my mind

 

Remembering Scott Wannberg a brilliant and talented writer who was a part of my world briefly but made an impression today would of his birthday and i remember

Pitiful Fear of Being Undead

when you see things at night

from that pointed edge of eye,

lack of concentration makes you

fall,

with split dusty lip

blood in a trickle,

there are things that need

to bite to eat,

so hold your breath

and let a simple fear grow,

lurking in the doorway

bareheaded prowler of the night,

heart a ticking clock

raising a clamor

no mortal creature approaches,

mopping blood on paper tissue

red stain dropped scented a plenty,

he has strayed from his paradise

and i am to be his chalice,

teeth and lips taste my flesh,

memories blend and blur,

heart slows to a dull stutter,

revelations pause and pass,

i will go to earth

a blacken chrysalis

and raise my fear another day

 

Miners Wife

your own dust smothers

the rarest and surest gleams,

eyelids in dusk and darkness,

shadows wake and sing,

bright trails from space

died from the sky

falling coarse upon the ground,

seek relief in mysterious flesh

passion an avid substance,

subtle things come on wings,

as she listened to a telephone ring,

no other fabric torn

i won’t see granite over your head,

answer,voices, emotions decorate brow,

with poets wit summoned

a smile on face and companion soul,

he would return on that tree lined

road spiral towards the hill,

often misted by winter chimneys,

prayers had know their place

he lived and would love again

survivors all,

the mine in ruins

 

Flicker Bone

taste the cracks of madness

that wait as you feel

blind of thought beneath the sheets,

transit of day

passed over eyes,

highways and country stores

direction decided by suggestion,

words once whispered

in a bar over warm late beer,

all intentions

seduction and sacrifice

after lunch

folding lawnchairs on grass,

she placed him in a bubble

that enclosed in a vacuum,

there sanity on it’s broad threads

became detached,

lifting the conscious away,

he had never felt this feeling as

of now,

escaping quickly

tires churning gravel,

expectant trees let sunlight through,

as by night getting home,

on the other side of doors

is the better place to be

Devices For The Hours

her eyes vanish into the book,

a candle burned,

a ring of light on the table,

my mind like air

became extracted in a condensed

gust,

her lips cracked by salt,

breath warm

spoke not unkindly in tumbledown

words,

if i could regain her sight with jello

in sockets,

lemon vision

blurred serene,

i would dance as a scarecrow

finding a locust on an ear of corn,

oh swan necked beauty

i want to be exposed

and not feel as a beaten cur,

see the clear streams inside me,

sunrise will send an image to you

of what is not fearful dreaming,

that the hours are silver toned,

and not so reckless,

each floor creak

with arms outstretched,

i will not collapse,

but be seen by you and accepted,

lift milk from the refrigerator

pour over crackling cereal,

today will be no different,

but i am somewhat sober now,

one more coffee

as the clock chimes,

she will become again

visible in a way

night will not show,

and i prefer it that way,

somewhere an orchestra strikes

up a refrain,

that lingers over the pain,

suspending tomorrow for us

Wendels Elm Moment

the leaves on the tree

are thinking of falling,

boats burn on lake at night

as descending sun

gives a moment,

the surge in your fig eyes

brings the languish

of body and spirit,

sweet seasons juice

almost quenched,

bringing bitter almonds

to my heart,

music dense in bone

we have to expect a something new

tentative bridges to fragile blue ice,

the surge will come

i will be at your door

under shivering boughs

backlit galvanized lights

fold into the night,

for it is to come,

but for now,

as silent gardens ponder

vague unfamiliar shapes,

the song still plays

as a moth takes descent,

it is a lonely outpost that i

maintain.

 

Brick Dust

chevron floor tiles

sequenced across the room

that once belonged to someone,

light was endorsed

by windows on the edge

giving view

of a street below

cluttered with cars and people

moving to their own music,

laid out on chevrons

a cloth and candelabra

with waxen melt suspended

from the lip,

knives and forks crossed on

sauce stained plate,

a picnic

last supper,

they say rooms remember

as well as people,

this room would,

beneath magnolia wood chip

paper was green and gold

stripes with date and names

pencilled underneath,

and the new owner would decorate

alter colors and fabric,

yet their voices would

echo dull

as each wall captured the notes

clasped them tight,

muffling not allowing

new voices or new sounds

not allowing new voices or sounds,

needing the previous owners to

return,

pipes rumbled,

electrics flickered,

synaptic responses

from the house that wanted

that family back,

despite new paper and painted doors

it began to look dishevelled,

abandoned,

the house had been left and sadness

crept in.