Saturday, April 19, 2014

I suddenly realized

Dead in end, a rock and frosty place in the windshield
from an overheard diatribe on a dim cellphone speaker
indicates bad things done in the past that might a yield
a blossom. Spring erupts now but be a sniffle wreaker:

Amorphophallus titanum, the corpse flower doth reek
fine carrion in the olfactory cobbles left for prim noses
driven quaint for erupts to wait. It's not blue next week
that you need to brush. It rock hard my landlord poses

his background checks of suspected felonies and mirth.
What did she do and when? No record actual known but
now dead ends split against the unwashed wrinkle girth,
her unbrushed tooths, a clawed toe noisily scraping put

completely innocent marking on money and aqua veneer.
I suddenly saw things begat long a gone go murder queer.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

The shorter the history, the shorter

A thousand years went by, came out the same way.
You dig? I do. Did it yesterday? I am still, if I may,
finds my desire for peppadew cheese intact, grown
strongish from a dream, an early spring nap drawn.

There is an orb that crests under razor clouds. Ew!
The brown scab innocent within its safe grey circle
absent-mindlessly flickt with a pale sharp half-moon
surprised with a red trick right before bedtime pickt.

It was a dog, of course, on a dry path in rural Spain
waiting for the olive harvest, waiting for a master to
trust when the press come down. Waiting, as dogs do
wait, for smell things to pant about a pack that matters.

A thousand years went by, came out the same way.
Bloody sheets only half of the story aired at dawn
in vellum. A history lost under the palimpsest's ink
of blue scratched from ivory. Here be gorgons blood
and every scarlet newt is worth gold for breath again.

Somewhere under the royal blue a sweet thing walks
in spring, no small dog, maple early in expected red
buds, nothing new to report but it felt so fresh that
time the sidewalk watched again. It matters completely.

A thousand years went by, came out the same way.

Friday, March 28, 2014

Death is never convenient

Death is never convenient. Assuming a wet call later
might intrude, had kofta on a platter grounded fresh
but the journey to Washburn cemetery again comes
into my focus. One or two shy rings, she gone. Again.

If research is required, look under eternal return. The
card catalog is also oak with burls and sliding drawers.
Warm again the southern breeze shows a brief promise
of spring. Route 307 wet has only seven ups and downs.

Green veins swollen under south winds reveal hid blood
that never can be resurrected in the way intended, dry
after the extraction is the way this goes down, a socket
that will not bleed. Holy water forming tears on the oak
after a roll on the carpet with a box and her pall re-folded.

When should be is resolved to is but nobody noticed but me.

Sunday, March 16, 2014

From gift to heaven

I wasn't hoping for a foy but you gave me a zill
so I went to find yummy rhythm in a desert hot,
chiming funny silver disks without a metal thrill
of my own. A mirage entered late my only shot

for salvation, sand so cool at night a gone mystery
where you fear dawns, fear that orange orbs rising
are the people inside of your head so sore of trying.
This place is dry, I would like to really green a tree

but I cannot find water beneath sand. Thin mocking
voices float sibilant but I should have earful known
that hiss from before, should have known a-rocking
in the cradle would resolve to this. Cannot be flown

the skink, cannot be flown the newt, birth defects
deny wings, deny in white marble a cold genuflect.

Sunday, March 9, 2014

Not ready for a threnody

Nothing new do the sun under nothing a new asunder,
now, when blues bled go pervert for the big melt start-
ah, a domestic bliss that hides white in frozen blunder,
initial grey siding peeled once so hard and flaked apart.

Snow melts. Things fall apart in spring, brown storms
blow down the self-effacing hills. A wry smile will not
save you this rump season. Give up on thought norms,
saving red delta soul not: a guru collecting geld is snot.

The eyes that were meant to pierce the blue always fail,
philosophically. The first time I did not look in your eyes
I was a flood that never ended, receiving a limp wet mail
post-dated with streak ink, a mascara hint of sad demise.

The suffering bamboo, now no longer laden frozen snow,
will bounce up green to clear the concrete path you know.

Saturday, February 22, 2014

Winter Lullaby

Kibes now to share inside white cold wind,
under our blankie with cold red toes moist
dancing a little, neat a coverlet in hot mind
to bring your winter soul into forecast joys.

Put your toes into my summer wet palms,
your spring doubts in pastures dewy green-
sweet soul music says I ain't no fool. Warm,
a pesky vortex swirls in our sole jet stream.

We're fucked into a frigid reality, but not here
because here there is skin, chilblains & healing
by the silken autumn steam of hands gone sere.
Yummy! Red into wet white again with feeling.

High pressure swirls mostly north to mostly
south. Just turn your face and kiss my mouth.

Saturday, February 15, 2014

Deaf to melodies of Pan

Gone be deaf to Pan's music 'cause no cat gut
vibrates the jazzy nazz into ether where mute
the planets decorate theyselves all gaudy but
parade a pearly will surely drift by datty flute.

Just a grey wall on this one where a mute speaks
in a series of barks that crush your understanding.
It's not a dream, it's a real reach for magnesium
or some fucking nostrum to assuage freakout pain.

Gone be deaf to Pan's music gone mixolydian
and one and two and into the green underbrush
where dis bidness done. Finds a prime meridian
along a vein plumped and ready. Ain't no blush.

Nothing. Nothing, Nothing. Only a slim breath.
Hopefully, it's something simple like death-
anything else is just so complicated.

Gone be deaf to Pan's music real real gone.