Saturday, July 24, 2010

seven beats while the metronome joked

You know the clock's not real
but still you ache its ticking
tricked to notice movement
when it is only painted still.

While a skull grins in icy clouds
leaves flip silver to wait for rain
if that's when low you look to see
the pink globe at sunset swollen,
ersatz precursor to a steady diet
of dry brown acorns easily plinked
and eventually served as charcoal
despite the awkward faux pas style
of clasping with fingerless gloves.

A concrete angel bows to the azure half-shell,
her dry lips foaming a pink V for wanting
on a granite stand trimmed green for sorrow,
after a limousine chase for the widow in black silk
and a rural hearse with no juice run down fresh
to a moist entrance dug from angled mounds.

A bebop version of circumstantial pomp
causes greedy tears to mark this turf
with clinging spray cleaved to flesh,
requiem high-notes by a monkey sung
hirsute y muy simpatico y mas,
the girl in plaid is walking beside
deep set eyes and squeaky wheels
under the rising limbs of linden:
it is not gold but cork that floats
safely lined for carriages of loss.

A monologue of normality
from a desiccated carcass
that simply loves the disco,
the soutane above the fray
if the legs had feet instead of glide
by the sacred sign disguised.

Under this sad hymn of high summer
(crickets strumming rhythm
led by cicadas syncopate)
only plain birds sit the sizzling wire,
the dotage that never blinked downhill
rolls from neon crying time's suspense,
the frozen bauble to never flash again.

For something to believe in pink
the pearly globe grows up in size-
we only die each time we notice.

Saturday, July 17, 2010

more than music is grasped that

When tumbled in a puddle of musical pace
the aural infinity of rosewood and brass
is a gamelan curry grooved sweet with beat,
a pantheon picked a whole tone to chose
than can be fingered away in blistered grace.

The fingering of the work crew sprayed
as graffiti glyphs cemented on yellow mark
a squat pallet of ash stacked by the elms
and hoops of tubing wrapped clear in blues
to slicken the slippery frets again rained

away from a silver string devoid of beads
towards the bird chirp surviving night,
plump zombies in baggy shorts and gloom
with no RSVPs pending for this party of twos
cerebralizing the rarity of death by weeds.

There is a fear buried so deep
it is no longer a gate to bliss,
a brown handle filigree
ruined a hint of orange
that leaves it just short
of the rust that squeaks
by the OM scribbled in tar
on the road by the creek
near where that real gone man
rose sheep in quarter time beats,

long bleats after the subdivisions
evolved into a sharp fungal creep,
a twisted rim and rusted frame
a caution chord for the trickster
on the sunbaked concrete isle:

pink of must the blossom drops
and the miller sails away.

Monday, July 12, 2010

when the orb finds pause

when it spits at midsummer darkness
the killer rests in the porch lit damp,

nothing in shadow on wing tonight,
nothing to prick in the sticky moist
and nothing flits to wrap in kisses:

brief para-diddles of windless flash
stroke the rushing clouds with silk.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

swirl one knit brow

The blueberries in the saucepan
said yes but the bowl's metal flip
rising said spew char into blains
and the tragic arrival of ointment.

Everything takes you back
to some recurring dream
that is a constant deja vu:
couched in the louvred porch
symmetrically opposed at pairs
in red corduroy and ocher throws,
spirits gathered to haunt in silence
wondering what you're doing here.

The carpet stairs are worn there
and no repairs are scheduled,
the green clang of the dumpster
is a lifted chapter already uncus
in the window behind your ear.

How did that pine tree go
so unnoticed so lonely so long?

Intonations for a spell of virga
in a season already pluvian
go unanswered in the swirl,
the flirtation of the hanging squirrel
has coaxed the lettuce to seed
and the maple from Japan
is dying from ants under bark
and antic slapstick collisions
from the trampling of hounds.

A green and yellow garden glove
flattened with navy wristband
half in shadow and half in dust
awaits fingers of light to spread.

In the cry of the catbirds
I am summoned as a god
but nowhere else I turn:

it would be of no value to you
but it has great value to me
because of milky magic
in a molecular rumba
invisible to the naked eye.

Wondering if I should prune two branches,
I want gold finches and I want them now.

Sunday, July 4, 2010

and ye shall lie in the bosom of Abraham

The wheel tuned out dry clay carved
and red splattered at the weedy edge
of a rumpy drive come to a tuning end
when the dream stop potting screeched.

I saw that with my own two eyes.

I did not see the giant that soaring dream
crushed in the oily distance that saw these
phone pole legs kicked and pine pitched
and still all possible sawn is listening still,
tarred to the dawn birds at the bare apron
of stubby grass gnarled at the car park edge,
an abandoned bottle label obscurely turned
into sinister maps that are deciphered black-
now all pain and all joy eternally gold in me.

An eight cylinder dose of splatter
just over heaven's yellow lines
heaves salvation when it matters
becoming then just memory of want
then just a memory of memory of want
that happens at the end of memory
when the neutral bits that mattered then
then are rinsed in pink and swiped away.

The sphincter of a smoke ring collapses itself
into a candle of Rome that whispers the night
in a rainbow gouache behind gray lids,
a lone maple barking its perhaps lesson
brazen unaccosted by chimes of leaves.

The surfaces of a Toynbee tile
wear away to reveal its cut scroll
left handed jeweled facets coal black
finger crude cuts of dancing hands
that cymbal between the tropics only,
places in the chiming rhyme of solar night
with the ritual pomp of a secular madman
at the year's worst time and all that matters
just implied by the glare of dust on goggles.

Collecting offerings discarded or often lost
by others to deliver to a streamside chorus,
a chorus barely worshiped enough to weep
yet feared enough to arrive obsessed
in the fiction of a continuous cycling mind,
the most common of these being things
that have fallen in transit and things
that have been washed through the gutter
by a twilight rain that rose up skulking
and auburn strands caught in mirrors
and storm drains clogged with leaves-
twelve cents worth of grimy temptation,
two pennies and a dime trumpet
a halt to running washed to source
by the iron grid of unlucky rushes.

Though it often seems that way at first
the miss of silver that plinked the rubbish
bounced off from there is your pleasure
in the gathering of fetish for water idols-
plastic bus stops are barren of breath,
but with candy wrapped and flat air blues
ragged pine tree shapes easily pass
through the extra ripe of lemon bitter.

The girl with the mandibular grill has gone
to ground leaving an endless roll of box cars
to rattle frame a dry and dusty boredom-
the convenience store is hardly eponymous
though it might seem quickly enough at first-
when you have to come right out and say it,
it probably isn't true.