Sunday, December 14, 2014

Looking for an echo

Play some doo-woop when I close,
earth angel a cappella into sixteen
candles overdose, looking for one
echo reverbing into soul complete.

Sweet sounds soar off subway tiles,
a white and grimy womb for rebirth
scrubbed by angelic harmonies neat,
little Frankie's tomb is not plumb yet.

Friday, December 5, 2014

If within a nested set so brightly painted

If within a nested set so brightly painted
the faces seem a bit contrived, with rough 
rouge ooze to thickly rush a thin disguise,
smiles too bluish to fool a sampling mind

with gnarled fingers to grasp the tropic root 
rolling from the antipodes soft into laughter
while a warm sunset inflames a viral dance.
If distant orange circles encircle, and snakes

in tropical spirals around frozen glances twirl,
the northern lights slither diamond and yellow
while on the lunar child a sneaky goat awaits.

Sunday, November 9, 2014

Too many sirens

After tales of brave Odysseus passed, too many sirens 
still blown down Central to pass Magnolia, silent again 
at Rosalind. Some poorboy called the mayor before I 
bought some wax to plug the only way I hear. Heard 
one sad guy after the blues had swept the clean streets 
clean again: he was going to shit in a cup and leave it 
as his legacy, on the street. On a one-way street, one 
of the sirens, piercing loudly, said no way, go south.

Thursday, November 6, 2014

Just when you thought it mattered

Nothing, she said, could be further from the truth.

The orange of the sunset owes you nothing
despite your claim to fresh air and heartache.

Once when you dreamt of a glorious future
the pointed hands seemed frozen in time,
starkly arced and black on a face gone pale
in anticipation of things to arise and come.

The ticking resumed but there was no reward,
only the rhythmic reminder of time passing
and the sinking sense that growth had ceased.

Nothing, she said, could be further from the truth.

Sunday, November 2, 2014

Too many grails

So many wooden cups with long stems and chipped lips
scattered where the trees are green. Each cup real, each
cup a mirage where the trees are purple, each a mirage
where the trees are green, each cup real where the trees
are purple. Shadows dance near the dumpster and the
shadows play within the mist. Shadows are still and the
dumpster dances with the branches of that purple tree,
with the branches of that green. So many wooden cups
with chipped lips and long stems from which to drink.

Sunday, October 26, 2014

Jonesing for an impression

A white chorus out of focus in a shadowed hallway,
a chanted cadence creeping out of dun but seized-

hymn singing sealed in search of hanged man ferns
beneath an ecstasy and a blurred floor and between

two walls. The mode is mysterious under soft ivory
arched ceilings in three dimensions this is only two,

so which face is blurry and which the sharp invert
so framed. What is done so hazy is but frozen blue.

Sunday, October 19, 2014

One late autumn afternoon sings its own silent blues but it was morning too

A brief walk past the now that vanished
under leaves not quite curled to orange

leads to a plaza where cold statues trick
wet eyes by merely sitting. Weird to rush

by at sundown, trying to elide shadows
cast by yourselves statically unchanged

in movement. A whisper says you only
live thrice, a rushing lie turns to stone

on a brief walk, passing the vanished now.

Sunday, September 28, 2014

A Romantic in the Tropics [sic]

The lower clouds scowl by with a grey alacrity
scooting under a white grim cirrus stasis. If an
explanation is desired, a stiff froze front claims
to say what's wanted to be said: a gecko's shed

will have to do, dry skin on a concrete and taupe
brick esplanade is its own excuse for being sunny.
Quick now! There is oleander for hiding but only
if you hurry: a proud red bloat is paradise enough.

Saturday, July 26, 2014

Kandinsky in a mirror

Red candlelight blown
by frozen air, window snow.
In mirror: Kandinsky

Sunday, July 20, 2014

View from a panic resolved

It must have been a window with cracks from then.
Blue and light green glass offer a blurred salvation

with open arms. In the sky, reflections in the mirror
say otherwise. Simple binoculars birth a Gemini foci

to blur the truth. A fluorescent chartreuse triangle but
mums the word. Crying is a cold way easily ducked.

That leap would do but oh! the crunchy crunch below.

This gray afternoon will have to take care of itself,
with a deep inhale I might just swallow the clouds.

Sunday, June 22, 2014

No expert available

Mahoganies from an era you can't remember arch
and sometimes surrender towards the lake of fake
swans peddled repeatedly in an endless rudderless
muddle. If there is an expert in the house, place a

call, please. Pleistocene branches seek the water of
life. Hard to argue in thirst. Stop, shoot from angles
unexpected. There through the leaves not really black
a pattern is seen. What does it mean? We do not know.

Sunday, June 8, 2014

Crossing the cross with crossed lines

Winning tickets never cashed sent in cold transit
across the black river via mail stamped just now
bring golden joy. A thousand white numbers clog
up a wronged call list, too hard of hearing for late

offers when six digits are weak, ten way too strong.
When we left, he left too, purplest shiner a coffin &
all too much, unanswered phone calls also too much
for any to bear. A power of attorney can help grasp
the littlest tear of all. You can take my money now

but you can't take that one thrilling moment long ago:
when sunset sea-breezes whispered all I need to know.

Monday, May 26, 2014

Rough Concrete on the Balcony Floor

Rough concrete on the balcony floor becomes a nostrum
to roughed hewn heels with a sweeping motion. It's bliss
to smoothly and in rhythm frisk away the grown history
of yellowing cracked age. But right now it mostly comes

on afternoons after the nap that leads to our blissy place.
Rise and sip the Sauvignon Blanc, breaking out of dreams
left in the warm dishevel of twisted sheets, a whet ream
of red blankets not yet packed.  A box waits, void space

that will hold life transported by strangers to paradise.
A couple of nights with a blanket dry-cleaned politely
last in Ocean Beach. Home then, now a shrewd devise
colored that makes a bed on hardwood floors: nightly.

Sunday, May 25, 2014

Brought a Tear

Moochy Minoan mosaics brought a set of breasts
into this picture clearly despite the tiled modesty
and the back light. Efforting to offer a mild resist
against the desire to fly ala 'The Village and I" by

becoming blue and carpet to sail above the roofies
or roofies imagined (gasp!). I just saw some perky
bits. Polka dots channeling sweet Marilyn go spoofy,
boner ensues. It's "I and the Village" you stupid jerk!

When the plaintive performs at the Ryman, tears flow:
we took our souls and flew away.

Saturday, May 17, 2014

An Umbrella Left

An umbrella in a stale room falsely returned
returns again on a lifted day threatening rain.
This umbrella opens wrongly. Its logo espied
from former hands desiring its midnight blue.

You cannot smoke in peace under this horror
a-tucked underarm and dropped later crossed
into time. A moist dilemma amplified by windy
rain, clocks gone missing, a rainbow umbrella

left behind in a wood paneled room demanded
a return to drying mechanics of open and close.
One umbrella opens first, one is last in closing;
All umbrellas rainbows, midnight wet the same

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.

Thursday, January 30, 2014

Song for the Black Moon

Surrounded by dying, death, and dementia you
still set the coffee up: black roasted beans give
a smell of normality. Another dawn breaks new
to wind chill choke the rose-fingered will to live.

Who the fuck knows? Dinner about a lover spurned
is tender and not right but kofta spiced right amuses
his tongue, distracts an opiated sordid story earned
by drug fueled tales of blackly hid nostalgic abuses.

Life goes on. Salt-crusted cars in a parking lot, muted
colors in a winter palimpsest. Wiper fluid perks alert
and then subsides into normality. Tight pixels booted
into view: a half-full bucket with a joyed white squirt.

It's the month of the black moon: inside, gray stairwell
landings are already cracked sole outside a tolling bell.

Monday, January 20, 2014

Chet Baker rhapsody

The night after the morning of the day before closes
in blue wisps that can only be grasped in moonshine,
ghosts trail pinkies across a dim sky that dimly refines
night following day. A smoke ring drifts past red roses

and bounces across her chest. Is it only a blue dream?
In summer there is white longing to visit peaks remote,
to pause before the vastness of valleys that, open, seem
to invite a gasp. In the kitchen, pears brown in compote

are at an ecstatic bubble. Vanilla ice cream on the marble
counter softens. A chickadee begins that familiar warble,

almost blue. Almost doing the things we used to do.

Saturday, January 18, 2014

There was a place called nice before the bells

Rosy pink limbs contorted at grotesque angles
the hound of bells lopes in circling arabesques
narrowing the confines of a dark heavy prison.
The arms and legs are leaden, the air trapped:

A pot-bellied man with one crossed eye under a trilby
smokes, self-satisfied, a foul and cheap cigar, smugly
confident that his disfigured wife will always obey-
a melted duck ornament fell from the festive stove
and burned her neck and shoulder. Childless she remains.
He walks the blue streets alone, out of place and grand.

The hound of the bells brooks no dissent in pink
limbed contortions, their wet snarling corrals all
the heavy inmates into a tiny inner hellish grove
where blinded the baying echoes from the blank fog.

Those Locrian chords bellow distant. Thin man.

Sunday, January 12, 2014

From start to

The darkness feared is the darkness pursued in claret's
deep scarlet legs sanguine, a stemmed bowl also light
and shimmering stands collapsing in reflective sunset,
gray smudges heralding the inevitable escape of night.

It's hard to remember there was a meadow passerine
when everything is broken: the maiden corrupt in blue
and the crone coruscating in a thread-bare robe lined
with tissue shreds. I had once had dreams uplifting too.

I want to ball my fists hard into my armpits and fly away
or gnarl my hands and play the gargoyle cloaked in nice.
In soft breathing she dreams of leading the child to play
through sleet snow in a grey granite quarry clothed in ice.

Bring me the Russian hat lined in fur, my head is cold,
and I'm worried about the marinade.

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

We laughed, she didn't

Purple purple hills rise above the daily quotient,
little peaks of man-made spires grouse through
bare trees in winter just past white solstice now
silent still like an old song promising redemption

but there is no redemption now only icing white
on a cake that will soon collapse upon itself
complete. Not as bad as it seems, celebration
often lifts the mood, always creates a moment

of noise profound in its distraction. We blow the
noisemakers to confound the laughing children
in a closet with two sliding doors, mayhem from
the packaged diapers strewn on floors, blowing

a cheap plastic horn to torment one gleeful sleeper
on a tan bear stuffed, a purchase that annoyed her.