Tuesday, January 2, 2018

...to be...

A lapse of seconds
Is all it can take
To blink the eye of
Tinker not with
Soliloquies and
For they are to be
As they remain;
Untitled, demure

Monday, January 1, 2018

"Hidden Amongst Winter Holes"

I read of you, and burn; the tinge of detachment
Too lucid to admit. I have no view-able version
Destructing further- the weight of your absence.
Your nylon headdress, smug over your senses;
Tell me as I wonder- How now do you fare?

Nearly an offense on the final of the last
Did I find myself stretching backwards
In angst over your strict departure.
You, whose voice I did but hear once-
To elongate the meaning of all your worthy text.

On an afternoon filled with affectionate chatter
Did the sound of your words land with a meaningful boom
For that room did fill quickly of the urge to postpone 'Us'.
And in that reversal of yesterday's memory
The wish to take back that pause- grows.

We are older now, and you, too far along your dismal road
To ever turn back now and take my hand.
The decay of our philosophical affairs still smoulders
You- the wrench in my most sought after machine.
I detest ever so strongly your unprecedented departure.

Father, Lover, Brother, Man. Shunned in regret
I felt you shudder, broken within.
The whining interior wails hard and silent
Struck deeply and reverberating 'souvent...'
For I love you, you see; I always have.

You shared and I shook, swallowing your goals to be heard.
Lodged in comfort, your confessions remain
For mine was the home of understanding; of care.
Take into your cabinet of horrid disfigurement
The deepening luster of my longing for you...

To know, to listen, to learn once more; to let you know that you were not in vain.
That your offerings on those cold days in the High Desert
Were cherished and understood in ways that you needed.
Remembered, mused over, written and drawn
To love, to honor, to learn from.

Sunday, December 3, 2017

His and Mine and His and Mine.

A new fork in the road; One Great Prong,
Splitting everything, straight down the middle.
Run, and run fast
To build speed so even you don't see yourself coming
And fuck that detractor till it breaks.

Kept distracted, the noise: personified insignificance.
Dividing precious attentions and holding idle hands
Sweaty palms, bilious
Even the elbows know their grease is wasting
Figuring that maybe when fifty hits, I'll wake up

Dutch outlines and half-matured whisker growth
Pushing out of twice-matured, heavy bent disrespect
Loyalty- to truth
Courage to grind against the grain of love- conflicted
Philosophy of gut instincts have torn away familial mulch.

And I listen, I hear, and here, amidst the dust of my own mulch
I kick at my own ankles, articulating a new strain of loyalties
Burning holes to char
And rearrange the birth order of all I prioritize and toy with
As time is pissing its wits, and putrefying valuable potential.

I kept the tube out last night, and slathered sienna's and umber
Onto 'Guts' that need emphasizing and generous attention
Highlighting girth
Around the waist of all my solo twisting and wasted estrangement.
Might as well give myself the gift of visceral containment, painted hard, heavy.

Tender futures await, conscientious loving and warmest reminiscence
Even in the hound-like wail of sexual revenues long emptied
This shit better be enough
For the outline of swollen rouge and pheromone hunting hinges
To oil away softly into an eternity of  hollowed out spoons and neck-gnawing.

My ears are swallowing whole the many movements of delicious potency
Masculine carnivore with his well evaporated self-effacing roots
Steam-fucked and building
Boring scars into memory, of driving marks and hitting home
Better, more effective hammers, to get every last Fucking job done.

These are the tones of us, who ate and understood the wrongs
And welded ourselves to the ideology of 'feet put down'
To the landing of our own choosing
Because by every morning and well-endowed night, ours was the mood to honor
Rather than to punch reflected indifference and self-perpetuating shame.

The Tortured Copse

Into that vault
The armory of the wounded
Declaring the disfigurement,
And the traumatized beauty
of blackened insides.

As in chewed
Sucked, sickeningly savored
To learn and understand
and walk away and heal.

That fucking unwinding containment
Seducing interior hounds
That in their off-time
Prowl and hunt for would-be poisons
to rip and tear to unrecognizable shreds.

These mellifluous tongue-dancing preachers
Kick abstinence in the teeth
And soften crooked pathways
Bidding me to open wide
And swallow the dangling pearls-
made perfect in the shadow of corrupted circumstance.

The Rabbit Hole is between my legs.

Thursday, November 2, 2017

Crash and Burn

Words are cloying.
Night is wrought
With indecision.
Who am I tonight?

Lucubrating intent
Odds swim in reverse
Cortical homunculus

Indigenous needs
Perpetrating my flow
Hijacking the night
To bid its own due

To the right, then left
Beneath feet that resist
A bolt to soft corduroy
And a blue beauty nearby

The cast, in order
Of appearance, slave
The day and all her muses
Promised much to many

Intent, this is no
Shotgun wedding.
Jumping guns to get to
A golden finish.

This is hype on hype
Magnitude personified
So many secrets told
In plain sight.

Why not wither instead
On a vine grown, un-clipped
Unhindered, wild as will
Built on the purity of its very being?

Swapped instead for
Riddling the self
For a moment

To stretch and
Combine confusion
With tampered songs
Of how the heart cried softly

Profoundly aware of
The arms of denial.
So profuse in the employ
Of its own restraint.

Vindicated, perhaps
Blue Ribbon evidence
To laud the mind of its own

To what end is this
Voraciousness plummeting?
For soon, all trajectories shift
To crash and burn energies

Their conquests, revealed.

We hope, how we hope
To have lived enough
To die right; in relaxed repose
Hungry for more.

Wednesday, November 1, 2017

‘Blue Girl’

Plucked as she rests
On a lap that has waited.
Patience can sour
If wasted on useless palms
Resting idle

The strum of a soliloquy
Will not conduct itself
Finger glide gently
Over and on top of-
The intimidation of tuning.

Ink to swill the sound shared
A beckoning, long overdue
Fuck torpid stasis
And utilize redundancy
If that is what it takes

These lessons need banging
Hard and on drums, hidden
A dare to cognition
A fluctuation into movement
To steer the hand into song.

The ticket written, sent
And now read and acted upon
A tearing of throats and
peppered goats;
“Haha, She can sing”

And she will, she WILL
And the mornings will pass
As the canyon closes
New skills to meet old faces
As  Pink Floyd plays on.

Wednesday, September 6, 2017

And So He Sings...

"...there's certain things that I adore..."
Of those certain things, they placate nothing in recent years
The notes, the husky gripe, that pond-hopping drawl
Seduced, saturated in the fuse he's lit
From billions of particles that pass between us
And the lifetime we lead in distant significance
My drunken state picks up where he left off
Carrying that tune further.. into ears, into hands, into night
Muting all the noise but one- on shelves of furthest reach 

Lament is a chaotic, beautiful, graceful suggestion
To peak in a moment and push outward,  to share
Blowing those needs that squandered resilience,
And tapered nothing of the long need of sighs gone mad.
Knees, having forgotten to genuflect to the God of Skin
Dissolve in silence as the greys arrive- unplucked.
Hands wither as autonomous, mundane duties abhor their routine...
Stray trinkets of possible positioning, align nothing by way of stars
Angled movement fits badly in this heaven for one.

How many more blistered commas must segregate this, this...
This cacophony of corrupted, course-ground projections?
Segmented nonsense, punctuated by the poof of malaise gone sour
Cut myself some slack, for Christ's sake.
When did drowning in dissonance become the preferred method of travel?
Instead, carry that note of his higher, onto laps that breed warmth
And seclusion into pinker shades and the fortune of limbs
Beckoning touch- approachable, magnetic.. unencumbered
Carve the notch and all those, 'Certain Things...' will come.