confusion   of words

he has stripped the steering wheel
of all but tarnished alum
and still
love songs blare on every signature, slowing his heart rate
from waking life.
his hand is shut in the passenger-side window;
the coffee used to do just fine.
Once he makes it
past mile marker 85
then he can unlock the cabin,
check on the product.
Martha must be worried sick.
This delivery is over a month late.
The road crawls on between roots and rivers, hounded
on either side by tall, barren teeth
that drop frozen enamel
clattering loudly on the flatbed.
Cigarette number one-three-eight
still populates his brambled beard,
and he forgets.
History don’t whip by
doing eighty on a back road,
tongue bunched up
in imaginary words a television pastor coughed to life with his closed eyes.

— 2 months ago with 1 note
#d  #poetry 

I will become the songs of a blank heart
spirits fallen out and frozen
on a dais…

the rain will pluck my gut, fading
the borders of my breathing.

Feather-faint shades stretch raiment
out of painted drones
peaking brass from brine.

These trumpets mine
mistake the muse
for palpable;

swallow whole the symphony
as bane expression seared in air.

Speak fair the nature of the self,
and chart apart from compass,
and speak the stolen chances
whensoe’er a heart is vented,

through the seabreeze
and the deep.

— 1 year ago with 1 note
#poetry  #free verse 

August is joy;
witless dreamscapes
neatly filed in petticoat rows
where everything goes
and goes
and grows

September is love;
secret warmth
tucked into the heart, the mind
to trail along the winged floor

October is devotion;
pledges in mirrors
and cold-burning candles,
that simmer with starlight

November is lust;
the dreams return,
but plagued with rust - 
imagination oiled red
will spread
and spread

December is the river;
what little whispers stare….
at him!
not I, not I….
I shall not bare the bones I keep….
oh, sleep, for sleep….

January is sleep;
set to drift among the reeds,
there is no bellows in his breast
to heave ungrateful words and deeds

February is not.

— 1 year ago with 1 note
#poetry  #anecdote  #free verse  #love  #old work 

poetry is

another merchandise

pages skein in the skys pith
ash streaks shunned aplomb
born again that


unstrung interruption
stunted lung of limpid song


hunted tongue

— 1 year ago with 1 note
#poetry  #free verse  #abstract 

god has squandered his chosen

the dynasty delivered
by two thin pupils
spit skyward by rolling bones

and he sits, stunned
as the wayward progeny
stack towers, leaden
bridges to heaven
in a pattern foreign to their father

that will never mirror
that once-eternal image

they believe they worship their own

they know not what they do 

— 1 year ago
#poetry  #free verse  #god  #man 
vagrant art

Loss is beautiful.
        How I yearn for the fall!
        the drunken torrent’s casting call –
loss is beautiful.

How wondrous then,
that blessings of the vagrant
land on me!

that dark hands lay upon me,
        painting breadth a sullen,
        scar-slit maw –
loss is beautiful.

There, there is a spectacle!
draining, ventilation,
        Impossible honesty.

Loss is beautiful.

— 1 year ago
#poetry  #violence  #honesty  #blessing  #art 

if nothing else,

let this be true enough:

      that shall shift of glance

      or anchoring

                  come to pass,

           or a shattering of stance,

               then make it so

        that dust shall blow

through weathered crevice waiting

and return again below.

— 1 year ago
#poetry  #stone  #change  #rebirth 

shrike of vines,

chyme of lime-yellow draining

off the stalk, mocking soiled fruit

fibrous machine in stasis,

static furling, curled birthing

memory of membrane, succor

grey prophetic limbs, gripped and grim

bind core to cloud

carcinogenic shrunken,

sunken shroud

c o n s t r i c t e d

sensory eviction, vacant

hollow knots of fluid flow

but daren’t stray;

they can not know

— 1 year ago with 2 notes
#earth  #poetry  #decay  #freeform  #abstract  #surreal 

heed the word that’s written

drawn from market research source

carcasses of dark’ing insight

meet with malady’s recourse

— 1 year ago
#poetry  #short  #$ 
skewed angles on life

They say you don’t know what you have until you’ve lost it.

Sometimes they’re right.

You can keep on giving until you’re dead, and nothing will matter.

Life carries on the way that it has for millions of years. Only the faces change.

But sometimes, faces have power.

Looks can kill, they say. Sometimes they’re right.
A good eye can be the key to the temple of the body.

Not to say that every body’s a temple.
Some like to be priests.

Me, I like empty churches. No voices to tell me how to live my life, but just enough of that residual essence…

But I’m rambling.
There are some things that can never be stolen from you.
That’s a lie.
But sometimes it’s a true lie.

Nobody can steal your thoughts.

You can lose them, sure enough,

but nobody else can ever really take them.

Say you lose a thought along the line. It’s not your fault. You dropped your attention of it for a minute and it wandered away.

Somebody else finds it later down the line, at a pawn shop or a flea market, dusts it off, and asks “How much?” They pay the seven dollars, then hurry home to put it on the mantelpiece as a bookend.

What I mean by all that is,

Nobody can use your thoughts as you intended them.
When their purpose changes, so does their nature.

So it’s no longer your thought.
It’s somebody else’s bookend.

— 1 year ago
#prose  #rambling  #thoughts