1989

1989
took my feet from me
i think it dragged the wind

you stood out in the snow
you stood under the tree
you waited while i kissed her good night

ice crinkled light
a memory of shattered glass
a memory of falling snow
and the smell of warm beer

(After so many years pass, memory becomes more a memory of what it was like to feel certain things.)

sting

i know you
you find comfort in geometry
triangles forge the options
delineate the lines

but i am a predator
and i predate your thirst for love
as mechanical manipulation
I squat and grin

you know me
I am candy-coated religion
or a bridge on a deserted road
or exactly what you want

but you try to stand apart
stuck in a throbbing crowd
breath is the only wind
as you stifle the sound of the sting

well tell

 

well, tell
to my ear,
speak in a weak refrain
more for more
to more and more
and linger
over those words
while that anger sits
resentfully
just past the point
where you could reach it.

well, tell
a quiet moment
or perhaps i stop listening –
take or take
away my senses.
spilled on the world,
an age that lasts
less than a second,
so quickly turns you old
with less than memory
describing your history

well, tell
or out goes the water
i watched a river change
imaginary
i smelled the fire you set
from the edge of my bed
i heard the screams of your lions
before the fall of Rome
intoxicated moron
i pushed you down the stairs
in my dreams you could fly

well, tell
to my ear
i want to feel your breathing
say a word that soldiers fear
say nothing at all
but let me feel you are there
i wait in cold moonlight
through a night of cold solicitude
but feel the whole world has suddenly
lost the incredible weight
of your recent attendance

 

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(Eventually, people vanish in one way or another. Truly, you don’t notice when a lot of them do. But some snap off bits of the world to take with them when they go.)

Wallace Stevens

(Wallace)

I’ll try sitting under
your palm tree
for a while in this summer
although the mind of winter
still presides over this room.

How often have I wanted
to meet you on the train
as you went to work
in the morning,
to look over your shoulder?

What would i see –
or was it just held in you,
refined over and over,
distilled to be bottled
in a safe factory?

Left to devour the minutes of the day
and notice that Being sitting in the corner –
that great end of motion – to know
some fine flavour struck your taste
one day before you died.

 

(I am full of ochre and turmoil)

dogs run home

i took a wrong turn
and stopped in late
but you told me okay
we’ll find a new storm
to settle us down below

you swept at the stars
with the back of your hand
and you forced me to play my lute
until they all went dim
and dragged us out

i drank a cup and went my way
see you later, baby,
she said and pulled the shade
see you on the quarter moon
when the leaves turn

and the dogs run home again

 

Image

Persephone Weaves

Image

 

on to the home 
with the train wreck 
see the smoke through the windows 
where Persephone weaves 

shredding the foil 
from your cigarette paper 
be aware there is someone 
with a gun in his hand 

she looks in the mirror and 
who cares what she sees 
she won’t know what the picture shows 
or what to believe 

out through the door 
love is so withered back now 
and the wine that they gave you 
burns your head in this light 

I’m going down 
lost through all of these pages 
where did you wander off to 
in the middle of life? 

I look in the mirror 
I don’t care what I see 
no one knows where people go 
just before they leave 
and fall through the papers 
into your time 
maybe you can break the pattern 
Persephone weaves

 

Broken Tooth

Montgomery’s smile revealed the broken tooth
but none of the blood
Gerry swore and swung again
but the outcome was never as predicted

Alice premeditated and medicated down
sat swaying in her silent room
while the light dimmed slightly
her eye twitched a morse response

I slipped the pill under my tongue
to feel disolve in serenity
My mind was tar spread on the night
my hands caught crows as they swept by

He took the car to gather sheep
and bits of broken landscapes
We can squeeze them from tubes as red and blue
and yellow on white and black horizons

My tongue can feel the broken tooth
but not the blood
I swear I’ll win the next round though
I’m ready for the bell.Image