Several Poems for a Saturday Afternoon

I’m sitting in a mechanic’s shop while my car is being serviced. I had a plan as I was putting in my 2 weeks to have three months rent banked by today. These things happen. I will be leaving the country for a bit of rest and relaxation and most importantly I get to spend some time with my wonderful, sweet bean, who I haven’t seen in some months. Long distant relationships aren’t hard if you don’t count the feeling distant on tip of being distant, sexual frustration, time zones, I could go on but you know where I’m headed. Anyway here are a few of my more recent poems.

“Hartford Discourse”

Flight is a balanced thing, falling in any fashion, leaves marks, like in the young poem, i am uncollected, without a doubt, and all those notes are as the song, you keep telling yourself, what bigger things will do, to you, taking the coming days, neck wrenched from the night, and the coming days, bigger things, stares twisting the gaze of you, throwing high and falling, leaves, walking, pacing, recollecting, I am small and becoming significant, left, still, high as i want to be, flying.

“The Bass”

Won’t this war make poets of us all, the last spider’s web now casually trailing down my esophagus, into my lungs, the poison passing into my stomach, my tongue still tingling, the last story we told, climbing up the wall under the dust of some beast, petrified, between its teeth the brittle bits of life mashed to left overs, this war wont make us anything that we didn’t want to become, heroes to some and to others the others that deserved, that talking point, fist raised, feet planted, we saw it coming, heard the words like footsteps down an empty street, and the government loves a promise, like it loves a footprint, matching gloves, stained pavement with the ends of no metaphor, no device, no, life ends in a likeness to another, likeness, repeated, won’t this war will make poets of us all, crying over the graves of countless friends, reminiscing in ink and laments, change rattling in our pockets, in cold sweats, all the poison gone to better things.

“Nomadic Pause”

River against the, riding he, in bows, the, sky chose, we, draw straws and, those, short words, I put together like a bridge, current, on the stage, by now, expecting, practiced, and precisely, drawn, back, the coursing, blood oath, or, omen, for the struggle, we have always, faced, however, might, coward, wash hands, in this font, I, took you, to place, a state, like beings, thought, clever, cleaving, prophecy,  from the origins, of surviving.

“The Astral Beast (Cold Flame)”

Maybe in the falls, apart, there will be a kind of cold, that brings us close together, that your face will line, freckled, the inside of walls, and cover books, in memory of, living symbols for love, the alphabet of luxury, the more beautifully rendered reality, a causality bound in the sweetest skin, scent of trees and salt, blood and sweat and sweet, drifting narrative, this is the story of us, through cosmic, shift, and nights lit like the sun in the colors of the ocean, see, brilliant, restless, and moving, glow of that distant star, body, gravity, gracing, forms, long, but not forever, long, but not forever, remembering, gone, but not for never, and to return.

“Bearden Sunrise”

Pissing into a cup, drawing blood, diagnostic evaluations, dying on the couch, mosquito bites, bits of black magic, itchy dick, split infinitive, to casually fuck your life up, to easily eat the cake, cut little pieces out of the tape, tie one on, taking another hit, taking another hit, taking another hit, i can feel it, working up to another Monday, breathing, some days I don’t want to, walk out the door, say god damn, it is never going to change, around this place, fire crackers, forgetting what the police sound like, stinging, nesting, now infesting, now detesting, now arresting, the blonde in the wrong neighborhood, my friend is just a memory, slipping the bonds of what used to be, like a life sentence turned death, deaf corners, mouth tame, covered, sheets, of this memory, controlled, no time like the wasted, blank faced and severe, here is your card, in threes, or twos, you choose, I am the blues, less limber, splendor of America’s war, poor and priceless, life, this, as I’ve said it before, goes on.

“On My Shoulder”

Some like the difference, made up from first attempts, she is the third of a generation, the first were fighters, the next, lovers, and she is liquid, like the delta, a legend, swimming, proud, blade, and cutting, spade, the earth, laid, no lie, or other thing, the ghost of a boy, or a flower, or a fire, their claws and feathers, nesting, wood grains, worms, and bores holes, like eyes, gouged in a battle, and in her there is blue, becoming air, and blew, through the city, windy, endless, in the pursuit of her beauty, consuming and true.


We hit, each other, avoiding vital organs, Monday mornings, these are my tears, floating, defenseless, life has been less joy, more fights, released whispers, will be, more nights in holy arms, rising flame light, blue, why so true, when our faces came to face one another, don’t leave me again, let me go, with you, back home, and have more days.

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