Thursday, April 28, 2016

Thursday April

We're gonna iron the dog,
cross the fence and
blonde my fries,
this day grows pnuematic
and doors bloom in the shade.

Take me lakeward and wet me
like a robot in thunderstorms,
I cannot interpret bar-b-que
or the ridge of your ribs.
Bring the possum water
and salt. Red arrows wing
like lightning into the sun.

I see it all as I step away:
Field mice skip and hum.
Hay will be made they pray.
But first, pass some time
and toss all that confetti.

Kites come with wine bottles
tied to their tails. Bottles ring.
We brought ghouda and jars.
A rugby team jaunts distant yards
as geese honk north over steeples.
Yellow lights strobe the beach.
It is so easy to lick your feet.

O organ in the woods
lift your reeds to the moon.
I am in need of seratonine
and a little piece of pie.
Wind, wind, wind, below.

Saturday, March 26, 2016

The Heart of Crystal Bridges

            for Joe Milazzo

You discover a Sherman tank in the attic
rumbling across rafters over acoustic tile,
electrical wire interweaves with blue steel
like the beginning of a stormy thought.
You name it “him,” so the swivel cannon
becomes a religious icon. In cord net
sweat shirt and canvas pants his skin
glows pink as a cat’s tongue and shiny.
Excuse this dream, it will not hurt
or protect you from sunburn or in-
sanity. How squeaky the treads mesh
over the trunks of forgotten letters,
heirlooms and old photos. Dust stirs.
Through multiple layers of bullet-
proof glass, you target the trapdoor
which lowers a ladder into a garage.
If any girl sticks her curls up you
will blow them out through the vent
into the bent night, the broken stars,
the sullen tree — on into the avenue
with its scatter of  tire treads and
chrome plated shards. Poof!

Sunday, March 01, 2015

Like Counting Gulls

Foreign fighters flock
to the tune of a billion terrors.
The instruments, though digital,
still function as pre-medieval.
Sledge hammers do not erase
seven millennia of  stone history
so much as make virtual icons
of jackass perpetrators.
We down play perpetuation
as armies trek their annual
migrations across capital capitols.
All those domed spaces
seem to need the toll of bells
as they gleam under star fall.
We go strewn as shrapnel
and broken seashells
under the constant trickle
of time, the infinite ripple.
All pools at tidal edge.
Now you see the next combatant
lose all his downy feathers.
His hands no longer useful
for letters. Language lacks 
both permanence and perfection
no matter which prophet speaks.

Saturday, January 31, 2015

Almost Buds

We were the winter trees
in chill mist and dank,
close as glass to drizzle.
I remember your hand
settling around the page
under the pillow
and between days.

We drank hot tea and talked.
Deep thoughts and serious,
we laughed at society
and our lack of place.

The equinox and new leaves
dot a weft of twigs and stems;
fringe the mist with promise.
How impossible
being this age
and never pledged.

Circumstances force us
to be the forest.
We come to a place
where memories rest.
A stone throat speaks
the heart’s silence.

Saturday, January 24, 2015

Under Doll

The media eye rolls
over the female body.
This is not everybody.

I find myself in front
of the cutting edge.
Hold the honing steel.

The oval, the opal, the
range finder fastened
securely to the barrel.

More than Mississippi
nights flow through
grassy boundaries.

Could this be big fur?
I’ll take the baseball—
paint your face on it.
Could be my home run.

Wednesday, March 06, 2013


The night has big lips
and smiles with an overbite.
O Moon, she lets her
bright tits hang out.

I'm doing a donkey time
dancing on this one foot &
singing without any strings.

Old Lady Moon she makes
me swoon and bottles of
silver toots. I guzzle her wine
and she fills me fine like
ladles and goblets and boots.

Drip me your love, your
tears like pearls, and I'll
loll in your old blue gazebo.

Out of Context

Out of Context
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