Knightly Dreams

Boiler plate on my breast

With a crest of crossed fingers

I consult my arsenal, the ideal,

Like a falcon hooded on my wrist.

I campaign for the honest truth,

Love from lust to brotherhood.

Come, run with me. Noble,

Wild as mountains or wind.

We flow together, one in blood.

Years have turned and gone, heart,

Since I touched your shiny lips,

Your laugh warm against my neck.

I will not let your death be quiet.

Though my broken voice ages

What we share will fill pages.

Log In (a paste poem in memory of J.A.)

Got it wrong in the past, rewrite it.

The normal rules of nature do not apply.

It makes individuals sensitive to context,

Regardless of the level of existence.

The peach harvest is way down in Georgia.

Sensitive to context and 'open' to change

what does apply? A two-pronged approach

helps us adapt to adversity. Push RESET.

It has practical applications. By backing up

You watch where you no longer are.

Kick in to rapidly open a window.

Strike out to emphasize the need.

Enter into a more adaptive or 'plastic' state—

The idea becomes paradoxical, a contradiction.

Aren't we surprised that it might be possible?

Imagine “I’m melting” as permanent lifestyle.

We need to pay more attention to context.

Consciousness seems to be always continuous.

Reconfigure the juxtapositions. Slice and dice

Existence at the interstices ≈ the swerve.

I believe this is the future to believe in

Again. The illusions vanish but reflect

Caught in headlights at noon—BOOM!

There are no perceivable edges, only ends.

Doesn't Say Much

Blues in Green

Once a Future

Late

Afternoon and

I hold my balls in hand.

The world should be a better place.

Wait.

Hylozoist

Matter represents itself

As all possible reality.

This apple isn’t orange,

It is roughly vermillion.

I knew as much when I

Was only four years old.

I liked the feel of warm

Sand on a sunny day.

I built office buildings

For little plastic citizens.

My best friend was far

Away at kindergarten.

I barely knew who I was.

I knew what I could do.

How do you access the

Unconscious by yourself?

A fortiori, you understand

Yourself as a subconscious.

At the core, we know what

We think of a slow sun sink.

The sun becomes the moon.

Moon becomes midnight.

Ralph said stars are alive.

I let me soul come and go.

Tidbits and Gigabytes

Adenosine is an endogenous

Sleep inducer. That's why we

Feel more awake after coffee.

You may have known

Lithium from its role

In rechargeable batteries.

Do you think it more effective

To have a cooperative network

With a clearly chosen coordinator?

Such instabilities are akin

To a snake or dragon

That swallows its own tail.

Joe tells us that the citron was

Considered a valuable commodity

Due to its healing qualities.

'Life-years lost' is a better approach

To observing mortality trends, 

Than cause of death.

Repairs

Workers

Break the street,

Pour in new concrete.

Skilled hands sculpt the curb.

Park it.

Fairy Tale

Monsters jump around in my head.

Copper green with wing feathers

Sharp as saws and lightning eyes.

I try to run from your many arms.

Fangs like ice cycles drip poison.

Lips thick and clay black kiss

The back of my neck. I bleed.

I sweat as my burning eyes roll.

Don’t tell me what is real or

What I feel. You know this is all

Your fault. Born from heartbreak

Slim dragons and crystal snakes

Tie my hands together; gag me.

Where did you take me? Desire

Wires my guts. I swallow vomit

Like liquor. You twist my wrists.

I will not look. I will not feel.

I will forget that you are real.

Used Equipment (for Michael Robbins)

Nothing about growing up in Colorado

Wheat fields or Arkansas rice paddies

Makes you have to be so critical, Mikey,

Except maybe for the homogenous space

And the insistent vibrations in your head.

Pop music microwaves the countryside.

A really pretty-white girl writes love songs

With a purple ballpoint in her spiral binder

And somehow becomes a millionaire idol.

This is the dream of every worm alive

By a heat vent in the Pacific Trench. So,

We dream of deep water and hot women.

If words riot will books self-immolate?

Will the fire illuminate the dark face

Of what life turns from? Do you think?

You have to be anonymous to remain

Autonomous. Work through questions—

No, no answers at the back of this text.

On the Road to Salvation

In long black coats

And furry black mittens,

What causes these two

Nineteen year-old boys

On missionary bicycles

To be so eager to witness

Their belief in the Book

Of Mormon and Jesus

To me and my pooch?

Don’t they have a clue

How cold it is standing

In this empty parking lot?

My dog, and right on cue,

Has a deed he needs to do.

Perseids Peaks

Parked on the edge of the Costco lot past midnight

under the hazy heaven of city lights and moon,

you point out the one star bright enough to see

and it is a planet.  One meteor streaks beyond neon.

We lean back on the windshield and drink soda,

like students in the cheap seats we wait for the

celestial shower to show what mid-August brings,

orbiting dust. We hold hands in astrological hush.

A Jet Blue heads for the airport while another

makes a steep ascent. Our vigil is spontaneous

otherwise we would be on some bluff miles

beyond the suburb. We have the radio and blues.

Trucks travel the interstate oblivious to the stars

as well as our car solitary in this vast black field.

We imagine we ride a raft over the ragged edge

of the world. We fall into a sky dizzy with breath.

Shadows move over us as a helicopter patrols

alleys and backyards. One streak explodes to six.

I squeeze you in my arms and hum satisfaction

as dawn pulls us back to earth and another day.

(After Poem of the Day: August 12 in the Nebraska

Sand Hills Watching the Perseids Meteor Shower

By Twyla Hansen) 

Noon

In hot

heft of brilliance

on a billowing blue lawn,

anesthetized by subtle breeze

we lunch.

View through Blinds

Long haired youth

strolls down the walk

in morning dew-light

He sports only nylon

basketball shorts

and his smart phone.

So much hair

his face is hidden.

Lean like an animal

in healthy wilderness,

he steps one white leg

after the other.

Ripples in the small

of his back as his

quadratus lumborum

flexes, he steps up

to the porch and in

the door, forever again.

Tough Tense Future

Full of same; feel of same, glory and good

Swirls of soft water, autumn and this blue feather,

I give you hunger. You give me savory food.

Spring, summer, one or the other, I did what I could.

I worked through years of bad to worse weather,

What we gave and got was well understood.

Real as rain, air and sky the same twist of road,

I walk in dust and mud to get us back together.

Your friends go out of their way to stay rude.

Fall and refrain, limp almost lame, broken toed,

Weeds flower in liquid particles and scatter.

Pain and passion, real or the same collude.

Autumn will be winter, same old same, wood

Ricks and racks like drunken steps stagger

Along the hem of our pasture, slippy fluid.

Same is winter flocks and flurries. Hot brewed

You draft ducks and bats, boil lace and leather.

Forget I said what I want to do. I’ll help load.

(A reflection on the Poem of the Day for August 9, 2017:

Not Pastoral Enough, By Veronica Forrest-Thompson

 homage to William Empson)

Snap

A photograph of what I once was

is more real than I am now,

more accurate for the lack of action.

You can see that nothing’s happening.

The shutter blinks in a diastolic stop.

The soul contracts, inhales the light.

The mind plays over each detail

weaving a recognizable impression.

The background is not ground but sky.

The light angles low and slightly

behind the hair. Reflections from a

white wall fill in some shadow, give

highlights under the eyebrow and

hint at something sinister in the smile.

The lips closed. Nothing to be said

that the picture does not say better.