ALL RESPONSES |
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It's too hot to think,
To move, to work, to write.
Lie as still as your breath lets you.
Close your eyes. Wait for a breeze.
Feel your skin,
Washed in currents of light.
Listen to your heart
Speak of its endless burden.
If you can, sleep
Until someone speaks to you
Of salt and sweat and heat.
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picture mountains
just a few
with old folds
rounded
eroded smooth
from winds driven
they hold still
how could they not
stone of the earth
burned in the sun
frozen in the snows
tested by unheavals
rocked by deep quakes
still they hold
still strength
reflects the light
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You are a poem in my tongue, I will lick your words and vowels
Slip like a yellow sun into the sea , I want to feel the ripple of your laughter
The sand is your bed, your moan always boils in my mouth
I can keep your chest warm because I know that you are alone
Breathe my love, breathe. With your soft tasty breath that smells like sugar
Forget who I am, I will lock you into my maroon box of winter
Before I open your lips like a Cadia flower, my blossom of greek sky
Before next summer comes again and steals your salt.
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a band apart's-heid
Rich listening here on the Reverie, or there soon to be on the Riveria
Tips of Sp-arrows drawn together in a French ravine's unbound love,
lays the time shifting
where the driftwood comes,
Marches ant commons.
Peewee Herman riding to the Sun,
he he brotherhood electrical
sticks out a dove bar or cake,
in this foresaken go go -
from 102nd and Stevens, in Bloomington
to Edina, 66th and York - in 45 minutes
my planet's fitness stinks. in the I, a.m.
sprinkle with our toes with axes begone
80 degrees and 5 mph in the mid 90's today
-Ironman or apostlic thoughts
We will do it in the lite cometh-
spilt stressed to end of sand castles
albeit built with great shape
I know whose in the shifting…
Humidity- your wall
Under cloud 9, opens and melts Johnny
To bear out the unconditioned riches
puts them ontop of a social network
Faces your maps to quest,
To the tigers, to the tanks.
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Brandy, hot, lingers
on my swollen lips
the liquid swills
stories inside me
to the rhythm of the lights,
to the dancing of the trio,
its own neons packed
as close together as
white sand on a beach
On these nights I teach
my gaze to alight
in crowded places
to the curves of the glass
she is holding in forked fingers,
condensation falling between
the cracks of her knuckles
I lick my lips, they are burned;
the jazz is over, the woman
across is straddling the other
side of an ocean; smoke
is the language of hurt passion
When she leaves, her light dress
clings to her like a silken veil
Behind the dark colored pane
of glass, I watch her leave
like an old debt; still tangled
in my mind like a forgotten
alley and the spin
of my last cigarette |
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| Sleeping, sloped, silverprint shoulders conquering the viewfinder like mountains. He, I guess. The only trees fur standing free on his arms. Sand like a room of floorboards; sky like a movie scene. Maybe he is free for you tonight. Maybe he's not charging. |
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Go Farther in New – Z land in my Father’ Spy Glass
HIS is powerful netting: to his health and ledger, belt buckle, a Zippo in the pocket of his jacket
Great towns there are to spy on
faces such as Lincoln’s,
places to fish in,
inside my seine net
bicycle handle grips
wrenches and caterpillar tracks
traded peace cards to live by financial means
War hero be.
Schwing! fun was in, 1993 - to Hope or Faith South Dakota: Summer of ‘76’ all my high school mementos:
Captain Spalding grinds
a 14 yr old into wormwood-
hangs my friends
at the White River campgrounds
to mid-night chimes
on Z-land T.V.
goes bottom feeding.
In the seine today's hot sun reveals one large murky depth: Who killed JR series comeback, which killed Karzi not coming back - these 300 bullheads, quickly lose my grip, toot that new team's hitter.
WE, the 100 degrees,
as Quicksilver
rising
to heaven and to hell, just as well
firefighters and Angels, games, one up in the r.i.p.
We stretch it out now to see it revealed:
Today, catching the home run ball- of -yesterday’s stopping
rare grass fire wild burn out
my Bell tolling,
views into Viagra locked up
over a barrel- Happily ever after -over.
Last draw of breath, sanding the stone cutter’s tools, life into fm radio, a shack on the pulse of prairie:
hurdy gurdy turns and plucks,
chanting hymn
What not to forget about
in the cellar abandoned,
my father's Sun worn belt, We, ants pulled along, my pacing mouth agape, it's caged teeth sandy and raw, never to forget my love for his discipline.
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The friendly wild ones
who play darts and drink,
give out their names
with a smile when asked,
happy to meet someone
on their turf, who has
a good story or two
(which I do). Here,
in this informal community,
we all fly the same flag.
To not put up with bullshit,
not be part of anyone else's
grandiose clusterfuck,
and if we perchance do,
to break out of it
at the first opportunity.
We call this freedom.
We call this life.
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I do not dare pursue the setting of the sun
I do not dare flee these growing shadows
For I would dwell too long in my sorrows
So instead I turn towards the darkness
And forge head on into the depths of night
The quickest path to once again greet the light |
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Dear earth, can you hear me?
It's me, John.
Listen, that glowing orb
is particularly hot today
and my Swedish skin has
turned brown and crispy.
Do you mind if I lay
here for awhile? This sand
is soft and comfortable
reminds of childhood
on laundry day - mom washed the bedding
early in the morning
afternoon westerly wind
uninhibited sun took their
time with a simple task
and I ran through open fields
and Indian grass, chased by
the neighbors dog until we hit
one last target, ending in a ball of
lemon verbena sheets.
We lay there until we fell asleep... |
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Yesterday, as I raced through
the labyrinth of bustling
skyway shops and malls
I reached for your hand
my own long fingers doubling around yours
drawing in a stream of calm
from your warm steady hold on me.
I felt slightly less embattled
less alone in a largely indifferent world.
As I reached out for your hand
you stretched back in my direction
north across the plains
hundreds of miles from home:
It was our first public embrace.
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“You see, when coyotes attack dogs, they do it in one or two ways. First, a single coyote makes friends with a pet dog, plays with him and lures him into the forest. Just one step too far, and the pack pounces. The second, a variation on the theme really, a coyote pretends he is injured, and when the domestic dog tries to comfort or protect, the pack pounces”
In spite of the 100 degree heat Molly was chilled. She watched Will intently as he adjusted his towel. The two logged over 20 miles on their bikes and stopped by a local lake to swim, rest and talk. Will was moving to Hollywood. She was going to miss him, miss his stories, miss the calm way he held her ear, and miss the fact that he was the only other person she knew who loved a good long workout under the hottest of suns.
When they parted for the day she gave him a lingering hug “Good luck Will, I am sorry you are going, but proud too. I don’t think I could just up and move”
“Bye Molly, I’ll write, you know I will”
“Don’t let the coyotes get ya”
A month later Molly got a call from a mutual friend. Will got a job as a waiter in a restaurant that was held up last night. They put all the boys in the back kitchen and for some reason put a gag on soft-spoken Will. He suffocated. Another gentle soul killed by a pack of coyotes.
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Hot sand crawls under his weight
He drifts to the cosy northern parlour of his youth
His father spitting asthmatic phlegm into a plastic cup
Flickering in the corner
A small black and white screen
Sylvia Simms, sips cold beer
His first unreachable crush
So quintessentially English
So beautiful
Reaching out
He accepts the ice cold beer offered by Sylvia
Only to find sand running through his fingers
No happy ending
No bar in Alex
Just the slow slide into an unquenchable thirst
And eternal sleep |
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On the silk road we went
to Canterbury tale, to rote:
pardon me,
a paddywack,
I drink to Death
to find Him.
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You lay on a hot bed of sand.
Grayscale image still conveys the sensual you.
Male body partially exposed to my eyes,
a game of pick-a-boo were smooth, tanned,
defined upper arms muscles
flow effortlessly toward the sand,
fold at the elbows and turn into arms,
and then hands that rest, palm down,
fingers, touching the warm sand.
I could hardly breathe when I first saw you.
Your shoulder blades, two soft picks,
like mountains smoothed down by time
or by the sun caressing your skin.
I can't see your face but really, that's how I like it.
I don't want to know who you are,
a soul, a face, a voice may tarnish this image
that warms my soul...
I don't want more details, those I can always imagine.
I want to enjoy the creation you are in all its beauty,
in the silence that surrounds you.
Colors are not necessary even though
when I look at you again
I see golden sand, a golden brown skin,
a head of dark hair against a beep blue sky
and white lazily stretched clouds.
You, as you are, it's all I need.
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