Saturday, March 17, 2012

Poem of his past

Could have killed him it doesn't
fit into a pocket therefore
it's unstealable and why
Doe the animal define itself
or decide
to leave behind only an image, what
did her house smell like?

Broken on the floor of a place
falling neatly behind the word
home to an unwholesome
Existential species catching people
In its teeth.

Such a strange
cycle such
a strange world we rely
on reliance and somehow
things still

Thrive; I guess
it's so
perfect it doesn't
Have to be


The Fox That Made Me

When I saw the obviously crazy
Fox slice across the only
Road into town three times
And then flicker gray and brown
Down the path to my past I
Felt like a goddamn poet,
For real.

No one else felt his footprints
Echo across the shattered
Cave of their soul.
He was looking for me
And he found her instead.

I am from the edge of static breathing
Its own life through the radio and
From the countless poems that bloom
And I wish to the planets I
Had written them.

The atlas of my skin
Is diverse and untraveled,
Even to me.

If you have never seen
The virgin sun’s secrets
Shattered by solitude
And mountain peaks or never
Counted the lines on a wave
Reaching the shore finally I
Could learn from you.

Monday, January 30, 2012

As Seen From Above

When I watch her moving
Through the limp Sunday air I
Wonder is this what I have
To look forward to?

I know she sees me I
Know she hates me and
I can’t blame her.

She should not be allowed
To move freely through the midnight
Shadows and long triangles of light.

I cannot believe what
I will be it’s
Too much and I
Turn away.

I wish she could borrow
My eyes.
Maybe that would change something.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

the world has mute edges
swimming in the blue sky
in the white sunlight of

it’s my soul that’s breaking
not my heart
the world climbs into
the trunk of an 89 pontiac and
heads for the freeway

the cross-stitched haze
of gray tree limbs and
evergreens whisper about
dry trails and the pound of bare feet
the broken breath of the sky
reminds the grass of summertime

what I’d give to peel away
looking on with no
fear shame or past
turning to the sun
knowing it’s the same

i know some things about
poetry and
fir trees and
maybe a little more
maybe that’s why

i know it never started I
know I never was and
i know it keeps on moving.

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

101st post!!

What could we be for
Only a minute what
Could we learn about ourselves and
Our passions if we
Forgot ourselves and our
Plagiarisms if we
Remember that awe of
Childhood being
More than we thought?

What do we know about
This and that and
Moving through one
To the other like only the
Best things can?

Thursday, December 22, 2011

Jet Trails

What does it mean when
An old man’s walls begin
To leak what they’ve seen and they
Swear it’s true,
Claim that’s America,
The unlit cigarette and peeling wallpaper
Coming and going but staying, regardless?

And what does it mean when the same man
Watched the planes trail through the sky,
Over the mosaics of cities and veins of freeways,
Wonders aloud how much of a strain it would be
For him to out-rationalize himself,
And take to the air that way?

The comings and goings of these steel birds
Reflected by oceans struck waveless in contempt
For the human animal,
In anger that they’d crack these boundaries.
What they call people, I can’t be sure of.