dreams on the deathbed of a princess

she is withered but her nights
still pleasant green like fern
clutching thick black earth
she pulls her kremlin red housecoat
tight around her ticking heart
she is withered and the rose
dry between the pages of Numbers
a Genesis of memory reminders her
she is buried in a garden of cucumber
and vegetables
she is withered but her nights
still green

6:20 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

playing

The red, green and blue paint
is worn away with the corners
of the old pine blocks we used
to build towers for frumpy stuffed dogs
in white tee shirts .

Childhood hovers on a teardrop
before it dries and fades
with your mother

The cardboard tube where we thought
we'd left them is in the attic
empty. My father asks me a hundred times
to bring it down (before he dies)

Those towers always fell anyways.

5:05 PM - 1 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

narrow streets and flower boxes

in her bare feet
a beautiful woman
steps like a butterfly
on the what-if airs
in front of daffodils
the rich old hags plant
under just another
quebec sky

5:03 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

why do guitar’s have strings

Bethany asked me why
so I told her half the truth

the guitars without strings
do not sound nearly as pretty

5:59 AM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment

waves

Old King Goll
was a merry old soul
a merry old soul was he

But his tune still suffers from silence
and a lack of harmony

47 seven strings
and sadly sad things
sadly sad things all sung

his bones still play the melody
of the ancient harp unstrung

Old King Goll
is a forgotten old soul
a forgotten old soul is he

six and one half octaves gone
and all that's left is me.

5:21 AM - 2 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

edict

[joining in Si's manifesto]

it is the hummingbird
not the poet,
              buzz. shout. pout,
a loud & sudden
breath(
less the reader)
wings
feathers
words (should!) share,
the bare honest
iambs with worn treads

(god the puppet master.
a marrionette
hovering)

in the wind
ow the light breaks
through the glass
red,orange,yellow
green
blue,
indigo violence

nectar crowns
the point
sweet and deferent to
the meter and meaning --
a dusty reference to
dry wordy spring --

Yes,
(no) it is
(not) the poet.

Here ye
Here ye

and the tigerlily roars
before the fall.

4:20 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

transfusion

my heart is the apex of arteries,
and the nadir of the veins,
the prologue and epilogue of blood.
So, forgive me two chapters
of beating and seven of despair.
forgive the length of blues beneath
my skin and the awful breadth
of my pulse. the climax of my tale
is wine and bread. perhaps,
you'll understand me. my breath,
my head - the honest path
of the capillaries that fill me up.
or you won't, and then
let that bald raw taste of reddest
rage be the medium rare response
of when next we meet.
If you can not understand
my footstep tenderizing
your ribs until you scream
a tiny pride of some lion-loud
roared agony, then i will help
you figure it out. word after
word. love, you beast, that
is the reason for every pool
of blood.

2:02 AM - 4 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

lunch
Category: Writing and Poetry

to the left of my lips
where the jabber
sticks
like marshmallow in my beard

you see the hint
of pain

and wonder if
you pull that hair
out

will i fight

or dissolve into a peanut
butterless sandwhich

stuck to the roof
of the mouth
of some gray shameless god

or perhaps

just slide ugly
down your throat.

5:18 AM - 2 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

the gentle of art of compromise (with a rabid skunk)
Category: Writing and Poetry

I  know the precise words
to assuage the pitty little pitiable pits
of your stomach

after the finger nails of our tongues
have scratched the eyeballs of our soul
raw and vacant.

But, oh man, that smell ...

that smell that asks 'should I stay'
here
on the crushed velor of neutral tones
after ruining our day?

Should I check the fridge for tomato juice
and pour us both tall glasses,
sprinkle them with black pepper,
dose them with Tabasco,

go outside,
kick the skunk from the trash
and (maybe) ruin our night?

3:43 PM - 6 Comments - 16 Kudos - Add Comment

of beast & man
Category: Writing and Poetry

This city exists 

3:14 PM - 5 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment