Thursday, June 30, 2016

walk.

[ i must not talk out of turn
i must not talk out of turn.

we know, as we should, that
things could be much, much worse.
and that the best is yet to come.
we're all chasing something.

there's no rush. ]

-------

through the cruelty of the desert heat,
she's dressed to keep on,
she's dressed to keep up,
just to keep going.
and she hums a short tune to the blistering
fever of the walk she's on.
she hums to you,
begging
to be caved
from your soft touch.

but times change as all times do,
she left all her signs unsigned,
better to move forward and leave all her
sighs unsighed,
walking alone,
 child
in the desert,
toward the stars;
stars better left to shine
in their own corner of the sky.

she awoke this morning to her heart,
beating itself dry,
and the caustic cough from
her parched set of lungs,
half empty, arid like
the floor of the sandy wastelands
she walks.

and the day changes, as all days do,
as the night excises the fire from the sky,
to exorcise these notions from her heart
and her labored breath,
and while she sleeps beneath of bloom of cacti,
she misses the rise of a king,
she misses the fall,
she misses a stellar evolution -
a war of gas and light, but
kings wouldnt be kings without arms
and wouldn't have queens without hearts,
the one she carries forward like a torch,
on this march,
she walks.

she's always quick to count the stars,
the way she'll count the times that you've done right.
on any given night,
she's of service to a silence she can't name,
drowning in vanity and star-rises, blankets
of velvet night and speckles of distant light,
it feels like it should snow, and this
walk,
she walks .

she waits to be of service again, to fill
her lungs up with the icy air near you,
it feels like it should snow, and she
waits to be of service again,
to fill her heart with this warm blood of yours,
to fill up her nights,
instead of this walk
she walks.





shiver.


it takes us so long to say goodnight,
though we rarely do.

see,
when the lights get low,
i can still see her shape,
the way the shadows of branches play
and dance across a freckled face,
the blue moonlight on a clavicle,
or a neck, or a wrist,
and there's silence between us,
but i know
she knows,
tonight -
we won't want for much,
just the two for hours,
it's just us.

see,
when the sheets turn back,
and i see her shape,
the way the hands can play
and dance across these plains,
the salt taste of skin,
there's no silence between us,
just the two for hours,
just us.

we won't want for much.

see,
i guess this will be
our last goodnight,
before we're sitting on shorelines,
before we talk about growing up,
all the empty pages before us,
waiting to be written,
all the empty stage before us,
waiting to be played,
but tonight, just one night
for now
it's just the two of us
just us.




Saturday, June 4, 2016

adopted son of war.

 [  be still, my still-beating heart,
      by my side,
        i miss my fifth home,
          but i am home   ]

 got a sucking wound left in my chest,
 where there's the stress of all the sharp
 shrapnel fragments,
 pinned right to my leather heart.

 we've seen the seasons change,
 we closed all the doors to the storm,
 but we sit outside,
 and we're high,
 up,
    on the porch,
 trying to read the rorschach,
 trying to read between the lines
 as the lies and those parts of me die;
 but, i won't be laid low by this day.

 and

 the shiny face of the gun
 in your hand, it's chrome, and hard.
 it's hard to say if it was ever really
 never real.
 never realized that you,
 the religion you,
 combat you,
 saint you,
 is so beautiful.

 there's a spark in you
 i've never seen before,
 either do it or don't
 don't waste our time.
 let the thunder roll above us, and squeeze
 your aching hand around that trigger,
 don't try, just pull pull pull.

 consequences here are no worse
 no better than average.

 and so here we are at last,
 trembling,
 one night, one shining silver bullet,
 through my spirit, the spectral
 shreds left behind.

 trying to scry in the crystal ball
 trying to read the bends in the lines
 crying over the stove
 crying over the cocaine
 crying over the dust of bones of men
 my lust for nonexistence was either sated

 or
  finally escaped
    through
the hole you left in my chest.

we either do it or don't
don't waste our time.

Friday, June 3, 2016

campfire stories

[do what you will, else you're better not doing it all.]

I always make it a point to laugh it all off, 
all the things inside me and out that I can't figure.
but the loving mother of mercy knows mystery and misery love company,
and off between these offices I wander, between the skyscrapers I wonder; 
I pound the pavement underneath my life. 
Have I seen it all, or haven't I? 

Beneath the ghastly yellow light of the arc-sodium lenses plods a dog of war; 
plod I , clutching my words, promising and dividing, 
grabbing what's left of my pride to scribe, 
to scratch into these paper skins the solemn oaths
 I'd never had the power to abide before tonight,
 and I ride the interstate out between the lines 
for forgiveness and forgetting.

I've lined my shelves with books 
and empty promises,
just to prove a point,  but
That's enough.

I've never been accused of giving my love too easily, 
and tonight I've been watching it go over covered bridges 
into parishes and countless counties unknown, 
through skeletal ghost towns 
and I've watched it sink into swamps
over and over and over 
in dreams.
But god damn, I can't sink, 
I can't drown 
,and from beneath the mire, 
the brackish water brining my lungs, 
burning the words of my tongue,
I can feel you,
just like I can feel my sore sense of pride. 

  I was wrong, I promise.

I promise, then divide myself
And there I am, standing.
I'm standing way on the other side,
Free at last, 
To feed the mouths I want,
and mount these wings to the stars

Something, 
some cold shiver
behind my eyes
says that someone is dragging the waters,
and why, why am I staring at myself,
staring right back at me,
reflecting right back from below? 
I'm raptured by this frozen image 
tangled in mangrove roots that 
bow under the weight of all the hanging moss,
under a drape of hanging stars 
on the warmest southern sky. 
Is it love?

Is love back in my veins
after a borderline suicide?

The earth is faintly turning, 
but ghosts slide right by me
 in the heat of the night, 
n the haze of the evening,
Am I alive again,
or am I the heart of some
of these campfire stories?
I don't know,
I've never died before.