Not for caution
the rain
like water toiling away
at the bottom of a black pot
heavy with industry
an entire era of invention
crashing to the earth
burning away the weeds
with acid and ash
taking everything else with it
while we dance and sing,
make love
until at last we drift away into sadness.
again.
that rain…
even on sunny days
is always seeping deeper beneath the surface.
A winter’s grain in the hands of the sun,
The blossom of spring outstretched in embrace,
A wind from summer’s eve on a warm face,
Autumn leaves laughing beneath tranquil steps.
Each year swells with you between it’s bookends
While I, lost in pride, find our time displaced,
yet you run so fast that I must give chase
to stay with you as long as time portends.
The steps you take grow larger every day,
so oft diverting from the path we made;
you have and will always forge your own way,
while we tag along in admiration.
Solemn shadows
languish about
in the heat of a stale sun.
The world stretched out like taffy
yawning at the end of day.
Rust caked memories
cover everything the eye sees
red cataracts
over golden iris’
[keeping secrets]
A lone desolate road
lays against the earth
like an abandoned parade float
absent the anticipation of its creators
the pomp of its apogee.
No one is there to hear
the road signs speak,
every mile or so,
reminding would be travelers
where they have been-
where they go.
I saw christmas propped on a wall
a furry elbow anchored to faded brick
and an old frayed rope loose around the neck.
His coat opened to expose the belly beneath
a polluted white undershirt
covered in flecktarn flattery of the heat.
The suspenders undone, failed their purpose
but allowed him to
decorate the building
with a hot yellow stream
that smelled uncomfortably sweet,
the excess pooled on the cement below;
an alabaster sidewalk, darkened
by the corruption.
He didn’t stop when he noticed me
turning midstream
like an eighteen wheeler losing
its center
around a corner.
Amidst the wreckage
a sign remains intact
moored to his chest
bobbing up and down with labored breath;
“The End is Nigh.”
I am here.
Against all the dreams of fate,
my persistence permeates,
transcends the fear;
I, am here.
Long behind bolted gates,
bound by crippling weights,
now freed upon a new frontier;
I am here.
This life is mine to dictate,
these dreams, mine to create.
If there is one thing that is clear;
I am, here.
Through all the changing states,
my force will not abate.
Because I persevere,
I am here.
Water rushes forth
cutting through the landscape
tearing down trees…
In my youth
we would gather there.
That was ‘base.’
Some perversion in the soil
grew it awkward
and preserved it.
There was no other of its like
we’d count,
“One”
“Two”
“Three”
Turn and lay low any who moved.
…bushes, plants
gnashing at them
with a hurricane of white caps,
roiling top soil;
the mangled limbs of old oaks.
The flood consumes the forest
but is unsated,
cartwheeling down the street…
We rode our bikes,
cards in the spokes,
three abreast;
like we each had
a full tank of gas, no curfew.
some of us didn’t
and only went home
when no one was left
to muffle the night.
Taking with it loose sheets of concrete
gauging them out with the dead ends
of what once was a forest
only a few short moments ago.
As if on a mission
serving a purpose
the torrent sprints down main street
a feral beast of a cat
on the serengeti
ignoring all the buildings that lined its path
driven only to one end;
to take down the theater.
In the darkness
outside of time
fantasy becomes tangible
while reality falls away
like sheets of snow
from a hot tin roof.
Captured in that web
I am what I am meant to be
until the lights come on.
It may have been the first to go,
but the flood took the whole town
and discarded in its place
a lake
When winter comes
and hides it all beneath ice
we drill holes
drink til we are warm
and toss in a line
only once in awhile terrified
that we’ll pull up
some part of that old life.
The paper has fallen from the walls.
The paste that held it in place laid to waste
by the passing of time;
as memories before it,
tenants before that,
dreams yet earlier.
It recoils away from its purpose
in sensual curves
that languish treacherously
aching for the floor beneath;
the filth and refuse of
accumulated events.
Between the patterns and the plaster
life propagates
milky pustules undulating
performative movements
anxious for a future in flight.
The sun sets against the windowsill.
The portal closing
on a perspective lost
to the procession of stars;
the persistence of planets
the carelessness of time.
Hindered by broken moments
the time passes
meat from a grinder
squeezing out uncomfortably,
sustenance indiscernible from grissle.
oil, grease
leisure brought to sloth
manifest
falling like melted clocks
to a porcelain plate below.
somewhere
cellophane is waiting.
Wind through the desert finds levity
rising with the accumulated heat
flowing past deep read monoliths
that whisper of oceans long dead,
of fish and whales and other beasts.
Whispers overwhelmed by present sounds
birds, coyotes and rodents
rocks tumbling beneath careless paws
and – another noise, angry and forced.
The skyline is a well tended furnace
clouds just kindling in the fire
thick cords of pine
brittle bark, fractured and eclectic
some loose straw stretching over the canopy;
the fires on the horizon catch them all
draw them over the precipice of day
to slumber amongst the embers
yet – a false light rises with the night.
The smell of ancient minerals
millions of years in the heat,
rust and stagnation permeates
with mesquite and forgotten rain.
When the sun is at its highest
the scent of burnt oxygen prevails
now at night creosote returns
a muted persistent dream
but – a foul odor imposes.
Steel tracks scream through the canyons
level the mountains, fell the trees
cutting through with lines and destinations
like the maps that inspired their creation
while great pillars of soot vomit out their tops,
too dark to for any light to survive
and the smell of coal, ground metal, motor oil
announce that the train has arrived.
Bones
riddled with age
wrap around the space.
The entirety of the body
embracing oblivion
like a handle hovering
just over a threshold;
an opening.
Each step
is surprised to land
a little further,
retire there
and relax,
but there is more to go.
The light is green
the streets – serene.
A hot wind
sends what remains of hair
into a silver blur of rebellion,
against time
against fragility
against predeterminism;
restrained only by old roots
that hold fast always
even beyond the grave.
Grow Gray With Me 