able

I sit, I lay,
greyscale above me
cannon hand, one can, two can
three hand
a free form furnace roar
pix picks the tricks and turns the whine down
diagonals aid the headrest mutiny.
'we need to talk' when I'm able
able when I'm able. communicable.
let drips slide
let them caress the glass uniform
we'll hear their thunderous applause:
we'll hear their gesturous facades.
frame cackles will fill the night
cursor cursor cursor.
and I'd hope by now the bishop knows

12 days

it set low in the sky
on one wall I saw it receding to tomorrow
with two hands I carried on.
a brush of breeze, a cooling gust
my glass always emptied
and with the diaspora of summer
my thoughts drifted(perpetually)
how it was what it was that I saw
how it was when I saw
and how many more times I wish to see
how many more times I wish
only twelve more days I hope to hope for this

13 days

the gait of a wanderer
pours me over sidewalk cracks
and happy hour locales, with the locals
inside. i find no respite.
morning light chases the grey tunic of
night from the sky
i wrap the plaid around me
as the countdown to my hands through
your hair
keeps the future focused
keeps my heart on fire

title

if I were stronger
and the streets weren't as sticky
joanna could ask politely
and the tears

and I think I know what you know you would do too

title

as the wind drifts
window to window
sand slips through a diminishing chamber.
it's tomorrow now; the horrors
have abandoned me.
how many times have I told this story?

mirror

every time the mirror shows
another leaf falling
just about the time I close my eyes
I can hear the door shut
I can't see the sunrise

fuzz

so many times it comes back to me
i look in the box, searching for the bottom
i look past it, shrug it off as-it-were

sunlight makes a memory,
overcast everydays make a memory
box cars and champagne corks
stuffed in the end of the perpetual ruck-sack
scrubbing off the glinting fuzz
has been a tiresome endeavor

poem

roads of dust in the rear view mirror
patience subsides and glows the full red color
morning sunrise, the moon sets first
cup of black, chair and hat occupied

trail

and there's resolve now
       the usurped cartel zip tied to their tractors
their painstaking slavery emancipated to (a rusted trail to next to nowhere)
             various forms of deported tears soaking into
         half-used paper rags
back to cardboard boxes. back to fence hopping
back to the american dream that all others cling to
                   in a razor blade of misfortune
back to the four walls built to keep them without, within

?

how is it the beggar is never late
                                 for fashion parade holidays
how is it that the less you become able
                                 the more stones there are for throwing
how is it the shit you kick last night
                                 becomes a misanthropic testimony at daylight
how is it that when never comes
                                 you're still in bed?

traveler

i sit on walls, watching dragon's breath color the sky
dragging a blood soaked blade along the edge of rock
i read aloud the words etched down by travelers
the circle spins slower now
i watch the day exit; stage left, single-stage-to-orbit

poem

it's no wonder how it drips onto the wall
tackling crumbles down to their greatest heights
lumber punches swifter at night time
varicose glass handles rambling their procurements
languishing in tube station holidays with verses of steel, vices of corrugation
there's a tooth robbing fruit sitting near a partially encumbered plastic wrapper
waiting and hoping in a vice grip of anticipation

;';';';';';';';';';';';

when it goes away
the stone slab fits neatly in place
the path of no return turns left
i'm still stuck here
will it ever?

fall

busted chompers. worn out tires
the fuel is getting cold and the days are staying warm
reserves are malnourished, page in, page out
electrical hums press softly on dead ears
......fall approaches steadily
page in, page out, shutdown

335642

my oversight falls flat on its face with the seeping light through
the darkened rags on the windowsill. the opening daybreak
wreaks havoc on the frontal lobe stirrings. like a knife in a blender.
while it has only been twice in happening, where does the
wrap fall, where does it exit to? i'm being presumptuous,
i'm being similarly(predictably) stubborn
but i can sit with a patented patience and watch the events localize in my favor