title

maybe it's cold out

maybe a pizza

maybe a towel

maybe a maybe

maybe maybe maybe 

the north

         it is dark

and there are no stars(48°45N}

the light is on in that window over there

we can talk about other things

when you have the time

Paddy told me, and when Paddy tells you

          you listen

noodles boiling

 I'm going to drape myself over you

           like so much lasagna

too late

 when the door locks

and the snore across the room amplifies

do your thoughts turn in a particular way?

the lamp is on

the noodles are boiling

and there are apparently 46 more days, as far as i can remember, and they've made it difficult to type on a phone

 I'm typing this on a phone, BTW

belt

Orion, and his got damn belt, are trying to hide

                         but we won't let them

ash falls

the sign blinks

I don't remember what it says(I think it says HERALD)

the rain, the cold

all should burn into memory, like hydrogen being crushed by gravity

the birds are asleep now, as they should be

   it's 1:39am

go to bed idiots, and my hands are cold

bench

supported by the concrete evidence of the sidewalk

meandering through fire and story

standing on the broad face of a bench

speaking the cellular voice and staring at the concrete car parade. the cycle and the damned and the walk by pedestrians, stuck, and not looking to stare

punctuation goes sideways and all thoughts are passed in this liminal space shrouded in what we can only hope is what we thought we wanted and on and on and on

the sun has set. the song has been sung 

 

for you

twigs grow long
the birds know
             I saw this place through a window far above
shoes meet streets
beats meet beats
the strings sang songs
             and I had words
and now I'd like to go back, and say those words again 

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