P.P.S.

These apparitional jaunts, haunt

these halls, taunt

these tall

tales

I tell myself.

 

Face the facts:

 

Paul Bunyan swung his axe

still failed to fell the trees.

Paul Sheldon, tied up on his back

fumbled at the keys.

Saul was on the learning track

till the light brought him to his knees.

 

Humbled, bumbling fumble:

 

If it causes you to stumble

cut it off.

Do not let your left hand

know

what the right

is doing.

 

Some day

I’ll write that letter.

 

Blinded by the thought

as light is shed

on another

path.

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Skelekinesis

There is no tiptoeing

around this elephantine

madness; as to which came first

no one quite knows,

but there are stories

that one can never forget.

Birthed, here

locked away from the sun

festering, as it were

bosoms that beckon

coddled by inviting hands

and satisfy

grace, grazed

with their touch

bony, death-like

appendages, pinpricks

shudder

climbing ladders of your vertebrae,

pent up

aching for release.

PWNR of a Lonely Heart (Suffer not a Witch)

Are the planets

in their correct houses

to begin this?

Something

definitely amiss

these phases

the way you behave is

nothing short

of bi-polar, maybe baby

in a stroller

pre-pregnancy

hesitancy.

 

Giving in to these base urges,

as we write our dirges

slowly sinking

obviously

not thinking.

Beating my breast

that reeling

feeling

in my chest

Neanderthal

sloped forehead in

consternation, frustration

monomyth

and a fire in the belly.

Jelly?

 

Astrological australopithecines

can’t walk the street

without causing

wanderings, amid that fertile

crescent of a moon

a little too soon

shooting for the stars

and my prized consolation

is these constellations

as we play connect-the-dots

amid forget-me-nots

you smell of roses

and those hips

the kind that could sink ships

Helen of Troy

Mother of Pearl

giving codependency

another whirl.

Girl. Mmmm.

Side Hustle (the fake I do when I should be paying attention at library board)

Enthusiasm precedes you

and your empathy is like a force field

not to be contained, fizzing forward

by celebratory champagne

flutes of the sauce

bubbling over as they’re tossed

back

schnookered on the written word.

 

Drawing me in with your

easy speaking

debutante haunts

bouncing balls down the halls

fans with their chants

onlookers, inside trades

dropping hints

betting against the house

knowledge of the

game, thrown

from the truss, under the bus

forty feet to the street.

 

Bounce with the flounce

rolling to a stop

as the meeting begins

and the grafitti,

backboards, and hoops without nets

shoot your street game

and net you in.

Labor Day of Love

I meet you at the top of the drive as you pull in.

Three hours past due, Labor Day leftovers lukewarm.

Your music blaring

glaring

but for the exception

that it’s Yanni

and I can’t help but wonder

how that would be mildly offensive

in the least.

 

We talk briefly of your weekend at the casino.

You saw him in concert,

entering through the back

where the spectators come in

playing instruments he’d had

since he was in high school.

Sixty-one now, just a few years younger

than you, you can’t imagine

how he can go on like that

three songs straight

standing on a chair.

You watched 

mere feet away from him,

you gave him a thumbs-up

and he winked in return,

continuing to play.

 

We talk of your girlfriend

(how long you’ve been together

I can’t fathom.)

She’s in the Meadows again.

It was all your fault.

You had a bad day at work.

Doing 83 in the company truck,

the police didn’t catch you,

but the higher-ups at the company did:

you’ve been written up.

Again.

Dinner was ready when you got home

she’s good like that.

You couldn’t help but bring your work home,

and be angry at her for no reason.

You yelled.

You can’t remember what you said,

but it wasn’t nice.

Tuesday, she said she was ready to go in.

Wednesday, she called the cops, and even though

she asked to go, they wouldn’t take her.

Thursday, they never came.

Friday, two staties and a local boy

picked her up. She went along willingly.

No fight left in her.

You saw her today:

she could barely keep her eyes open,

her head down the entire time,

not remembering what she had for lunch

or if she had even had it,

hands

like ice in cold, cold water

trying to revive someone,

or cold enough to take out a kidney,

or a heart, which you already had.

…and that is the truth.

This came up in today’s reminders on the FaceSpace. Looks like a day for blog posting.

This is a song directly after a break-up (two months or so) to the point where I was moving on, I think. There’re some themes that have traveled to other songs and poems, but I like this. I don’t recall writing it.

As an added bonus, there’re some Dark Tower references here.

Enjoy!

glad to be a part of something bigger
when all I can think of is myself
I would like to stop thinking of her
but I’m accustomed to this hell
flames lapping up about my feet
as she pours on gasoline
how I tied myself so tight to this tree
no wonder I cannot be free

oh how the fire it keeps on burning
oh unto a crispy black
all these things I should be learning
if I could only have her back

all the while I’ve been plotting
how I can triumph from this test
all these hecklers are a’watching
as I dance the dance of death
throw upon those useless branches
as smoky ‘membrances rise higher
there go my bridges with my chances
as my vision’s growing tired.

oh how the fire it keeps on burning
oh unto a crispy black
all these things I should be learning
if I could only have her back

calling out across the courtyard
calling out across the square
as my breath escapes me so hard
calling up into the air
someday soon I shall be born again
like a phoenix from the ash
I plead for all the help that you can send
so I can let go of my past

Rebel without a God

AD2

 

Shuffling, shambling

down the Boulevard of Broken Dreams.

 

The glitz and the glamour

and the people passing by

as quickly as my days

upon this earth.

 

I’ve been down these streets, before

beckoning, begging me

to come back.

A taste, a try…

a titillation?

 

And somehow

I get lost along the way,

the world

has tugged at my heartstrings

stringing me along

making me think

that I want more.

 

Stars in the sidewalk

losing their shine

as the sun sets,

hides behind the clouds

from me

the things He wants me to see.

 

Pitted and cracked–

watch your step!

–you’re skating on thin ice.

Deeper and deeper

into the maze of the city

walls mugging up around me,

beating me up,

closing me in.

I run

even if not sure

why it is that I do so,

nothing of the sort

that the big black empty

can hold.

Driving down dark alleyways

losing my way

time, direction…

stumbling, falling,

crying, puling

in a corner.

 

God knows

where I’m meant to be.

Sweetness Follows

This is one nostalgic jaunt

I can no longer

make connection to–

the roads have changed

and there are

more pressing matters

upon which to attend.

 

THEN

 

At four and three, respectively,

keeping our eyes peeled

the Tipton/Grazierville exit

Bland’s Park (how much fun could it be?)

the amusement park rides by

now given in to

corporate branding,

much like my past.

 

Stories related in circles

as if on an endless track

gander past geese,

biting the hand that feeds them.

Cafeteria and library

are side hustles of your grandmama,

as is getting your peeper caught

in the zipper of your footie pajamas

and the Incredible Hulk

standing in for Jesus on the cross.

 

Heroic, indeed.

 

LATER

 

Following these low roads

keeping tabs running, open

to the nagging voices:

past the TYRONE of a booming black man,

the Armaghhhh…of Joseph’s dying words,

 

long, lonely drive with jaws wired shut,

the shhhhhh of the lisp and roads beneath you,

riding partners of Mitties and Pearl.

 

I never was a cat person.

 

LATER STILL.
THE NOW.

 

Even if his ears bother him,

the inclination, the pressing need

listening, little man

smitten by what I’ve written

of ancient shipping systems

a train in the distance

carting new dreams to these way stations

smile curved up like a horseshoe

at the crossroads. Still

making deals with the devil

nailed above the door.

 

Good luck with that.

 

INTERIM.

OVER, UNDER, AND THROUGH.

 

Yet, it always spins back to you.

 

I pine for what we

once had, if only

because I know it was

nothing.

I long to understand

what these songs meant to you,

us, the tracks missing

love letter liner notes

teased in disappearing ink.

 

Sun-dappled memories,

a magnetic menagerie

of Ouijiac proportions

ghosting in the gaslit paths

never getting close enough to touch

intestines, spools

pooled about my feet,

lay bare by the pencil eraser.

Spirits from beyond

these lyrics that won’t die.

 

Dear you,

remember me forever.