Tuesday, May 31, 2011

My Dirty Mind

My dirty mind is right between the eyes
following it's own tributaries into a vast shoreless ocean
following your dirty mind
and hers, and his...
little white boats we are
calm or tossing
crossing paths or solitary.

The water rises in the steam of our imagination

Friday, May 27, 2011

Chuck's Friday

Let's go dancin'
my feet are shod with good times
born ninety years ago
1921 to be exact

but youthful as today’s movement

the street is the scene of our uprising
sun playing second fiddle
to the incomparable piccolo
of starlings and palm fronds

we've only that white line
to divide us



Image manipulated from here

I spread my barbs
unfurling all that anger
on velvet leaves of passivity
until I catch the crack
of your eye
and the single tear
you thought I'd missed


It is a moat
we’ve dug with the shovel of our mouths
swallowing the soil of each retort
planting the seeds of our point
until we’ve grown the forest
but lost the trees


Image found here

My words were sweet
arsenic of insincerity

she ate slowly
from my lips
and of them
fed my highbrows
with manure

Thursday, May 26, 2011

Pulled Under

by Anthony Duce

He plays bass
so fluid I am current
and with me
comes all the living colors
they would have been
could they float

Monday, May 23, 2011

The Shape Of It

i think we give pieces of our heart away

if we knew the length of their residence elsewhere
perhaps we would be more cautious

but then we would wind up with nothing but our whole heart,
just an organ pumping
rather than the flute it becomes
memories fingering windpipe holes
like yesterday's reasoning and tomorrow's knowledge

perhaps there is no getting over
only through
as seems right

love is not something to be overcome, but to become one with
reconciled in either the having
or the have not
decks delt, cards stacked 

but there remains the space of it
the shape it was, and always is
melodic and missing.

He Said, She Said

He: "My deal is less about being easily distracted and more about my innate tendency to stare at ceilings...stupefied, empty-headed, and macabrely moody."

She: "I've such a mood. I bring it out for special occasions."

(Ode to Shadow of Iris, and My Dripping Brain)

Tuesday, May 17, 2011


I think I was born in a shack on the bayou.
I've memories of it
small wooden porch
creak of a rocking chair
the gentle sway of a lantern
crickets so loud they drown out sorrow
or are sorrow
or eat sorrow.

My eyes are the color of silt
and I've the scent of the water in my hair.

They keep telling me
I was born and raised inland
a city dweller
but I cannot reconcile the fact

I do not live where I ought.

My soul has never lived here.

Monday, May 16, 2011


Oh that I could...
excise the crosshatch of scars
reshape them into a frame

You'd stand back
reviewing my handiwork
hip handed and head cocked

"It's no longer art" you'd say


Humility is priceless and viral!
Oh, to let it in
spreading into my description

There is nothing greater than self
put in it's place

Tuesday, May 10, 2011


We leave scent

Long after we've left, we are not gone
and our grieving
never fully done

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Tie My Hands

If I'd fingers long enough
or an extendable arm
far past a bones measure
I'd pull heaven down to me

...and weep
at what it became

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Cab with no Ryder

Your truck stopped by today.
We stared at each other
memories clicking by in syncopated time

we left smiling


Amazing how a thumbnail can obscure the moon
and how then again
in another sky
it is the moon.

We're shocked by the size
of something we thought we'd minimized
and the foolishness of ego
that ever thought it could

Monday, May 2, 2011


I like my selves separate
all Sybil-esque

the moments when they press in
as in conference
to my defenseless lobe cage
is a noisy cacophony
of narcissists