Several things

I
these tears
roll off your back

you walk by my sulking flesh
slapping your feet
as you go

II
translation from mind to hand
to pen to page
from page to fingers to keys
to screen seems cold

III
these scars on my arms
are not weight
are not weighing me down

IV
they are porous stones
lava forged sponge
scrapping at dead skin

Sifting deeper

damp walls
glazed
glow tan
sand mosaic vibrations
desert New Mex.
Albuquerque adobe
huts and adobe facades
kissed by pinkish rays
and everything blended
into every other thing

shelves stack high
with death
happy hour deaths in
the modern american
fairy tale death trap
metropolis
two hours to
bleed dry
the coffers
of the mind

another sad day to strangle
to bury;
and this life
forfeit.

Tuesday afternoon prompt

heading home from offices
raised up on steel stilts
up up into the sky
beaded by dying light of day
& syrupy time
breathed in, this heavy silt,
sticks to my ribs,
fills my lungs,
film of burnt offering
an old poem
thrown on the pyre
words of rebirth
afterbirth
& me I realize me
it is me; I am the
placenta of the earth
oozing red swollen
chewy with belief
sorrow misuse
now I am a sinking
crooked step off the
curb
torn in the maelstrom
of afternoon commutes
drawn on the backs
of collars and shirts and
others wearing beaten shined
shoes
a bitter Everest-like sunset
& here I pull and heave
here I leave myself
in summer's drawl
a wintry withered husk.

This doesn't mean a thing if she didn't read my words

can you know
     what we mean
          what's being told
          to
          you
kid, grasp at whatever
     thread we desire
     pop
           pip
                prize
it's not that simple
      A B C D E
is
all the
above
          multiple choice
          illusions
of
none noticeable
truth
          I've brought
you the box
to feed
the kneading cat
     a perm-
a-
nent fix
scorched earth
job application
          fantasy
mix-
mash-mash-
up
standardized death
test
one dominant
recursive perception
     pan-
op-
ticon
motion
informs
          belief
action
     ritual
          routine
prison magic
chaos
chain gang
magic
     think
the
     thoughts
          do
          as
          you
          art
as
I
have
told
you are unique
pick the
shapes
colors
ideas
          proceed
process
promote
protect
          achieve
physical
perfection
professional
possession
          retire
the farms in heaven await
your seed
to
     salt
          the
               earth

Last Spring Rain

last sad notes drift
along raindrops
pelt my window
slowly soak my keys
blaze like pearls
on finger tips         (humidity subsides)
thin layers of reality
spread over absent
white graves         (soldier's graves)
first crack of
thunder drums steady
whuuuuuur of
central air          (finally the trees waver)
                          (frrooowwsh of sweeping rain)
wind whips up
silence now          (all that is, is storm)
descending now          (blankets of steam)
the last days of spring

A Spackle of light on sky

Spackle of light on sky
knifed across clouds
painted over
instant and bleary
too soon I turn my head
missed; too soon
the night and its
secrets; soundless
the distant storm
approaches; soundless
the wind alters direction;
unforgiving the trees
moan, there out in the
oily thick landscape
sonorous, the lightning
lights like deep breathes
on the filament, collapsing
space, an invisible hand
draws ivory streaks across
chalkboards of the night

overpass man

hunched over gold trimmed edges
leather bound book          open to marked page
under the over pass          I-three nine five
shopping cart between body and street
plastic bags tied along metal frame
hint of cigarette stench          curling
odor of sweat          highway          exhaust
reading to the hum          drizzle of dim lights
hunched over gold trimmed passages
leather bound book          dog eared pages

Geschlossen

He's getting older
worried more about shit
shape, consistency, regularity
when was the last time
he went?

he thinks about shit more
than most things now,
besides cancer and how
many years he's got left,
and this person he knew
died at 40 young.

she asks him what he
wants out of life,
but sometimes it feels shallow,
like it's multiple choice,
with no option
for all of the above.
he's thinking about shit
tho while she talks,
and his bloated stomach
wondering if he ate too little,
or if he ate the wrong things,
or maybe it was too much,
he thinks of fiber
and caffeine.

often he considers stepping
off the tracks, wandering away,
swerving his car into a barricade,
but is that even possible,
can it be done? or is he just eyes
and mind watching his body
move and work and follow lines?

it's so tiring getting up,
sitting, laying back down,
if he closes his eyes
another day has gone.

he is sure he'll shit tomorrow,
at the very least, the day after that,
just relax, don't stress out,
a coffee will fix it, some cold
water right after you wake,
maybe sprinkled with
lemon juice, lime juice,
from a home remedy
he read online.

every tomorrow
there's the same dress shirts
hanging side by side,
sometimes they're thrown over a chair
sleeves still rolled up to elbows;
through the window cuts the
morning workaday sun.
how often does it do that?
how many years have slipped away?

Glenolden doldrums

well on back behind now and then
my arms scarred     not like before
remember stone steps
cobblestone walkways     that old library
out of date books     nothing but children's books
parking spots out front     3 and one handicapped
3 quarter white circle     stick figure man
facing damp fields     damp dark fields
leading to slow drizzling creek
same stones for a bridge
to the hill     cut by stone steps
same old stones     I wanted to run
by the river over the hill through the field
find the road beyond     hail a car
speeding off into the night     headlights
cutting into the future     nowhere
never going back now never here and then

Siren man

Siren man
radio humming man
metro walking man
screaming into the walkman

conversations drop to whispers

there's some averting their eyes

there's an asshole filming you with a sneer

siren man
car alarm sounding man
pacing the subway man
screaming into the sound man

you all dressed in black

your clothes oil slick with dirt

caked on layers of unwash

siren man
discordant voices man
striking at the normies man
leaning against the car door man

you've got your head hung low

screaming back at the blaring lights traffic roll

you hit rewind screech go rewind screech

siren man
sound man
mystery man
radio man

carrying your demons on tape

carrying chaos on rewind

carrying enemies anywhere you hit play

carrying sound into the subway night

A short history of rivers

hungry like a hostage
chew on bones,
live white human bone,
kind sunk deep in crypts,
raided out sulky tombs,
heavy and moss covered
thoughts,
bones under the current
weighted down by rocks,
weathered
smooth by a thousand
years of sloth,
starving,
bite down on flesh,
draw blood like words,
dilutes to be read,
jagged lines,
scrawled by skinless hands,
held in place,
sedimentary violence,
irremediable.

grandfathers and beers

count the dead soldiers
lined up in a row
emptied out

how many did you kill?

how many bodies left to be tapped
how many are still fit for service

will they get us where we're going or fail?

count count the dead soldiers
packed in factories
states away

how many do you really need?

how many glisten in the sun
how many end up in the ground

will they last forever or perhaps degrade?

count the dead soldiers
left waiting until morning
silently stale

how many more tomorrow?

how much longer should we wait
how many more to come off the line

will they pour their souls out on cold streets?

count the dead dead soldiers
six in each platoon
none unique

how many did you knowingly kill?

how many until the world spins out of control
how many before there's no turning back

will they march with us, or upon our graves?

My finer reality

this dismembered vision
held on to rough edges
not something seen
felt
originated in sleepless
head drooping nights
of finer reality
driving me mad
or into madness
or into a realization
of madness already come
too late here
feeling the twisting
pinwheels
beyond

I bleed out from
the outside
in torrents of color

I am a prismatic ghost

at least I think or thought I was
or maybe am
if this is what I am thinking
or have thought or is
what I have felt
or perhaps seen
at least thought I saw or think
I was seeing

still phantoms feed me eyes
showing all single strands of time
forcing memory upon me
drowning in kaleidoscopic
whirlpools derived from dreams

this disembodied vision
held together by fragile strands
like rain in twilight of summer days
something heavy
fleeting
originated in the sleepless nights
of my finer realities