Saturday, January 30, 2016

South Gate Rd. Sentences

Ivory totems on ivory hills left to feed the gods of war,
mourned by withered wreaths and crimson bows.

* * *
a word written in snow, or was it the way the sun revealed the grass?

* * * 
fenced in, thrown out,
          the land and debris of america;
buried and hidden from sight.

* * *
the snow is as flat and blue as the afternoon sky.

what was the world at the end of it, were the days the same for all.

quiet here in the dark,
and the snow,
beneath me,
and tho my window closed, I can sense it
as something cold,
vast,
unforgiving, as it stretches white
over miles, highways,
fields.

my cat won't talk to me.
he slinks under table
to lick at his fur
keeping me in the corner of one amber eye.

outside,
the streetlamps are golden
the light cast through my window,
is golden, there's no sound but no sound,
a heavy absence, a feeling to be gained
and lost. and found and
lost again.

my cat stalks ghosts
into the bedroom
breathes heavy, groans,
whines, implores me
to sleep.
but I am not ready to give up yet.

in the morning all this,
and most of all, everything
else will be gone.

Wednesday, January 27, 2016

What to do?

the message was there.
that the litter was in the mail.
weighing in at 40 lbs.
no shipping cost.
tracked and noted to be, "out for delivery."
It was, as of this writing, two days late.
would I be asking for a refund
on the package? Would I be filing a disputed claim?
consider that it had recently snowed.
more than snowed actually, a blizzard, final total 3 feet in most counties.
also consider there was a cat in need of a place to shit.
also consider that there was a cat in need of a place to shit.

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

Presumably, too divine

vague skies
haven't much to say
after the snow has fallen,
after the plows, away,
throw salt down and move on,
chased by low temperatures
in the night, useless,
on the black-top streets
slick with black ice,
to bridges buried in white,
current slowed
under thick sheets, the
mighty Potomac sleeps
and in her swampy city
beyond, sat in still-life
standstill, the weight
of winter, icy gears groan,
traffic ground to halt,
empty office, workaday fears,
impending doom of
forgotten lunch hours, bi-
weekly pay checks, bored,
for hours move on, and
pre-paid, the clean-up,
go-around, an obstacle for the
production mind to
assuage.

Tuesday, January 19, 2016

well the worms eat away, but don't worry watch the wind

in there there was a dream
and I had one too

          of things to come? I wonder

nestled deep in white capped mountain trails
split rocks and deadly drops,
up the sheer cliffside,

          4 storey crooked house,

toward it we hike,
heads down,
sweat, breath, aching bones
eyes on the winding green,
brown, the fresh unmarked
white,

          off to the side of the trail

other hikers, vagabonds
in tattered clothes dusted with snow
shivering with dark eyes,

          something sinister?

our destination is inevitable,
we follow the foot prints dragging
up to the summit steep
over the rotted steps,
with the door cracked,
to the empty rooms within

Tuesday, January 12, 2016

The story starts with a falling pickle

coated in grim dirt,
dropped in a memory of my youth,
brushed clean (almost) by my thumb
it was fall,
from the wax paper bag
to poor moist ground,
it had rained,
and tho fog overcast and gray now,
I could see my house,
across the long football field of years,
the backs of one of many rowhomes,
flat and straight-bricked,
this one with a semblance of a deck
yet to be built,
on the green fence around the
small rectangular yeard, an orange mass,
a dangling tail,
an impatient scowl,
I slip through the same hole
in the same cyclone fence
that I slipped through every day
pulling my school bag through
behind, and
followed by cat paws up the
back stair I drew the sliding glass door,
inside at the kitchen table
I unzipped my bag,
the smell of vinegar and earth
and ink and paper,
the Amazing Spider-Man
and my afternoon snack.

Monday, January 11, 2016

Ode to a Bridge once built, once rolled over

we must have crossed over in the night,
days away and scarred by ontario wildernesses; no sleep.
a silver ship sailing at big northern twilight,
under straining cables, with gusty winds.
Nipigon river on the arterial highway road, only road
through to Thunder Bay and points onward;
west.

Friday, January 8, 2016

Limping into Night

the couch the crutch
               my hanging leg

the pillow the bed
               my empty stomach

the day the night
               my tired old head

Sunday, January 3, 2016

Bathroom breaks take historical precedence

black and white heads
bent over manuscript page,
a turning dial, where?

out there,
the color of the world is blue,

between my windowsill
and me is stitched harmony,
the faraway,

what's a contrail to entrails
of the twisting city mind?

it is ever expanding
eating green yellow brown
chewing west soft solid hard
spewing gray smoke char,

black and white hands
planting dead tree effigies,
locked in potted soil, how?

in there,
the scent of the world is artificial,

within my body
is swilled chemicals and abstraction,
a holocaust,

What's another sip to numb lips
a bottle cap blocking the digestive tract?

it is ever replaceable
branding new copyrights
into rotting fleshlights
spewing irradiated sperm,

black and white feet
step on yellowed edges,
bent to the last eye, when?

from there,
the last of us wait for the signal flare,

from my eyes
the distilled images of  television fantasies,
a swarm,

what's next on the schedule
the next lifetime to be archived and marked for erasure?
once something is destroyed
it can be understood
once something is dead
there is nothing left
we can learn from it.

Friday, January 1, 2016

in the high

You drink an entire pot of coffee yourself;

and you can see things.
visions that aren't quite there.
the pulse from consignment shop windows.
Christmas lights. dust covered. gray.
every misplaced thought.

from this other place comes static
insect in the snow vibrations
feedback loops of past voices
distant memories made of sound.

and the toilet running in background,
like the longest strand of hair tangled in the drain, says;

all is holy. in the bloody end.
it has to be.