Tuesday, March 29, 2016

US-301S

crust of plantation grange
lifted in sponge of night
rain
     
         through car vents
manure sowed

                         fertilizer fields
ripples rows of tree

                                  flat land
fat land swamp waft obscure
stagnant blue ponds

                                    moss pours
iridescent
             
                   sequin shift of streaking
drops tear and spread become bits of
static light
                 
                    stretch realign mingle disperse

Monday, March 28, 2016

Mush

by the roadside,
out under shade of standing trees
dew droplets of rain showers
hint of light over morning horizon,
sprout pale white mushroom
footprints in brown mud,
ghost bulbs of forest floor,
spectres in passing dream
gently nudging at sharp green stems;
the concrete earth.

Monday, March 21, 2016

'Oh, room rent, what crimes are commited in thy name!'

lock the door behind you
    ignore the keyhole eyes burnt in each

passing flat
remember the cold water dripping out

    faucet into sink
you'll use it to scrub later

bathe clean of the stink
     down the stairs each step louder

closer to ground floor
chipped paint kicked aside frame

     swinging aluminum sunrise puffs of breathe
chilly air grates and reaches into pockets

     up to you to hide the greasy bills
keep you head down hat rim down and arms

ready your weak knees only carry so
far
   
     how long you been staring out
and bus passes jack and gone

good riddance without
     breakfast moves the day faster along

no windows no kid light the bulb
     you can see

     street lamps make orange light
for you to walk home by these hours paid

slide in while those eyes again are
     set to tabled scorn drooling

quick with key and turn of empty knob
latch the door behind you

turn out your pockets
    count the dead men in your hand

one two three four five six seven
     eight

Sunday, March 20, 2016

rob the rich and discomfit the devil

You say, 'oh,  
            Come kiss me in the spring time when all the trees are blue, 
when the flowers in the meadow, lovely,  start over again, 
            like me, like me, like me, like you'— 
'There’s just too much time slipping since I’ve been out wandering, and, 
oh, there’s just too much time passing since I’ve been gone'—and 
            I think that maybe if we all stayed young without noticing that would solve it, but 
I know somehow our minds finding a way back would—
            Here—
To the big round ikea Raymor container, glowing life urban outfitter’s bulb, where there’s just too much wasted time to empty out, that—
            Eventually—with no recourse—
It’s scattered ashes everywhere where we’re going.

Friday, March 18, 2016

Arlington Diner

Sky inside
     cloudy with chance
sun
   behihnd window pane
plaster walls
          dry walls
ceailing suchness
          doric columns
     hold heavens up
were they to fall
          end would come
end of all day breakfasts
     *until 10pm
thick caked coffee sludge
     poured over
          boiled deep in murky pots

what happens to the cream?

left out
          unopened
unrefrigerated
          sealed
ultra-pasteurized
          homogenized
manufactured
          suspended--
non-existent?

Monday, March 14, 2016

Thoughts on Search Engines

search my name on google n' Tom Waits shows up
we have no connection outside singing Home I'll Never Be together
he went his wayand I went mine, we crossed our voices digitally

he won't admit
that he knows me
but search engines
are incapable of
untruths

If you think back remember far enough you see dogpile dot coms
it was the kayak airfare hotel combo equivalent for yahoo ask jeeves days
they'd compile the whole shitload of nothing looked for and throw up a list

I won't even
waste my time
to type the domain in
just assume it
is 404 error
defunct

If you Search Tom Waits I am nowhere to be found.

Rain Haiku and sentences

Rain came tonight
no warning
I had been asleep

* * *
there were shadows where my foot hung from bed

* * *
inside all day--
what does the weather know
that I don't?

* * *
Thinking of gray mountains
in the chilly north--
watching suits cross the street

* * *
in each rain drop time
                                     one part whole
                                                                beginning middle end

* * *
remember the last step
as it dries fades--
think where have you been?

Wednesday, March 2, 2016

Selective Seretonin

to the girl at Greenberry's

Man, I'd love to sell all my prozac.

if I wasn't crying by my bed on the floor for 6 hours every night
imagine what else I could be doing,
imagine what we could be using that money for--

RE: INBOX (16)

a string of battered emails.
generation spam.
each letter literal abstraction,
disaffected; inbox is maintained.
cannot catch the stench
of sinking trash; delete and remove
after 30 days; calender adverts;
listserved linked mind; the
churning filtration dynamo
at work; labels; tabs; contacts.
translation material cast into space,
through inverted clouds,
tattooed mainframes; empty
caloric consumption; the bites of
mosquitoes in february, the
sour taste of upraised meat, a
funeral procession forwarded
down every street.