when in rome

casablanca


wasted, away


the yellow
reminds me
of this old

clown

fellow, who
knocked on our door
when i was a kid, selling
tricks, a dance, a befuddled
jig, like a plate of fruit
cocktail
about to
slip

my mother always yelled at us for
talking
to him
but these are

my

teeth. my blinking
existence. my loose
bulb
in the arch above some
peeling path

linoleum
curled
up
like some
dying
hand's grasp, when

what is there left
to hold
on

to?

carbon [fucking] anchors away.

kibbles and bits; and/or experimentation with punctuation

frivolous; is a
good word


there is a kingdom

destined
to smite us
all. the pauper, the prince, the girl
at the grocery store
counter who wears a golden cross
upon her apron, subservient for the means
of good will, and good faith.

(Amen)

she needs no Daedalus, no
ulterior denouement, only what is,
what has been, and what will
ultimately be.

but --- here;

the liars and the cheats;
everything labeled and shelved for your convenience
pocketchange for your daily bread and wine
and cheese.

and in their evenings, in their "off" time, they fancy themselves
traveled, worn, whittled to their original
celestial core, and they draw
and they scrawl
all the things they cannot
believe in.

it is full, in between these
horizontal blue and white bars of a
blinking

determination; the
redshift; when will our eyes anchor upon some
soft, sure, stand over here, shore-line

sailors all in search
of a rising isle, dear
reassurance, or the existence of
the nonexistent.


"they will all see..., " he writes, "... soon, ellipses
at the end of all sentences; a cosmic

-- drawl."


and as they speed off, rockets and whistles, sand in some
sluggish hourglass, she stands


safe,
or steadfast

reading does a body good

"In ancient times, people's hearts were direct and straightforward. Because their hearts were direct, their actions were simple, and because things were simple, the words they spoke also were uncomplicated. When emotions rose up in their hearts, they would put them into words and would sing, and they called this "poetry" [uta}. When they sang, they did so directly and with a single heart. Their words were in ordinary, straightforward language, so they flowed and were well ordered without any conscious effort to make them so. Poetry was simply the expression of a single heart, so in the past there was no particular differentiation between those who were poets and those who were not."

- Kamo No Mabuchi on "Poetry" and the way it used to be... well, in Japan and before the 18th Century

He continues...

"When people's hearts became clever, they began to quarrel with one another, so naturally they learned wicked ways, causing society to decline."


Makes me want to sing "why can't we be friends."

today i successfully played a bar chord in the midst of a progression. i can die happy now.

or the power of 1s

gumption. that's a good word.

the power of 11

I can only write 11 things each month. (see side panel for cosmic reference)

I just received notice I've been published in this year's edition of the NC State's Windhover Literary Arts Magazine. It only took me six years and a few minutes of intense motivation for me to click that 'send' button.
Grab a free copy if you can (it is free).

I also got a song put on their audio CD which I shall go ahead and apologize for because a.) the song was not finished, b.) the song may never be finished, and c.) in retrospect, I should have sent nothing. I was desperate for something concrete beyond the walls of my bedroom. I don't even want to hear it. I may burn it, like in a fire, not on to a CD.

Horrible song, we shall make peace soon enough.


But here is what else found it's way to the Windhover.

-----

Why Rabbits Have Holes

They could not resuscitate Mrs. Peachtree.
“It was too late,” the paramedic said, her face
young, but drawn like the flat shade of a window blind,
her eyes down, never up, and when she walked away
her partner whispered to me that it was her first time.

The steps it took to my house around the block,
the ones I had never bothered to count; the trees,
saplings that were younger than me; the gnomes,
grimacing and waving, frozen elf hats in the headwind,
the back of my unzipped jacket ballooned like a paratrooper’s chute.

I left my window open when I sat down in my room,
And opened my notebook to an empty page;
and I could only think of:

three hundred and thirty two.

------

Denouement

You came back for your toothbrush.
Yesterday afternoon,
I told the kids next door
we were watching television.
The plates and pans you packed rang
like a sea of cymbals but softer than our voices.
Some time after the door closes,
I set the tea and light up.
Old cartoon illusions bloom of fairy godmothers
tapping their wands on our noses.
These deep breaths pollute,
orange and black like winded coals;
like our apologies, curling in the furnace.
I used to admire your gumption,
but now I’m dry, like this cough.
Still, like the volume of this idle tea.
Heavy, like the gelatinous murk; the algae at the bottom
of everything, even well meant loose change.
I am the dimming circumference.
A toke, and the smoke unfurls, vaporous opening arms,
but its charm is lost like a new moon.

You came back,
for your toothbrush.

erosion

Paul dragged an axe and left a canyon.
I have dragged myself and -
time, is a novel idea

when you're running out of it.

---