street urchin flames

soft like sunflowers before now
hushed, thick lips pout wet
for a lover's touch
i before, like no man hurried
sprung into an active affection
by that call,
-left this heart of darkness
at her feet.

as sailors gave
to drag the bottom
i give now
as sailors knew
to return home then
i yet know not.
still i give the smallest of
my soul
the bucket to that ocean pour
away my weathered sleeves now...
-called away i left the theatre
and none of them are home with me
none of us sleep well now.

i said before, may my bloodied back
painted like
street urchin flames,
give answers if you seek to know
tells stories
if you wish to dig
the cities up of -no
wait, it's like
the pictures that are flashes,
the psychic and the mis-fired pulses
the images i know and love and
the ones that tie my mind up,
they're scratched into me like
ink on skin,
like cities on the rivers of whip scars
tiny places filled with many hours
of dreams.

i play host as i live inside,
i create them all between first light
and sunrise,
tiny places filled with many hours of dreams.

in a bottle

a lone car zips
down the road like a jet plane;
beyond the sounds of
ocean lapping at the shore,
breaking like giant bottles
larger than man can make

message not received.

when you look

to look at the
complexity of
the life of the
debt
is to stare
into the vacuum
of space
and to have the
face removed
by that whirlwind of
razors

the lack of this
protection
we live in
like some atmosphere
and we don't see what is
really going on

it is far too mechanical
and devoid of light.

away from you while ants in the trash

relaxing
Emeline asleep
in her space

cat has a
full wine glass
and sits as
curls

i have just opened
the windows
for the first time
this year

light a little
orange blossom incense
to paint the fresh and
salty dying summer
air

it has been
too hot or too damn wet
but not right now
it is right now
as i remember how i
used to love incense
good incense was a staple
just like the
sound track

music
smells
wind and
light
meant clean
as days closed

these days are
beautiful and slightly
different
music sometimes gets
in the way of naps
incense may incense
flared sensors

work stays work
and traffic same
conversations with friends
about

like dreams now
and feelings as the
night before roller
coaster rides or
sinking
like in wait for
hangman’s noose

all the same
popcorn gets away
from you while ants
in the trash
mercenary and the
march toward sweet

when i was eighteen
i sent four poems to a
magazine in norfolk
as i write now i have
yet to send any more
anywhere

i ready myself

one of those poems
was about
ants i think
it went

the ant.
the ant has lived
and worked
and breathed
and walked
round here for
many a day

with a breath i
blew the ant away.

i don’t remember
the other three but
the magazine sent me a letter
-kept two and wrote that
they may use the others n
some future publication or
some such shit

i never heard from them
again what
the fuck is this
and why and where are any
of this here

meem bomb

there is a place in the sand
where rocket grows
duck potatoes inland marshes
creatures crawl and fly

look outside your life
look outside the lie
all the ghosts that sing
"we're tired of re-reminding you"

machines raze bush to sand
put up stalls and shit
build the black road dead the live oak
what the fuck?

there's no stars tonight
artificial light
from the parking lots
where boys dry-hump them little race cars

sleep

sleep peaceful night
-it's only a truck rolled by
-it's alright there
may be a hell storm outside
but you're on the right side
of the window and candlelight

don't let the day cast an early light
for tonight will soon enough erase
today from time and we
don't want to waste what's left of a good ride

all the pretty things ( for A.G.)

i feel the chill in my bones
your ghost's been playin' with me
me and i don't know
anything
when i'm feelin' somethin'
you're
like a dream in my head
you're always playin' with me
me then
i don't know where you go
hundred years ago or somethin'

sitting at the window
thinking times so far away from us
it takes such little things
to keep us on the spot and standing up
looking out that window loving
all the years i've lifted up
all the pretty things,
and the weight when i picked 'em up

reading this back i wonder why i plant the seeds

i saw a painting of a bowl of berries
and it reminded me of my life

they were all at peak;
ripe and ready and even
the ones layed round the bowl
each perfect on their individual
own

meant to be eaten that day
they were and is life
as i pick my tomatoes and
peppers
and they lay for days

past ripe and maybe
i lose them and maybe
i could dry them but
i face it
i don't know the procedures
i don't make the time
and such is this bowl of berries
right now. lately.

my self imposed times out
barely steer this ship com
pared to the beatings rendered
from parents to a boy child