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Here I sit

as you pass by--

You’re the shadow

of a butterfly.

10th-May-2012 07:46 am - "A One"

How to explain?

It's painful, as a genderous man, to admit:

"But I was poor then. I couldn't travel. I was cleaning bathrooms."

"I was poor."

A man in a men's room, unable to meet any promises.

I couldn't- wasn't capable of taking care.

Excuses.

You don't believe me- if you think of me.


While you with your sex.


No regrets, you said.

With ages on, we've both shed hair.

In a world of Together, it's something with us, because with we, there's Us.

And really, kid, what a beautifully funny thing.

And you won't see this, but the wind carries this out into our world, doldrums be damned.

While you are singing.

I still play, language besides. I think you know.

But there you are right now, and I wish you a full heart.

I'm so very proud of you.

I'm so very proud, for what that's worth.

21st-Feb-2012 12:54 am - "Comfort"

Under an absent moon,
city lights drown starlight.

Under a roof you sit,
as best as you can.

Your guitar like some organ:
strung like catgut.

Its neck faces eastward,
your thoughts face inward.

You intone your truths.
You intone our truths:

"The moon has been there all along,
and what's inside you has always been."


And city lights will always be,
and I'll always sing along.

14th-Feb-2012 11:56 am - Valentine

"A Romantic Trope, Or An Opera Made of Soap"

I will meet you in the garden
We will read verses from a book
I will stutter and beg your pardon
You will give me a loving look

I am the rogue, you the warden
Having caught this notorious crook
But my heart has ceased to harden
Instead of a cell--Our Nook!

4th-Jan-2012 01:13 pm - There Is a Storm in My Head

There is a storm in my head

Veins of lightning split certainty

Thunder interrupts thought


There is a storm in my head

Grey atmosphere encircles uncertainty

Rains sizzle and erode recollection

*                      *                         * 

There was a storm in my head

But planks of sunlight

Seem to grow from the ground up


There was a storm in my head

But what is good and what is true

Can be seen, if not understood

21st-Dec-2011 07:16 pm - Soulstice

Growing up, under pines odorless and breathless –

We both poor and cheaply made –

But still.  Still both.

2nd-Nov-2011 02:19 am - Devils
How strange it is to see a face, one I’d already cast off, one that I presumed I’d never see again.

But with the opening of a door, there it is.  His face had already become a sort of monument, a boulder found at the base of a mountain, one where the Devil judges men. 

Just before that adventure, I’d written a song:  a motif that has since grown longer and longer, because it’s all just one song anyway.

I still hear bluegrass music, the fiddles and mandolins, the smell of the rain dripping off the wooden cabin roof.  I can lick the Appalachian bourbon on my lips.

I still see the young hippie moms in town,  smelling of patchouli and Carolina sweat, with their babies tied to their chests.  These young women, so much like girls to me-- who sold used leather boots and knitted scarves-- still pass me by.  They still carry their babies, knowing that there are already too many people, yet believing their own will be different.

But that's gone-- and he’s still gone.  He’ll never be a father or a brother to me. 

All of this the Devil knows, hearing my endless song, sitting alone in his courthouse.
16th-Oct-2011 01:53 am - Brother
I still see you, man.

Your eyes: a single, sturdy shot across the parlor.

For once, you throw an honest, sobering attention at me.

You knew, brother.

We both possess a dark heart, and I had your respect at that moment.

We both brood, to a state of confusion and oblivion: you with your trembling delirium, me with my fantastic thoughts.

We knew, and admitted, and confessed that we were merely clowns.

I could have learned so much from you, and she's so far away.

So, sure, your toast: “For our sins.”



3rd-Oct-2011 02:24 am - "I bash them hard against my skull."

Every evening I walk up the hill; I take the steep sidewalk leading alongside a high, crumbling wall. 
I listen to the classical station, strings here, static crescendo.
Lines of cars move past, as silent and unreal as ghosts.
I watch my shoes one after the other, and look up at the bare branches that reach out over the flaking wall.
I should know what kind of trees they belong to, and I should know what stones have been placed over what.
But I know that these are the same sort that were used to make the gravestones, chalky black and sandy brown: weathered away.
And I know that roots are always uplifting, forever tilting and ruining perfection. 

Silent, in darkening time and polluted thoughts.  As static as the world in which I walk those nights. 

I forget there are people around me, dead to my left, phantoms to my right.  Or I might have it all turned around
.

 



A new place, another place.

But here is a bed, size enough for many leaves—

And here is a bed, warm enough for lovely stays.

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