There's no in-between.
No waiting room, no stoplights
No lines. Just, only time.
her
There’s a carelessness about her. in everything she does.
every motive just seems reckless.
but then there’s the way the whole world composes around her,
everything else a dance in the midst of her.
a step off the sidewalk into busy traffic,
every car at attention to the movements of a pedestrian.
all reactions due her,
but all eyes on her.
What Infinity Was
I was a fool to ever think the way to infinity was believing in things that had no care or concern of me. If there was concern for my being,
prove me wrong.
instead we’ve been cut out. chewed upon,
and instead of spitting out the gristle or whatever
tries to remain,
we’re mashed upon.
grit mixing with saliva,
stirred but not completely broken.
sore.
no, infinity comes not this way.
(and had it, I would want none of it,
to be torn apart and stuck,
rotting in the crevices between
the teeth of all father.
cavities- rotting.
November
Maybe we should go away a while
Off to sea in
Flannel sheets,
The warm breeze of
Radiator heat
Punch my ticket,
Please.
If I wrote a song.
all I wanted was a quarter
to play my song once more
and a quarter after that to play
it one more time
who knew it'd be so hard to
ever scrape a dime
see, i've got the motive
and miles of shakes in my shoes
as well
but all they seem to give me
is the ghetto jobless blues.
The Only Bitterness I hold is towards myself
I was a fool to ever think the way to infinity was believing in things that had no care or concern of me. If there was concern for my being,
prove me wrong.
instead we’ve been cut out. chewed upon,
and instead of spitting out the gristle or whatever
tries to remain,
we’re mashed upon.
grit mixing with saliva,
stirred but not completely broken.
sore.
no, infinity comes not this way.
(and had it, I would want none of it,
to be torn apart and stuck,
rotting in the crevices between
the teeth of all father.
cavities- rotting.
august
im jealous of everyone and every thing that has your attention or is in your presence,
that’s not me
at any time
or any place.
I’ve resigned myself to knowing that at least a hair on your head has to have the space to move. And yet i’d be jealous of the wind that carries it,
the eye that sees it out of place,
and your fingers, brushing that strand back into place.
If I could, i’d be all people,
everything you touch
I’d be all moments
of every day to you.
But that’s a selfish thing of me to do,
and I’d never wish such things because of it.
Patron Saint of Bullshit
If there existed
A patron saint
Of all things
Beautiful and shallow:
Well,
You catch my drift
And
Later you will stir the
Pot
And make me sound
Impossible.
mourning
if i thought the words would bring you back
id only have
muttered them under my breath
because it’s no use sleeping with the
ghost
of someone else’s past.
and if drinking sips from out a holy cup
will keep us
all from shriveling up then
maybe we are better off buried
down
below the darkened ground.
we’re all martyrs
sheepherders
and bags of bones
July
the simple needs
of ever bare feet
dry wines
mild summertime
and the concern
in your eyes
when you wake to see me not asleep.
i'd confess the reasons
but i'd like not to
lessen gravity in any place
or way