A Pocket Fuse

7/11/11

I'm saying goodbye to that

sinking

slinking

staring at the clock feeling

of expecting and projecting

then cursing the ending in every which way.

I'm waving so long to the

nighttime

everlong

pulsing pounds of threadbare ceilings

absorbing tocks as seconds die

and my heart stops

then starts

alarmed

moved to gray and black

in tracks along snow

or a railroads under

twinkling seas of lights

and waves

crashes

lashes blinking slow

roll in the reigns before

something screeches and sparks

a fuse

explodes over sheets of piano tunes

splattering the rooftops while

fireflies light on...

The darkness even harsher now

with a love light gone

that's why this hand holds a pocket

No fingers but my own.

No fingers but my own.

Clock

6/7/11

Tick

Tick

Tock

Time drips along in a streamline

thin

whittles and swims a valley through the

gray stuff between my ears

and behind my eyes

Where memories hide and seek each other out

with no bridge to close the gap

it fell through

collapsed

four years before the wall in Berlin

now chagrin flows like a death trap

daring those time capsules to come

take a swim

race to the other side

knee deep

bones rattling

current ebbing to take a cheap shot

but the wind whispers "stop"

Dylan silent in the backseat

agrees

sends a head nod my way

knows the clock is incapable of taking a bow

or praying

so its my turn

knees on dirt

fight to stay in the present

wait for daylight

be patient

the long run war to shut out

the earthquaking sound of

Tick

Tick

Tock

give a few hours more

An icicle melts at midday,

not before the dawn

sunshine will come

and with it

the warmth.

Sewn

4/26/11

She said "show me what it's like to live"

eyes meeting mine, a chestnut gaze
thrashing down to the lost notes of my soul
invisibly clenching her fist round my mind
control gripped by a mistress in mahogany skin
soon that's all she stand in, pressed against mine
incense releasing perfume in vines of smoke that cling
binding us pulling us into never never above the city street
The pink of her lips matching the blush of my cheeks
Her hand finds my shoulder, tracing my veins
slow, steady, confidence in the journey
down lower, knees tremble, I whisper
"stitch me anew, take these pieces and sew starscape on this canvas, constellations from scars
Use your fingers as thread, your breath as a compass"
without hesitation she lays me among the crimson pillows, plush works of art
A mile of legs wrapping tight with my own
smooth on smooth, defying logic and sparking into flames on the comforter
as she engulfs me completely
The room transformed
Our bodies instinctively sweat off the heat
while we claw, drop, and roll, no signs of stopping
twisting up in satin sheets
panting out prayers to Aphrodite and Ares
not sure which god these moans belong to
Close to ecstasy now as she kisses my throat
digs into my torso, makes her final thrust
waves crash and rush over me, breaking my lungs into a thousand droplets of ice cold rain
that pour out onto our molten hot bodies
again
then again
Drenched in harmony, steam swimming off in relief
the clock starts up with a gentle tick, tock
Time resumes
The fog rolls away and what remains seems a dream
Trenches on her back match the road map I keep in my chest
The war wounds compressed, healing found in these arms that still hold
With a smirk she dances out 8 bits of wisdom
"If this is living, I finally like it"
I blink in agreement then pull her in close
time to cuddle under this blanket while dusk's last rays hit us soft
golden dewdrops mismatched to greet a new dawn

Tackled

4/26/11

Put away the bait

and pack up the lines

I'm finally tired

of hooks hanging,

dangling,

tangling in power grids

like the kite that didn't notice the kid on the other end of the string,

jerking wildly in a frenzied panic, listening instead to the summer wind whispering freedom,

flight away from a planet full of black smog and dying roses.

Voices like that gotta be heard with a grain of salt, not a spoonful of sugar.

Didn't realize I was among them 'til I ran out of lures and the hearts kept coming.

My speakerbox pounding out pulses to match

the rhythm of bloodbeats,

audio drumming

visceral humming in the bones of the sweetest kind of deadly catch.

Young girls in skirts and leather,

Innocent boys with glasses and sweater vests,

march in double time,

a chorus line

of Vans and Converse

blinded to the audience surrounding them

feeling unique

tuned in to a frequency born and bred

Just. for. you.

I meant the words, I spoke truth but actions are louder and mine were lacking (to say the least).

The insincerity of it comes crashing in, a needle full of dark red poison

that used to run through these veins.

Before the magic tricks and memory games

Back when blood tasted more like iron and less like water

When fire left scars

When souls still had names.

Time to retire the tackle box to the graveyard of toys in the attic

Leave it next to the treadmill to collect dust and stay silent

I won't pretend my hands are clean but their no longer loaded

guess that's progress

guess that's something

guess I've had it with the haunting whisper of winds

at least it's progress

it's something.

Hymn #89

4/22/11

The only places I can find you

are the ones that collect all the rain

the dust

the cobwebs

Places no one else could live except for spectral fantasies

Like the taste of a copper penny I find you in all the wrong moments

In between red lights and sips of too cold coffee

Laying naked with fibers woven into the basket with a hole that the farmer has since abandoned

seasons ago in the barn floor corner

Swimming waist deep in rainwater creeks formed in cement cracks flanked by sidewalk and backstairs

the four that lead up to the apartment complex where I gave myself to your hands

Dancing with angels on a poker chip in Atlantic City, wind blowing through your curls as the dealer rakes you in

Laughing all the way to Calvary as you swing on the rafters in St Andrew's Colosseum

while sopranos hit the high notes and the repentant sway in time

your chuckles trickle down and find me during hymn #89

"His Eye is On the Sparrow" but mine's on the door

I know you're on the other side hopscotching free the whole 12 blocks home

Sometimes waiting at red lights I see you bobbing one leg lifted, playing just because you can

Know I should be there, counting along, holding your hand but the tea leaves didn't read that way

And I am too scared to ask again.

to reshuffle the deck

roll the dice 'til our number's called

doesn't matter

lights green

and you're gone

Blacktop

4/20/11

Rain on the blacktop

rushes along asphalt

carving lines to match

the set on the face of the beggar keeping dry

under a bus stop shelter.

Spare some change?

Mine's all over my boots

holding out for the hope that something might move

soaked to the bone but remember

i felt her yesterday

just before waking up

avoid puddles as you walk back home

your too precious to be caked in mud

Fridge Poetry

10/??/08