fields of gold

her horses are grazing in the sparkle of routine routines
as if there were no tomorrow no torque in the engine of time just a fine
sprinkle of piano and harmonium tinkling on the still warm air
that could easily slip forward or backward but stalls in neutral eternity
leaves fall from the branches but never hit the ground
her autumnal thighs mount another winter
but her eyes see starlight cascading into the snow
falling upwards
the blue snow
and the brown fields
that continue to riot
in fields of gold


for terri clark

a nice guy

you look like a nice guy
in a hospital
in a swat team stand~off with common sense
people go to work everyday to get spanked
i don't know who that is
who posseses them
what ruse
what devil
what fine alright
what come on
that won't shut up
i have no clue as to who was who or why what happened to any of them happened...
surrounded by today
there is no big if
its no deal
a whisp of smoke
a wind blown day

#1949 20080912

Walking back
      Single file
      on our
      Respective
      Carkeek Park
      trails
Shovels, hoes, rakes, loppers
      and tarps in hand
Merging into one
combined line;
"Hi Ho! Hi Ho!"
      We're done pulling
      Ivy so we can
      go . . .
(Home after a "day of caring"
to take a shower.)

i really don't care

its some kind of smut
the punching bag baby
has long since disappeared
and the puppet master is swinging
from a rope over mama's old ceramic stove...
the inanity of it all is all too obvious
and is not to be obviated by obscenities...
a slow tremor rumbles through my dreams
which are regulated to death on the micro level
but completely unregulated on the macro…
i am full of captious bull shit:
those bucketheads are late to the party again…
i smile and grunt but still it stings my puny sense of pride…
i need a personal bail~out for all this interpersonal falderal
like a sore throat in summer time…
like a being stitched together with pieces of dead things or
a charm with a bent for the inscrutable daemonic in the heart
of irony…
we discuss desserts
for infantilized ninety year olds...
i really don't care and it ain't that i am apathetic...
i let my mind explode silently
and observe the fireworks...
to walk off unencumbered into the night...
*
collaboration with jim eaise

autumn

cousin my cousin
with your flowers and the great blue herons
on the edge of the flood
i don't know how hard it is for you
to grow old there
or how hollow the final show
in the city is going to be
or how satisfying the meal and wine before the fire
but the fair is only one vanity shop
in the city of stars
and the moon flowers
and the companion cats
and the smell of earth holding you
up above its dark resevoirs
but i have made a special place
in my solitude for you cousin
as you sail through the skies
in planes
i have built a raft with your letters
their finely executed script
and your picture cards are my private
gallery of all that made art art
for me and gladdened my heart
i have made a place for you in a heart
shaped boat
and i am going the way of all hearts
without a paddle goal or destination
and i will continue speaking to you
in my solitude
in the dead of night
the night filled with echoes
and the sound of water
and the rustling of yellow and red leaves
falling
*
for christine will

in Punktilla’s time

strange emanations your lordship during the reign of Punktilla

before that the stars contained all objects wandering the bright halls
before then the bright halls piece lives back from the Plank time
fore toward the edge of lightbillions
where your worship confers on his progeny
his bloodline and falcon wizardry

young son in the castle.....cloudfaced sire
and the lye in the dough is you knowing
and the syrup is not knowing

serve up the feast on the noonday lake
never think of yours truly without hearing it ripple

it’s your lake
though it’s situated in a minefield
but you can breath under water
in the bright halls

hillrise

fair folding hills
in rutilant edges of cloud
egg-tacked to the bottom of the sky

majuscule meme stark
in the mirror-painted expanseless track
the remembered thing becomes blunter

here stands the pilfered proto-plazmoan
beholding two realities
heaven-shackled

Magnus Quintus Overubergow
but also the fuckage of all free grace
playing bocce

on the rubber grass
perceive the gift of design
in the shattered-most

even within the shattered air
hanging in a reflection
eyes look and try taking

the remembered thing
now and ever shattered within
the tissues of the blood

risen and met up
fair-clouded and pleat-burnished
the eggy hills