Friday, February 24, 2006

i'll get drunk off grape juice
and count the cracks in the tiles
while the stars fall down
(its not alcohol she trips over)
over and over again
til you come runnin round here
crack and bend, pull myself
in,through inside out again
wear high heels in the rain
and pay the con artists for
their deception
(its not the sympathy that
gets her by)
over and over again
til you come runnin and crawlin
round here


you are a liar with the headlights on
and you scream some profane truth into my eyes
just because my grays clash
is no reason for you to turn the lights on
your black and white nobility fades into the
overpowerence of dawn, your face
your lying light fades into equivility,
some dimension beyond our fathoms
and your voice is drowned by softening light
the clang of locked bar doors
and coffee cups.


The red brick house
you will recall
it held our innermost
chalk scribbled
shooting star wishes
and it was invincible -
impeccably so
standing so against
wind & weather
no wolf could huff &
our little red house

The red brick house
perhaps you can chance to
when the terricotta pots
smashed themselves against its
earnest good will cemented
when the pots smashed and
the voices of our winds
and dreams crashed
and the flood came from inside -
inside these red red bricks.
They broke forward and outward,
our whispers shouted over the red
our secrets exploded - the friction of
right over left, of hurried breaths and
tear jerked endless storms.

The red brick house
crumbled, our blood roses
bloomed .

Monday, February 20, 2006

coffeebreathed and bleeding
I reach across for a spoon
and you snap back to me
about the smell of wilting roses
they were so fresh so soon
I promise to cut the thorns
that now pertrude
I promise to press remains
endlessly to flat sheets
three to one
dimensions repressed and
your winnings to mine
the coffees stained the porcelain
oh where has the fragility gone ?
I’m fighting this dimension change
I’m tearing on these thorns
I’m stained and waiting
to change.


place more flowers over the grave
you'll never love me again
if i crucify my ideals for you
and this mortality is rather
(if i do say so myself)
surely there is a way
to reverse this all
and bury the flowers instead?

but you'll tell me that time is blind
and it is love that binds
our confessions to our stone tongues
(limed and ready for the cracking and falling
the renewal)
the fools are those who believe the reverse
surely there is a way
to break the chain?

i am in denial of the reality of years
these caverns grow deeper with each
silent word we let pass
hollow apologies for the unavoidable
gravity has no remorse for the
clashing of planets
and the fallen apple of paradise

Untitled #

How many glasses can we shatter in the night
Raising our voices high above the wrecking
but really
it is the whispers at dawn that wake us
find us
keep us even
in those very moments
in.between crack and creak
it is the bloom of a blossom,
the whispering of a truth
the shouting of a soul.


a missed funeral -

my empty song
tumbling down lines
cut down in wind.
it sings it sings
a siren song for memories dispair.


and now the snow is falling
crystal vision white
are angels wings as clean as they seem?
this blizzard of unboundries,
of unclarity
is sure to pass back onto
your back
and down your spine
curve it strike it
and the hail is falling

[cigarette a]

its all the same written on your bones
and in your lungs
this uncharacterstic seemingly undone
history of us
and how it all was
the sweet smoke of a long lost love
a clinging memory
its gone now
disapated into the night.

[untitled 2]

i'm looking for that miracle cure
and we're all waiting for that magic pill
oh and dry your tears little girl
it'll all be okay
- someday
and i'm searching these streets high and low
inside out the neon sign she buzzes and blinks
promising me a five minute miracle
ten minutes for another dime or two
oh its deja-vu with every corner i turn
we're still waiting waiting for that
makeitall pill
a little nothing to change everything
oh and dry your tears little girl
it'll all be okay


by lack of virtue
he said
i think am so much
more fragile than you

far from virtue
but consequence of circumstance
she replied.

the harder a gem
the greater its value
he remarked,
curling his arms
around hers(that he should be bigger, outside
was of course
his apparent
perceived irony)

the softer the light
the brighter the illumination
she responded
(when gems
crack they bleed
she knew).

and so stood

To Whom It May Concern

i want to write a love letter to the world
and in it i will say :

drown your sorrows in the end of this day
(and fight, fight the dying of the light)

and toss back the flower petals
that fall from loves tree blossom
tell me sweet nectar
where the stars are born

rip forth the roots
of the tree of life
and eat from the eternally green
tree of knowledge

oh do not beg for want of more
but rather beg and plea
for the need of those left behind
for the unnamed planets
and unknown bones

you love me?
then bloom for me, bleed for me
in technicolour
and erase my crooked lines
my unwonted curves
and the cyclones invading
my plains

bring forward the cornucopia of
your dreams
and raise high the flag
new worth
and old glory
sweet home
where the daffodils grow
and the young roam

you will tell me then
what it is
to melt to sea form
and give all to love
of air?

that i might drown my sorrows in the end of this day
and fight, fight the dying of light

(so to dark but never to end)

The Math Lesson

you’ve got to understand at least
this much,

she says, fumbling with a spoon.

its not as clear

as g r i c p a t a s (f)u n c t i o n s
e t t s a
o m e e r n n
d er ivatives

its---not---all---plotted---on---l_i_n_e_s ,

she says, the spoon c g
i u
r m
c r
l e
i n g h

theres a lot of s p a c e , an ____infinity____

x & y,
between commas,
between breaths.
theres much to be said for the possibilities that lie within

Sunday, February 19, 2006

Cafeteria Consciousness

Blue ink shattered
across violet skin
oh and didnt you
say it had always been
this way before us
now and always in front
with buckled knees
and sun drenched skin
I yearn to fly off this
crumbling window ledge
into the sky of seas and
bees and wings and things
didnt you always say it
would be this way


perhaps I should retract everything I’ve said.
so that you can say it. and I’ll tell you how right you are.
how accurate. my, your perspective is refreshing!

or perhaps I should take it all back.
only to repeat it (again and again) until it comes true?
deja vu you can say. have we been here before?

no. we just stopped moving.

I’d like to stand on my head for a long time.
to see if I’m missing something here.

I don't know when I turned into the untouchable sage,
the untouchable idiot,
the untouchable bore,
the untouchable delight.

I’d like to be touched.

and I’d like to be real.

and I’m sorry I never gave up on the ghosts in your head,
on the puddles of intellect,
on the stars on your fingertips.

im retractable.


the words get lost
somewhere between inception of thought
(the birth
of the notion
of the idea)and
the inks' rest on paper

so if the pen be
than the sword
is the mightiest of all

Painted Gezebel

painted gezebel
knows only the jaded path
on the hinge of a rose thorn
she creaks, she cries
through open palms
accepting soiled pay
she cries to violently gray skies
painted gezebel
knows only the jaded path
on the seesaw of shattered glass and fire
she teeters, she balances
in barefeet and chained ankles
wandering streets of shame
she walks the tightrope of lost dignity
painted gezebel
knows only the jaded path
a pretty face spoiled by dirty hands
a pretty face painted gray

Paradise Lost

I’m losing myself in your coffee spoon swirl
your finger tips a breath away from mine
but (god) we don't touch
a suspension wire between our mouths
and you write the lyrics
of creation, of the beginning
on your napkin with your lips.
transfixed eyes, a holding gaze
you won't let go
- you won't touch
you rest your spoon on a hard saucer
(face down, concave up)
and my heart drops
landing with a ping of metal-on-ceramic,
edens apple falls,
as your gaze shifts
and your fingers retreat,
paradise lost.

This Town

This town is clogged drains and foggy windows;
flattened mcdonalds bags and coffee cups
-covered by last falls leaves;
This town is endless gray streets and cracked concrete;
unwilling foundations, paper-machette hearts,
hollow eyes and twisted slides;
silent springs and screaming winters,
cold sunshine and warm snow;
oil rainbows and neon stars.
And anyone from this town would tell you this.
That This here Town is just like every other one.

Tea & Numbers

I dreamed I was Michelangelo
and David asked me
what I saw in him.
and I couldn't explain it,
and I couldn't comprehend it myself.
so I replied with a simple bit
about the lines in his face
about the composition of humanity
in his legs --
"there will be time," I muttered.
-and found myself again with tea
across the table from a white bearded man
who spoke of flight, of wings,
who spoke of walking on water
and saving the human race,
of the proportion of space.
"there will be time," I again muttered
to the idealist
to a dropping face.
"Time is of the essence, I imagine," he said sipping.
and I drew a line.
"My time is in my lines,
they are numbered," I replied.
"We have made life an art," he observed.
I drew another line and found myself
among angels under a curved ceiling,
my time expanding with the arcs
of wings
"There will be time," I muttered,
breathing space between creation and creator.
There will be time.