A sequence of scenes,
A chronological wasteland.
Death is a silent stone
over the water,
waiting for the ripples to smooth,
waiting to out-wait sunsets.

A sequence of hand washings,
and favors.
a sequence of eyes touching,
of confusion,
of the stares that eventually over-take the original emotion.

The sick winding of machine animals,
of baubles.
Frothing at the mouth
with a constant sense
of confusion.

A sequence of clouds,
and lying on the sidewalk I tell them to forget me.

Written right now. Just for you, blog.

They could have called me shadow
by the way I slinked the darkness raw.
I was sure I was a megaphone,
A set of lips
a series of amplified vibrations.
She told me to be quiet.
She told me to be still.
I was sure of the fact
that all avalanches begin
as megalomaniacal snow balls,
but frostbite made speculation superfluous.

It was the dream,
that london sound stage,
with the pastel violet light
and the slate grey sitting cubes,
Sitting with Morrissey
speaking at length
the words were unimportant,
the rapport was the magic,
He said, "ask me, ask me, ask me"
and my mouth became a megaphone
one more time forever.

But there were still my hands,
in the seconds that they held her
every muscle in her body grinding silently
against a love left like eggs dropped,
a uncouth stain spreading silently.

A smile placed in a briefcase
a briefcase discarded and left to the dust.
Haphazardly, to counter-act
the romance typical of buried treasures.

It was the poem
the lines chiseled from ether
the ideas assembled meticulously,
and left for 200 years to eventually
be rediscovered in a briefcase.
"This is the way the world ends,
This is the way the world ends,
This is the way the world ends,
Not with a bang but a whimper."

My hands were still cold,
cracked and wrinkled,
frail, shaking the dust off the page.
I had become old
in the interim of silence.
In my quiet stillness
The years had been working their violence
against me and every other noun
I had come to cherish.

The thoughts came slower then
but the blood brought them back, clear.

I was sitting on a couch,
hands folded, I was young
but my hands were not moving
and the smile had already been packed away.
I looked up with love for a moment,
but all emotion was washed away
in the cold wake of carelessness.

Digitally Remastered

Right-click image and select 'View' from options to see the full image.

Merry Valentines Day. Suckers.

I can catch anything
you can throw.
Show me.
I’m not trying to be
mordant anymore,
but every word
touches the edge
of your ear like
a rough edge
on a razor.
These shoes step silently
in deep purple mist
(sleepy tree-town kisses)
good wishes in strange company.
I breathe in rhythm
to the falling of the leaves,
leaving my sighs in tidy piles
on the side of the road.
I’m dozing and floating away
snagged by tree branches—
the piano lines are live
and the electricity
sounds exquisite.
Sit with me,
in the backlash of a downed idealism.
Between the echoes
I hear a hope still beating,
underneath this wreckage
a child is still alive.
Sit down,
and still yourself.
Listen.
If we want this bad enough,
we’re going to have to fight for it.
(can you hear the warm rumble of
blood pouring down from gutters,
pooling up from under rubble?)
We are the
Afterbirth of your Democracy,
we sing your songs backwards
and without regard to rhythm.

We were islands.
We chipped our teeth on complimentary continental breakfasts.
Disguised as life forms, I guess we were doing alright
until the wind started picking the rocks up off the ground
and then us.
Questions came and went,
but the snow didn't have much to say except
I'm gonna kill you bitch and all the rest.
Wheezing worse than I do.

It was then that the anchor man leaned in to punch my face off.
I thought I had gotten that screen fixed.
Deserts away yet synchronous
there is laughing.
Ominous and almost disengaged from the air.