He/She or Gathering the World

He saw the world at right angles, sharp, geometrically synchronous

She saw the world in feathered edges, soft, undulating, grey where they needed to be

He never sat back in a chair, relaxation meant lack of control, weakness, pain

She let the day wash over her slight frame, cleansing, smelling of honey lilac soap

When carefully mixed, they made a complexity unmatched, people were drawn

Foreground purposeful and solid, background left to fanciful imagination

There were cogs and pulleys, sand and flowers, whips and belts, coalescing

They would hold court and people would come and ask questions and fawn

He held them rapt with numbers, theorem, history as bright and varied as a Pollock

She would roll them about her tongue and make loins tingle, every word a breath of mint

Together they would make the others want to be them, eating from the same trough

When night fell and the others withdrew there were whispers and thoughts of new beginnings

He saw the world at right angles, sharp, geometrically synchronous

She saw the world in feathered edges, soft, undulating, grey where they needed to be

He never took the attention for granted and took the responsibility to heart

She absorbed the energy and returned it tenfold, drunk on the possibilities

Sisters

     The handsome man sat between the two sisters at the bar. He was wiry, muscled like freighters usually were, all that lifting and moving. He drank a beer and listened to the sisters talk of pineapple candy and licorice whips, giggling and fingering their hair and necklaces without knowing  they was doin' it. The sisters were named Trepidation and Sanguination.  The handsome man, the wiry man, thought that those were right odd names for girls such as these, but then thought, what business was it of his to second guess the naming. It was a mother's right to name her children whatever she wanted and here he was smack sandwiched between the two, feelin' a bit like a rooster, struttin' and eyeing his spoils with a one eyed intensity, head cocked, senses sure and alert.

     Another man approached the bar and ordered a whiskey.  This man was mountainous and the smell that came off of him was sour and festering. His hands were rough and dirty, his face the color of old pavement. His eyes too thin and watery.The wiry man, the handsome man, knew that men like this had no good in em' and were used to taking to what they wanted. His grandpa once told him that men like that didn't come from the land, weren't part of the land.  That they viewed theyselves separately from all that was natural, all that was the land. They took what they wanted, and wanted not the thought of other men and was niggardly with the things they took, not sparing a single thought to the feelings or the worry of another soul.

     

     The man drank his whiskey and turned toward them.

     "Ladies," he said tipping his glass and a jowly smile at the sisters.

  

     The sisters were silent.

     "What's the matter girls, cat got your tongue?"

     Silence.

     

     "Can't ya tell when a real man is courtin' ya, or are you just some stuck up cunt's in need of a good roll?"

    

      He slammed his glass back on the bar and ordered another.

     "Maybe they just know when the meat's done spoiled,"  the handsome man, the wiry man, said.

     

     The big man glared, his too red, too watery eyes fixed on the wiry man, the handsome man.

    

     "You making' to get at me," the big man said in a low, even voice.

     "No sir, I just reckon we want to be left to ourselves if it ain't so much to ya."

     The big man walked toward the little group and stood towering above the handsome man, the wiry man. His stench wasn't so much real, like salt pork gone bad, but more like the smell of death and decay, the smell of trouble in a back alley dice game gone to fightin'.

     He reached and grabbed the wiry man, the handsome man, by the collar.

     "Bet you didn't think that today was the day you died, he said taking his other monstrous hand and now encircling both hands around the neck of the handsome man, the wiry man. He started to squeeze.

     "Hey," the shout came from the sister called Trepidation.  The big man looked up for a split second just in time for him to see the flashing arc of the knife as Sanguination cut his throat, the blood gushing immediately in pulsing arcs on to the shirt and face of the wiry man, the handsome man.

     A honk came from outside the bar.  The sisters threw two half dollars on the bar and grabbed the wiry man, the handsome man, by the arms and pulled him along out the front door.

     Pulled to front of the bar was a silver Lincoln. Behind the wheel sat another woman. She had yellow hair and sunglasses. The sisters pushed the handsome man, the wiry man, into the back seat and hurriedly got in, slamming the doors.

     "Well what do we have here," the woman behind the wheel asked as she slammed the gas pedal to the floor board. Gravel , dust and blue smoke rolled out from the back of the car. "Looks you done caught yourselves a man," she said looking in the rear view glass at the sisters.

     She held her outstretched hand over the seat to shake. 

     "I'm Satiation, what say we take you back to our place and get you cleaned up," she said not taking her eyes from the road.

     The handsome man, the wiry man, smiled.

It's Where Song's Come From...

I wrote this after seeing an actual wolf

I was searching for treasure in Alberta

Like it’s the dragon’s lair, I beg to differ honey

But I did realize there are things scarier than you leaving me

And this song isn’t so much about anything 

It just represents a point of disembarkation 

And you don’t have to get it

We Interrupt this drivel for station identification…

     “Where do you get your Song’s?”

     "Really?”

     “What?”

     “That’s the sort of question a third grader might ask?”

     “I think your fan’s would like to know.”

     “Let me tell you something David……my fan’s don’t ask me stupid questions. All they really want is to hang out, be a part, get a little close, OK man.”

     “Sorry.”

     “Listen, if you really want to know where I get my songs then open your damned ears, I’m only gonna say this once. Count this down, David.”

     “It's Maggie’s dingy thong showing every time she sits down. It’s my grandmother blowing smoke rings with her pipe.  It’s Eddie Vedder in the mother fucking rafters.  It’s Dolly Parton and her shitty coat.  It’s mom making heart for us kids because she’s making liver for dad and we hate liver.  The only thing is David, heart is no damned consolation to a kid. It’s thinking about how cool it would be to walk on the moon.  It’s smoking a cigarette after the show with Justin Furstenfeld.  It’s shelling out your last hundred bucks to go see the Avett Brothers. Do you see what I’m saying David?  It’s that stupid look on your face right now.”

     “OK.”

    “Of course you don’t get what I’m saying David.  You are not an actual wolf.  All you got to do is sit down and fucking listen man…just listen.”

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming…

She wrote that after lying with an actual wolf

After the proselytizing was done, she was convincing

One word can be a savior, a salve, a poultice for the soul

Which word depends on how far down that road she’s been

You can take her out and sniff your territory together

But when the snow starts blowing and the wind cuts

It will be nothing compared to the bite she takes out of your ass

 Who’s the actual wolf now?

On the Square

Covington square was a place of  social worship

People gathered there to integrate with the cityscape and each other

Being a part of the anthill social structure, giving relevance, weaving reality
Dressing up a nowhere existence with paper doll clothes and drag queen wigs

By the light of day, the square was measured, professional

The place where folks would pretend to be important, irreplaceable
By the night, the same people came to spin, coalesce, slink, shine
There are things that soften in the dark, masks off, skin showing

Twice during the down times, the square was off limits
But the energy of a place does not dissipate, it builds

Calling those that pretend and those that do not, to fight back 
And take what is due, the square needs life, we need the square

Spiders

You drank cranberry juice like it was going out of style
I chewed Fruit Stripe gum and bitched how the flavor faded too fast
We were afraid of spiders and the dark, but more of spiders
The dark was only terrifying because it made us burn like sparklers

You grew into a beauty, too soft, too smart, too desired
I grew awkwardly,  like a sunflower, head too big, more weed than flower
We still said "hi" in the hallway, but your future was big screen, Technicolor
Mine faded like the stars in a New York City sky, destined for mediocrity

You were a beautiful young mother, long term plans shelved, hidden regret
I came out of the military strong, changed in ways that helped, harmed
We had no idea what the fates had in store but we still dreamed, moved forward
Time moves with liquid speed, not missing the cracks or crevices, flowing silently

You were standing at Grant and Green, your aura engaging, hair resplendent
I hadn’t seen you in twenty years, my god how the memories came flooding back
We sipped Cape Cods and talked about being afraid of spiders, but not the darkness
The darkness was the only place we could find each other again, burning and sparking

Solitary

On the upstroke, the tick was louder, until the second hand got to the ten
On the downstroke, the tock slid like a water snake in the damp grass, greasy
It was this constant grinding and sliding that kept me from drowsing, dreaming
At the bells I would jump a little and thank the fates that I was still alive

When you are awake with fevered thoughts of the day to come, knowing your sun will collapse
It is impossible to close your eyes, red, gritty eyes, giving your last gold piece for a spoon
You dare not speak out, or scream, the sound would surely cause internal damage
And darkness is not as complete when you hear yourself bleating like a separated mother goat

The tick is a reminder of the sins that I committed without a second thought of collateral damage
The tock is a lovers hand caressing,  telling me to put in a good word when I meet the maker
I tell you this, there is no clock, and there is no lover, only darkness and a mind sick with despair
The only antidote is the opening of a door and treacherous needles of light, skating on ice too thin

Rapture

In rapture I bathed, cautious bones, stone still…

Her breath caught and I thought it was irreverent, but sexy
Shameful, shameful
I should not look at things from the pinpoint of a pig’s eye
Delirious sweats and needs, oh needs
Heated, heated
My desire out of control, does she know of my leaky valve
Pumping, pumping

Flowers and Fireworks

He sat down and started writing, he knew, people, he saw, people
He wrote people like John Kennedy played a crowd, intuitively, passionately
There was no method to it, it was natural and laced with dark reality
The kind of reality tipped with truth and tragedy, all angles, all consuming
Each person a complex maze of paradoxes based in desire and fear, hard to chew
But when a thousand of his characters filled the pages, glistening like dew on the dandelions
The portrait painted was as solid as the keystone in a castles hearth, it was breathtaking
The people were flowers and fireworks on the waning of a soft summer day, he knew people

Poetry as a Means to Death

I woke on the morning of my birthday, hell bent, hair wet
My task was to end the game, cut the cord, pay the final check
And I would do it with words, your words, their words, sharp as a scalpel

I sat at my desk and inked black, hell sent, jaw set
The reds flowed and torturous yellows, sharp sword, slashing neck
I was doing it with grace, your face, their face, nice and simple

When the end finally neared, hells rent, good bet
My body so much pulp, say the word, no safety net
I was letting all go, your command, their command, smiles so awful

The last you will hear from me…immortal

When I Call

Your reach was telescopic that day, no matter how much I retreated, you saw me
Its like when you meet someone for the first time and your judgment is dead wrong
Thank the Gods that you had better sense than I did, that isn’t hard really
I have never been know for my practicality, only for chasing my summer dreams, silly

I relished those days on the couch where we watched funny shows and touched only our feet
Life has a way of magnifying those delicacies, only after they are gone, sepia, worn
I would give every roller coaster ride for those moments, the ones where we flew
Heavens how your hair looked and smelled after a shower,  my libido etched forever in strawberry

There is a telephone somewhere, the old rotary kind, it is black with too big numbers
To this day I search for it , knowing that it is surely around the next corner and then the next
When I find it, it will be a direct line to you and the days of mix tapes and red wine
And I will invite you to patio dance once more, your naked hips a forever prize, eternity

Awkward

     Mostly, I stumble like a young Angus in a bed of mums. Hooves caked with dark, rich, soil, but not understanding anything with the exception of the awkwardness that are my feet and that the sweet taste of the grasses sprouting around the mums, satisfies for a short while. I picture myself landing delicately, but try as I might, gravity doesn’t give way to the desires of an aging boy restless for want of a decent sentence to pass on to troubled souls.  I settle to the carpet, long since worn with the traffic of life and close my eyes in an attempt to fuse the tag ends of my existence and create that circle that allows my progeny to travel their track, to their destiny, hoping that they can land more delicately. I see other destinations for them, shining and futuristic, their happy faces raised to the light of a rapturous sun hand in hand, wanting each other and embracing the coming of the comets tail. Upon reflection and in parables that float thought the watery vastness of my closed eyes, the truth is printed on the inside of my eyelids. They too will feel awkward, slogging through the mud, surrounded by beauty and wondering if their offspring will enjoy a lightness of being that will allow them to fly to the moon for a picnic of wonder and wisdom. In my mind, I throw them the keys to my rocket ship and tell them to be careful, the road to the moon has no speed limit and racing the light often ends up being a losing bet.

Sister

We all saw you in our dreams last night, the effect was calming

Taking the love and the light and giving it a three dimensional quality

You said to walk the path lightly, but with confidence, I didn’t hesitate

You touched the back of my head and saw the hope and created flow

Sister, where are your weary hands when the work is done

Granting so much to so many and asking nothing in return

Sister, where are your thoughts after soothing my fears

Showing the way when so many plant brambles at our feet

We all saw you in the reflection of the water in the morn, the effect was wondrous

Taking the tears and creating rivulets of love and light, satin

You said to give my heart to the depths and live vertically but with reach

You stared into my eyes and pulled out the deepest browns and translucent blues

Sister, you are the one who binds the now to the forever

Seeing the things that are but ghosts in the recesses of a diseased outlook

Sister, you are the one that ebbs and swirls, making words into wishes

Walking unseen through the hearts and minds of the ones who want to love