Tag Archives: rambles

Sometimes on thin stilts, skinlight touching
All points of predetermined whisky-glow
All joints unfolding starship ramp
The nervous decoil of a shy proboscis
Half-sheltered in a petal cup
Sometimes avalanche
Comet screaming in a frozen instance of forever
For forever
And then the strangled shriek
Afterthought run-on’s period of explosion touching down
Here I roll
Shoulder shells at battle
Hopsack belly at rumble
Saddle hips at heft
On to whimsied goals and dead end paths
Distracting the machine for any bee or leaf or cryptid
Cloud, or mysterious moon,
Thin idiot’s adventure, rubbed and bumpered
To harbor or to rocks
Tinker toy or hurricane
Will you keep me to the path?

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The gremlins in my spine are pulling panels

The vertebral shelves
veiled in dried gutcord
easy dens for small and fearsome creatures

The gremlins in my spine are wrenching bolts

A knot of evil rolls in up the back
sticky-watered in half wet rattles

The gremlins in my spine are tearing wires

Sun bleach my bones and tilt my jaw and stare and document each shallow pit and spider canyon all the splinter and decay

I’ll split into a grin

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Drunk hammered piano
Porch idle picked guitar
And you’re scraping dust
From the cracked old elegant tile
Up on those gummy rubber treads
Them kickers and stompers, yeah
She’s there with her hair fine like sand
Honey brown and deep as old cork
Are you looking old?
Hating every sentence in your head
Ready to give this one up
There’s a kink in the hose
Nothing coming, bone dry

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BANG-on mind of a drowsy brain in a rust-lit hole of a saloon
Every face here is pretty enough for the D.M.V.

Stack a plastic up, knock a whisky down,
Wonder why your hair’s grown long
What’s if feel like, all clammy-neck on the pillow?

The original heroes exist outside our time and inside our walls
“They” are dead, but “they” named it after “their”–
The lie we all pass on into stories and pictures.

None of us go to heaven,
But there is an afterlife if you keep your mouth shut
And sell beer to strangers
Looks like I’m immortal
After all

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I know little and understand less.

As for you,
I would be wind
Racing across the lake,
Changing light’s play on the surface.
I would be breath
Rolling over the shore,
Brushing worry into smooth, soft beds.

I am a brief storm; you are a brilliant stone.
I am impulse; you are permanence.

This is my romance:
Selfish, self-sacrificing.

You are another tempest.
Ancient and heavy, I am shelter from the whirlwind.

I understand so little and know so much.
We are storm and stone, wind and waves.
A gray day is ours for dancing.

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From the Rock in my Back

Between the close end of the pack and its unmarked center I have set foothold in the broken rocks and step press side stepped myself onto a hard perch here where the lake is not so removed and I am not too far gone to alarm the law

The near water is edges of glass over dusty mitey motey clouds licking at cool stone candy tumbling jawbreakers through silty spit and spray looking out out it is an undulation of sunlight blue and shadow green pulsed out from a hidden heart of Michigan

Exposed bones of old docks like spears stuck in the gullet of a wave out out to a horizon broken only by scattered sails of defiant insignificant boats on their way to nowhere

I am here in this nowhere as I have been on muddy tracks and hidden up in a bunk listening for thick blood rain on the cobblestones and shouts and laughter and staggered heels and silent for the threat of a knocking door or  kick-propped against green walls

Small in the company of paintings and pianos heaving breath for another long draw from a foamy cup or back to the boards and velvet all around me buried in the deep secret concert hall casket

I am here
the rock is cold
the lake is alive
I must go

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basket-backed chairs and blue plastic seats glossy and reflective like model donuts in a bakery window
the colors and lines that cut glide through the diner are clean and comforting
linoleum and ceramic all polished
not cold no dark corners
like a morning in suspension
and outside it’s sleeves-up sleeves-down weather

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Another year another place another alone (again) but not forgotten (again)

Things are opening (progressing [in progress]) moving along and as a man in a (child’s) lifestyle I can feel the shell starting to break, we’re hatching, we’re living, we’re finding what we may have been meant to be.

Sometime in the past I thought maybe I could have been a somebody, and I thought I knew not how to get there but how to find out how.  Turns out I’m wrong but I might have been right?

Anyway there’s another way.  Bring on the new chapter and if this is a good one let it be long.

In another dimension – What do I do about who I do?  She is sweet, like a sticky dessert, and the way she sticks to me is too like a cinnamon roll but I lost my sweet tooth a while back.  She is good to me and I try to believe that I am good to her, but a guilty conscience is not the same as a loving heart.  Do I love her?  I say I do, and if I am lying then I am not the adult that I thought I might have been.

Well, well, well, well, well.

Now there’s time to think.

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An empty time

Today I met a beautiful smile with shock blonde hair and a face like a kid.  She had the back of a woman and it crept out of a backless sundress like the first rays of a morning

There’s a heaviness to this lightness, a sort of weighty quandary that says okay, what now?  I’m getting older and fatter, I can feel a full roundness when I lean forward and I see myself not as I have been but as I was.  My next step is to shift out of this lazy summer skin and create someone else entirely.

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There’s not too many days go by – almost none – where I hit some sleep without a thin-blooding aid.  Every day I declare a new me a new start a new state of life and I take a half a stride, take a stride, take a half stride, but there’s always the comforting kiss of a glass when things get too far or the world gets too close.

Tomorrow I’ve got a longstanding long waiting longtogo date with someone special.  Not special to me though she has all the earmarks of a first edition (I am her first edition-she is not mine).  I’m parked about a thousand miles away sitting in a pseudo-bar drunk on intrigue with a little woman who went out of her kindness to find out who I am. I don’t know who she is but I like the glimpses I can take into her life.

She is a young (short lived not fledgling) with a penchant for accidental adventure and the blindness to see me as a challenge.  She challenges me.   But where am I in relation (juxta non juxta position response query?) to that challenge?  Is the challenge the query? Do I need to answer?

I’m not at a crossroads but I take a lot of roads without outlets.  What I’ve learned is that I can tell stories but the only story worth telling is the story of the

Boom boom boom

“What am I thinking,” she asks matter-of-factly.  “What are you thinking,” I respond

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"Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I'm not living."- Jonathan Safran Foer. || student, loves travelling and perhaps baking a cake.||

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