Showing posts from January 3, 2010

The Gospel According to Peter

I spoke to myself of myself in the moments between moments that barely exist. Withered from time, like subtle decay, which one misrepresents as tarnish and flaw, these narrowly escaped moments draw out like fractions of pennies slowly accruing, but always forgotten! We speak the dribble as we walk our two step-day to day-rambling of foot before foot before foot! We quietly acquiesce to the passage of time as morbid fascination of a self euthanized death march. Why we don’t protest is less of a question than what would we protest against. And that we haven’t gotten that far in our thought process, or even begun to register what it is we are fighting against, is all the more reason why we bow down to the languid transgression of thoughts! There they go…and we breath, ahhhh, a long sigh of relief, at being able to get lost and finally numbed by our rapidly decaying minds. It’s not even that we have a rotting brain structure, but that our formed words, which create thoughts, and then sente


Was it the air, swept in with sea salt that grazed your lips Or the gentle breeze that caught your hair, tangled, blowing Across your face? Was it that, or the way my arms went numb; And circling all around, my eyes searched for place to rest, My shoulder a post to lean, and my hand a hand to hold? It could have been between Breaths, your arms stretched left, stretched right, then curled down under your stomach, where skin met white linen sheet, and hint of your lower back shown. “I’m not gonna lie!” you said, your lips, formed, loosened Then persed…and I don’t recall your words that followed, that Distinct mumble that I mimic in your presence. Was it that I recalled In a moment and forgot to say, “Almondy” may have been the tone Of your skin, that it was so fitting; but lost the thought in your eyes? There is a possibility, beneath the dock at Bowen’s Wharf, or Bannister, beneath the sheath of barnacles, where tops of hands Get cut, it may have been there? I wasn’t sure whether I rea


I never really understood all the fuss about titles, and really never had the courage to be able to title myself with anything other than some verbose contrived, theoretically sound and grounded itemization of what I thought I should be conceived as...that is, until I decided (stumbled) upon my DOMAIN NAME! Now really, domain, and all the silly seinfeldian notions of what is a domain, master of...cheesy double entendre of a fascination we have with the Washington Monument and how it moves us. Really, quite, quite silly...but then it happened! If ever there were a domain that I might call my own it would be in and around, under and on top of; hermetically sealed with; taking baking lessons with; flying silly octopus shaped kites with; scoring Yanni tickets with; handling precisous census material with; mucking through garbage with; cross country yak riding with; thelonious monking with; entering into a political debate against; firing friendly fire at; cahooting with a


You stole a glance, cheated its pockets and slid swiftly between the lines below my eyes, there you nestled, easing your legs to full extension. Your eyes waned heavily as a moon’s, drifting slowly to crescent eclipse, to be born anew as they swallowed the sun of my eyes. From your distance, rubbing sleep from my eyes, your fingers, scanned my cheeks as a brush, painting roses’ tender maze of petals. Your brush dipped again, strokes of cornflower blue, which faded to brown as they dried in my eyes. Our canvas aged—paint-dried-- poked as rifts of mountain ranges, fading steadily to the canvas edge and wooden frame. As you relinquish you position, easing gently below my eyes, I drift between dream, aloft on your breath…

Prayer of the Wasteful

I left the page stranded, left handed with only a regular scissors to cut, disbanded as my thoughts curled up in an millennial flux. So I rebandaged, held hands with, the blank whispering paper, the maker of thoughts, helps find residence in the world, resonance to the swirled jumble of colors. Behold the allegiance of the bind that ties ink to page, blood to wars waged, father to son, needles to gauge. So when I faced the abandoned, left handed vacuum of thoughts, I apologized for all the time we had lost. I begin again at the single press of the key, professing the mess of leaves as they begin to settle, nestled, jamming storm drains, clogging sewers as if warring mental strains, limiting my access to my own fragile remains. My bone felt chill as it whistled it’s way below cracked windows, caressing window sills in Siren excitement, mesmerizing, using, than enticing as it moves past the gate keep, and spills into the house detected, but unaffected. The chill rose and drove to the cor

My Reuben & Cherise

The Ballad of Ulysses and Joan (In 2 Parts) Ulysses waltzed, walked the cobblestone way paved, slightly worn and slightly aged; loosely loosely humbled graveled ground. his words they grazed and tumbled down; they tumbled down. The alleyway to which he waltzed, he walking waltzed. To Joan who turned back, back to him. He hoped she would now(not) reappear. The dawning-down of sunset slightly slipped. a pirouetting slipping stare, of darkness into blackest night; a passing action they used to fight, they used to fight. Tell me tell me, when would now be then, the time to which your absence ends, your absence ends. Wild eyed Ulysses slipped, fateful Joan had passed his lips, had passed his lips, forging forth a new concern; one that in his aching yearned, his aching yearned. Waltzing walk Ulysses staggered through the streets of evening's bitter hue the blinding haze of dusk night's gaze; of dusk night's gaze. Still he waltzed a walk of nighttime tread in he sped at last he sa


We are the quiet fluttering hums of the world. Unimportant, unparticular, unimagined, listless and entirely unimpressive. Our foot steps leave no trace, leave no hollywood marker, with no names. We simply exist of the notion that we remember, and maybe one or two around us. I approach this as I do a steep hill, just North of Montana. Later, entering through a rusted fence, it’s metals ties, jagged-rusted, at each point reaching gently to the late summer air. Past the hill now, under a braced back piece of metal fence, harboring, like a captured fugitive, a do not enter per order of owner sign, hanging half slanted, as if placed specifically at this 45 degree angle. I work past my swallows, my perspiration of what I am not supposed to do, and keep walking. The area that I open into–my eyes swimming as water into a new home, curling into every crevice, rejoicing in it’s freedom–slowly loses it natural feel. The feel of being transplanted into a National Geographic lasts only seconds befo