Thursday, February 25, 2010

Inks and Blues; A Passerine's Life in Numbers

Little old world one,
finding white-wings, black-winged, blue-bearded seeds of grey.

I'm kickdrumming with fists wide open on a metal dinner plate,
hoping in the greater.

The two of us,
running along side owls, burning down barns and loving until the null hour.

Poor as the Hills that Prophet Was or Let's Go, Okay?

Grab your barbed wire and bean sprouts,
we are going to smash that lake water with our feet,
harmonica your face,
take the buffalo to Georgia,
and put some turquoise on my finger.

Lawless and wreckless and artist,
re-wired you would be.

Margot Kaessmann and H.G. Wells Lost Their Lunch Money

Oh Margot, your Eucharistic Vision was blurred beyond repair,
beyond deed,
beyond it all.

Go ahead and Bishop your move and lets be thankful,
you don't need a rope,
to hold your pants up.

Maybe you were didactic,
but moreso standing still,
in the doorstop of Standgate.

Margot, Isabel, Maude and Moura,
I wonder if you wander about,
in the resiliency of it all.

Friday, February 19, 2010

Polish National Alliance or You Didn't Have A Fighting Chance

Night number one and you waited it out with me.

You hugged me with that empty glass bottle,
breaking my ribs enough to let cords of midnight navy out.

The Katyn Forest Massacre is waiting in the morning for me,
fought only with the bluest of inksticks. Graphite but really grafight.

The meta of Maurice,
the epoche of the Indentured,
and if I look at you too long, I will surely stop working.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

snow, sparrows, skinny hawks and this addiction

And I think she just had a hard winter,
me too.

With black ashes atop my crownless head,
here we go.

On Lying, Against Lying,
perjury I have.

Despite all this, I have been told,
I want to see you dance every day.

No menagerie, no Exeter Exchange,
will stop my brothers.

They will walk beside me, fall beside me,
footrace this akrasia.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Ohio Valley, or We Were Bearing West with an Azimuth of 270

Speaking of the illness of wanting.

Get me to the streets,
get me an Alice-type medicine,
forget the good,
the bad,
and the valvular disease.

My Bundle of His is in a bad shape.

Saf(f)ron, Socks and My Blood Feels Thin Today

Deflated kardia,
Broken tire.

Same god-damn thing, really.