Practice Makes Practice

This quiet soul, (sing)

a song of solace,

I can’t remember

when you sat

so still here,

and will likely

never do it again,

“I am awake,”

I thought, I’m not,

the twisted reality,

pistons smashing,

allusions wasting,

then I dropped

my fruit, it’s sticky

where it landed,

in the room with me,

a light touch of

business, the clang

of the fork on plastic

spoke impressions,

but the ache in my

jaw is persistent,

set it to ignore them,

one by one, each

drone a drag on

my memory, I’ll

get a wet cloth (later)

Untitled

Though it be warm, in the sun,

the blaze of majesty, truest image

true, orange behemoth, ray beams

hot, browning ground and grass,

soil heat petulance; though I stand

alone, astride shit-out homes,

dreamt up in dram-induced

psychosis, alit, I stand as a

psychopomp to my own soul,

guided blind, crying again, and

tracing their faces over and over;

though I am but a speck, cosmic

truth bares me to the ground,

crushing me, the weight of tons,

the tiresome malignancy of being,

burdens like knives, stick in, stuck

out, and forever honed blades sing

fire, distrust, pollinate my senses

with worry, with woe, with madness;

though I am a name in a book, I am

ever hungry for answers; ever sick

of falsities, ever lost like the rest

of us; though the sun smiles this day,

I clutch tight to goodwill and love,

for if not for this welfare, lost is

simply a word I would quote,

and sundered is the reality I’d be

Music So Loud

I have written of trains before,

when they scream during cold,

night’s air, interrupting at the

best, worst time, when they’re

a trip to youth, fear, compact

with a caboose, to an error in

time’s faults, trains sing when

they are meant to, but we see

them as impedance, or never

at all, like birds; crows winter

crackle, on the offensive, on

a terror flight; turn the TV on,

flip the channel, they all live

anyway, sound-tyrants, cold

to humans, enraptured to me

entrusted with protections,

never lift a hand, to trains,

never doubt how much they

mean to everyone else, to me,

to birds, to simple cool nights,

to languid wishful mornings,

to daylight stars screaming,

to life, the only one I have

Upon an August Morning

Here it is, you think,

when no one is around,

and your brain fills a

deep void, this is the

finality you have heard

of, the promise of a

better way, the story

of a thousand million

architects with blue

pens, blue paper, a tragic

smile, here it is, you

say inside your head,

the tranquility of madness,

a sunken ship of endless

waiting, here it is again,

you say aloud to your

previous self, the last

day you never knew, a

swan’s song, a passive

existence with memories

of greatness, here it is

finally, you cry inside your

mind, as the ax falls,

as the middling life of

platitudes takes shape

about your head’s heart,

there it goes, you whisper

to your reptile brain, as

you wallow in self-doubt,

wail inside of your child

hood closet, clutching shoes,

the smell, the emotion,

the clay-salt-scent, the

moldy toys covered in

fleeting tales, and then

you forget it all, in the end,

so that you can begin again,

or never begin anew, it’s

what we tell our heads in

the darkest moments, that

make up the reality of

the life we lead, never

waste the dawn, never

shame yourself for dusk,

the past is future, the future

is nothing but endless past

Of Men, Of Ills

So that I may know what

errors or sin men have

all committed against

themselves, or of the

forces that nature has

impelled upon us all,

I force myself and hand,

with fortitude and will,

early under morning light,

to examine with empathy,

and progress beyond it,

then I won’t think,

or wonder, or fret,

my head can clear of

their misgivings, of their

evils and trespasses,

of woeless scythes’ blades,

unending and portentous,

and I can pretend that

those among us are pure

and true, until I wake

again, and start anew

Post Traumatic Happiness

I made a promise to me, and I lied,

but now I can reaffirm, but I am

a liar, so I don’t believe me, but

I do believe you, and your voice,

and your heart, and your smile;

my black, soot, pain, laceration,

darkness, eye smear, blood fallow,

is truth-less, toothless, useless;

in the morning air quiet, I take

each step away from you, and

make lie after lie to my face as

I pass through the hall, and then

to the bath, and then to the galley,

and then I wait, lying the whole

time; and I remember this exactly,

when I was eighteen-years-old,

I tried the same logic, and the

face I told it to disagreed, each

face was caught in depressive

calligraphy, study me, study this,

walk this way, no, no, we gave up,

and he said lying was lying to

yourself, he was an optimist to me,

I was not an optimist to me,

and I have only flown a kite one

time, and I hardly remember it,

because I lied about it happening,

like I do with magic, like I do with

trauma, like I do with the scope of

existence, I wouldn’t say pessimism,

I wouldn’t even say the opposite of

optimism, I would say lying to live,

and living a lie to lie to myself; lies

Gazing at Freshly Settled Snow

eclecticismgunfight

Like Rembrandt himself, paintings in mastery,

the shelter stands true and deft, while snow so

pure rests succinctly: beautiful, like moments

in your life, creases in time, perfect as a day’s

pass, when the moon moves through the sky,

lit horizons lift each bird, higher then higher

still, aloft and enlightened, we stare in wonder

and shiver at the thought, amazed for minutes

among hours, if ever there was beauty, eternity

is its bride, and our eyes gaze aplomb, leveled

and natural, lost in tranquility for seconds, alive.

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April’s Snow

eclecticismgunfight

Prince was a pioneer and a talented artist. This poem is for him.

I started working,
I got lost,
like too much to drink,
like memories that don’t hurt,
like that one time… it’s
never that one time long enough,
is it?

It isn’t.

A creamsicle,
a purple rain, a red corvette,
a dramatic entry, a new love, no
worry, hunger erased

it’s amazing, what everything
isn’t, especially when it is

fresh dirt, rainy morning,
her lotion on her clean
body, recess in the first grade,
the last time you felt
appreciated, a glass of wine,
a crisp radish, saturated
clouds, a trip to the lake,
clean sheets, her eyes
in the morning sun, clean
elegance; smooth, clean fabric

enough to
make you wonder,

but
it isn’t ever like that one time,
even when it happens again. Once is
all there ever is; indescribable​
uniqueness

Because snow in April can…

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The Smugglers

Originally posted 8/17/19, in what seems a different time and era.

The Smugglers,
no haste in heart,
short retreat repents,
a natural night rains slurry,
quadrupeds habitat,
dove crowding handrail,

magical supine,
trapped in Mongolia,
the safety of cloth,
wooden lattices,
verily we watch us,

avail the embodiment,
the frost enters soon,
our taken hearts beat,
so I carve it in wood,
the night long and drawn,

each Donna brought more,
we laughed at the old,
chewing eggs ridiculous,
five dollars is enough,
hand-in-hand we love,

trod the valley’s girth,
beyond great skies,
greatness within hours,
unnatural continents below,
staring at our faces,
like thousands before,

this recharge: a song,
a moment in time’s drum,
only one sight smiles,
drunk on you always,
safari in Ohio’s azure,

this beaten moment’s muse,
magical back-masking,
a poet sinking into crime,
the ringleader soft,
recapture butterflies,

in periphery we sink,
the coated lens green,
fortune still on the coast,
bastards we laugh as one,
dreaming of each moment,

yes to the smells that day,
madness gripping our twin,
sorrow for caged lives,
while horizons await,
yet we smile loud,

yet we fight death’s light,
yes we walk the path,
the coolness on our heads,
the warmth at our feet,
the love swept up between,
the smugglers refrain

The Grave We Are Lain

It spits, shoots,
shakes out (loud)
of the bottle’s top,
a fevered, sweat,
upon the fifth night
our duplicity cowers
over the rim, putty
in the fetid hands
of the reaper’s grip,

Jim Harrison.
Bukowski.
Parker.
McCullers.
Lowry…

sots and prophets,
made life stink away,
cast out castigates,
sway in amber pours,
drown in dark malt,
furrow brows over
Chandler’s lights,
and Cheever’s run
through the hoods’
green pastures, uke
a cantos, iamb the
plumbing, and in
the sour, filthy, swill,
our hearts pump
ethanol, cigarette
ash a sandbox,
and the cull… the
rip? The ripening
of it all? The living
is the same as death,
so to the dying a
drownt light, surrey
contraption of pest
and pestilence noise,
to breathe, to live,
to lie alone, to wander
the hills, bleary-eyes
fixed upon the glowing,
shit sky so bright and
magical, and each path
darker still, too dark,
too wretched a sight,
but about then, the page
turns, and pour pimples
and dimples into a
tumbler’s crystal, and a
question to solitude
no longer drivel to
the natural leaders,
but a swan song to
the meaning of even
the simplest existence,
we live but to die,
and every path is a
dead end, be it life
eternal, or worms as
friends, suffer life to
live and pass the bottle,
for greatness is but
a disease, and the cure
to death, is but to live
life purely and in truth