she holds the weapon

i can see the blue
amongst the various shades of gray.
but the flesh,
soft contours and
cold concrete.
the sun.
but don't look too long.
arcs of fire burn
the eyes and
a certain shade
the gray, oh
to see her in
the snow.
head down, eyes fixed
again i see the flesh
her lips...
it is the sheer velocity
that burns the hole.
its that hair on the back of her neck
and its the lowest part of her back, bare.
those hips.

i sense the illumination,
feel the color,
the opposing grain,
omitted heat and
layered steel.
there is simple combustion
rehearsed reaction
then the silence...
all you hear above
all other distraction,
no claim at ignorance,
no exit.
inseparable to the lack of it.
it.
that which is unexplainable.

old Grey

I remember the way it once was
old, grey, brown and kissed glad
things they are remember who
the longest drawn line from here
there will be and she with us
like the broken limbs
the wind to heavy to crack
but the leaves
the leaves
are always just right
to touch the grass
the blades of thin and old
of green to brown too grey.
Do you remember the wind?
Do you remember the grass?

The Simple Truth Phillip Levine

I bought a dollar and a half's worth of small red potatoes,
took them home, boiled them in their jackets
and ate them for dinner with a little butter and salt.
Then I walked through the dried fields
on the edge of town. In middle June the light
hung on in the dark furrows at my feet,
and in the mountain oaks overhead the birds
were gathering for the night, the jays and mockers
squawking back and forth, the finches still darting
into the dusty light. The woman who sold me
the potatoes was from Poland; she was someone
out of my childhood in a pink spangled sweater and sunglasses
praising the perfection of all her fruits and vegetables
at the road-side stand and urging me to taste
even the pale, raw sweet corn trucked all the way,
she swore, from New Jersey. "Eat, eat" she said,
"Even if you don't I'll say you did."
Some things
you know all your life. They are so simple and true
they must be said without elegance, meter and rhyme,
they must be laid on the table beside the salt shaker,
the glass of water, the absence of light gathering
in the shadows of picture frames, they must be
naked and alone, they must stand for themselves.
My friend Henri and I arrived at this together in 1965
before I went away, before he began to kill himself,
and the two of us to betray our love. Can you taste
what I'm saying? It is onions or potatoes, a pinch
of simple salt, the wealth of melting butter, it is obvious,
it stays in the back of your throat like a truth
you never uttered because the time was always wrong,
it stays there for the rest of your life, unspoken,
made of that dirt we call earth, the metal we call salt,
in a form we have no words for, and you live on it.

on the lighter side of nothing better:

i cannot seem to formulate.
my thoughts...
asymmetrical... no, symmetrical, cyclical,
but awkward by nature.
(think it through)
what shall i speak of doing
but never get to?
wait, stop.
between the words,
the connection of thought,
the micromomentary combustion,
nonphysical, unequivocally without
an equation, nor composition.
nothing to prove.
nothing at all.

Half Past Reality

I sympathize with
memories being
abused by dreams.

one page at a time

retracted for the lack of anything better...

A Different Tune

It has been a
long time since
I stepped off the
Greyhound door
and slipped easily
into the fragile magnetic
fields of life.

Many are drawn
towards the
scaffolded mountains,
desert phalluses
and support of bliss.

I arrived with no motive,
void of inspiration

seperated like a still
born cut from the mother

- I did not know the difference.

It was not until
I left (now) I am able
to project a meaning
onto the canvasses
of streets where
before they all
appeared the same.

It is the way in which
all amnners of life operate.
- The girl you love, the friend you never called.
- The feelings you hurt, the ones that raised you.

All the same!

Cities are only different
when you are the visitor.
After time the autonomous

deafness of fog
covers the senses.

Now to recall
those orange coned
streets I give
myself unto imagination

more and more
it steals from me
and replaces memory.

Fine.

I once fell inlove with it all,
then stumbled out, but soon
was back

into the
pattern of
quotidian.

I loved fucked,
wept and trembled
into the clean gutters.

But I was afraid for
so long of that

Lurking
Madness-

-The oblivion.

Not until I succumbed
to the terror did
I see the city
as a body laid hidden
but vulnerably bare.

I was finally aware
of those dirty alley ways
leading deep into the dark gut
underneath the temples and cafes
where maddened ones
were forced to strike each other
over and over in the attempt at

sobering their idealism.

The stair wells framed
by the longing fingers,
the roof tops of our
egos caving in, crumbling
across the whloe dark night.

The deeper I dug
into the secret tunnels
of the city I began
to smell the beautiful
pockets of fresh air.

Crawling forward
into patches of light
I could see by
the blinding brightness

this city was capable
of possesing true
and absolving darkness.

I loved it all.

When the bars knew
me by name I felt
accomplished and
tipped too much, but
this is how it goes
whether we know it
or not, we all seek
for that feeling.

We all meet people
without knowing
them, some give you
pavlovian reflexes to spew
on their fake smiles.

It takes peering
through the dim
interior landscape
and meeting eye to eye
on the other side
to find the one to
vomit freudian hiccups
onto your back.

To lose your mind
intentionally, lose
your fear, loose your
legs and voice

to lose yourself as
a device of saying
farewell to the ones

you love.

Intentionally.

I try to paint the
city alone but
find that it is only
made up of faces
contained within the
sprawling suburbia
laid into the plastic
horrors of life.

A fine city it is.

I imagine comfortable
neighborhoods and the
supernatural fall striping
life into raw aesthetic beauty.

I can see that there
remains the magnetic
force of not only a
wasteland, but a
lovers heaven looked
upon through a window
from a bed.

Soooo Drubnk

How sweet the last sorrow of flashed hands and small things burned in a furnace that doesn't warm. 

How pretty the wings that never fly.

Your own happiness comes at the laps of one...two...three...big clock and snap dragon run.

Fire walker and mirror dragged rumple bum. Driggle drag and far gone subtle rum.

It is only the Lull I like

The sound of your valved voice.

 

gone to green, a small scene. 

delicate like pretty things

silicone and plastic rings

PBR gone wrong

someone learn a different tune

Isaac Call Soon. 

Isaac Call Now. 

I'll never call you tomorrow

You'll never hear me soon.