Wednesday, September 23, 2020

Clash

 “This is not a time to be dismayed, this is punk rock time. This is what Joe Strummer trained you for.” Henry Rollins


the little koan, placed 

strategically for a moment’s foot fall


a crumbling brick to polish, a hand

clapping in a forest of downed trees 


that no one heard, dig your heels

in the puzzle of a rice paper barrack


you can’t stay here, just charge  

your eyes for a few thoughts


then rage on, the rage your

mother’s egg knew, the rage

of your face before your parents

were born, the rage circles 


the revolution drain

the mystery rages on


like the mosquito 

that bit Jesus, the blood

buzzing amok, everlasting, breaking 


rocks in the hot sun / I fought the law 

and the law won, rage, chew 

through the chains, think not 


that I am come to destroy the law 

or the prophets: I am not come to 

destroy, but to fulfil, at least for now


until all Buddhas are destroyed

and new koans emerge: a bullet

flying through the drywall 


screams for justice, but no one 

heard it, did it scream or collapse

like a lung


only Joe Strummer knows


your next step





_______________

Mechanics



tucked away, in the labyrinthine
canals of the brain, a hat inside

a veritable garden of plentiful strange
the meep gaw of a scared swan skips
and longs for the one touch

you are afraid to give, spending long days
on greasy differentials, an oily Miller Lite

trucker cap to mask the receding hairline a cuss and shove because the brake line
erupted, you are not her

the scars of threaded cuts does not render
your smooth touch, not one fit for the swan

what is to be done with the crumbled
hat inside, are you man enough

to take it out, to wield the torque wrench
like a wand, in the crush

of that velvet hat
you are the fairy, you are

the best girl to comfort
a shivering swan

______________________

dVerse ~ Poets Pub: Let Your Words Be Your Paintbrush!

Image by Catrin Welz-Stein

Sunday, September 20, 2020

Vocalization Perchance Mammal


being gone, the human art 

of the guitar inside gone quiet


a deep summertime carol fading

off some brackish beach, the poverty


of legs wrapping up a dance, bending

taking you down, just enough fade


to pluck the string of enemy death, but

before you punch the last card, sweetheart


say quintessential bridal lizard, let the combination

pour over your teeth, hear the first caveborn syllable


obliterate the prophylactic bubble 

of sound and sense, take a bow and drown


typical candle predator spurreth, metropolitan

cartoon cemetery, population cough prey


let it go, what incantations 

in a last gasp, grabbing words, pushing them


together, making an infamous tongue constellation

making a wave that floats on long after the collapse

______________________________________

Sunday, September 13, 2020

Listen

 with injured eyes, I read 

your unreadable mouth, jealous

of the mug’s careless Ruby 

Citrus lipstick smear, phone

intimate against your

ear, eavesdropping...not really 


just occupying

a common ground, being first person 

omniscient, inserting

the words I dare 


knowing where 

the conversation goes


Wednesday, September 9, 2020

Sky Harbor Lifting

the phoenix, that feather-punk 

clockwork of a bird, doesn’t rise 


from ashes, it rises from meat 

it’s a thousand-year spit roast 


dripping fat like disappearing stars 

irrigating the riverbed of immortality


its bones fashion a worn-rib bridge

for a parade of springtime myths


the flock of charred tribes warm

their knuckles in its steam


stirring in the warm roost, matter is not 

destroyed, but constantly changing outfits 


getting a nip and tuck in an open arterial system 

to be born again, powering up the simian tendons


a fire crests at 6 a.m., ready to burn, pumping caloric

output, that phoenix burns again


stitching a hint of rain 

to the next fiery apocalypse


_______________________

Tuesday, September 8, 2020

E-Prime

 

I cannot say I am 

or any conjugation

of to be, so I say 


a withered archer draws 

his bow, sets his sites 

on a child camouflaged 

in a gray beard, he lowers


his arm and lifts his finger

—only a cold hair’s distance 


between the pointing

and the object—you little shit


thunder will erupt in your brow

you will twist in exile, get vulgar


and hard, after you bury your son

you will try to say he is or he will be


but presence and possibility

seizes your throat, wrings

you so goddam dry you have no


choice but to storm the gateway

crash the fence, throw yourself 


on the salty mound, laugh and say  

that is me, there I am


________________________

dVerse: Come and take a selfie!

Saturday, September 5, 2020

Anniversary

your body, a distant horizon 

revealed its form upon closer inspection


gladly, I have trekked those scrapes 

surveyed the erosion and shifting surface


the tarns, creeks, and scars

so familiar they are almost my own


even in sleep, I hear your muscles foxing 

over the timber, your pattering

rhythm and creaking floorboards 


I still hold room for the hidden and untouched 

paws and hums in my imagination, such a soft 


morning opera opening above 

us, two thirsty kestrels 


circling and diving 

like curious fingers 

tracing a heaving cloud

pregnant with mist


tomorrow, we will bake in the heat

of a quarter century, two wild 


and unfinished maps

overlaid for so long

our distinct features

superimpose to create 

this fantastic moment 


under a canopy of honeyed light 

speaking in tongues, pressed

against each other, engraved


in a brittle, silver leaf, waiting 

our final engraving 

in that strange terrain