Incessantly

in the arterial light hullabaloo 
the veins are awake at night
scrolling like ants out past dark

 

the old gargoyle dampness

of intentions gives way 

to mud and smudges

the mirror into hours 

and how the brain

shrieks for pause, maybe

a heart still or silent ear 

please, mercy me 

marrow the mind

 

shut my eyes like lances 

poked through bone 

a stark reminder

for the need of bone

and deeper dream

barely present, I should 

pause the flare

of howling glass

touch cotton and learn 

the names of rivers over time

______________

Poets and Storytellers United: Friday Writing brain rot

Orpheum

when sunrise was young and wet
angels threw forth lyrics
in polysyllabic fire

gabbing gurus

chimed in dawn

their faces illuminated like

a noncanonical manuscript

their music luscious and open

poetry sang, perpetually

speaking in bells, their tongues fold

into camels, rhythm tight

to slide from the needle

and pop the speakers

mother, taking stock

of the dancing crowd, notes

the t-shirts through the smoke

Black Francis and Mr. Bungle

and while everyone stood

some souls rose

for what it’s worth

____________________

Written late for Writer's Digest Wednesday Prompt: Appraisal

Between Us

floating in the arterial harbor 

rainbow balloons bob

in intertwining pipeworks, I lost 

the berry-lipped woman in the hullabaloo 

I imagine she reclines back

in the gargoyled hotel, the leather dampness 

of skin everywhere has not escaped me, the guilt

 

fishers cast all around, please, mercy

run your marrow over the muddy calendar

the days’ blades cut from light 

bring me my eyelids, my circus 

white poodle darting across 

the cinnamon lobby, she’s never 

so happy to see a slumbering me 

learning to hold back my water waking

more in love than the morning before

__________________

Written for Writer's Digest: Dreams

To the Wire

from the hierarchy 

of rub: flight or fight 

anyone? an outburst 

without shadow never 

razor burns

stories ricochet 

all over the face, the structure

of being overwhelmed 

the old brainhall swinging 

away at old age anxiety 

relax—aloe or no 

smile, the authentic package

a new look, cleans up

16 ounces non greasy

essentially fragrant free

each adventure be by 

a shave, biochemical 

and alive

by a hair 

----------------------------------------------

Revamped from older poem below

----------------------------------------------

Comfortable to the Skin

In the hierarchy of rub: flight 

Anyone? An outburst or significant after 

With shadow, it never gets a nighttime outcome 

stories+events+STORIES 

ricocheting the structure, being woke

Overwhelmed in the same old brainhall 

swinging more of the age anxiety 

paddlers approval—relax

aloe or no 

Authentically close package

a new look, clean

non-greasy, 16 ounces 

and imaginatively fragrance free

each made adventure

biochemical be

________________________________________________________

for Poets and Storytellers United Friday Writings #159:Making It New

And Fall Short

down, noted
hillside easement
worship dangles weight

quality over height
throw yourself over height

forgo temptation build
monastery insight

each accomplishment
read like a red
side shelf book
by every red word

a small improvisation
stricken by architecture

feel that abandon
a grand door, open

sculpted above all
the world’s kingdom
a shelter designed

just a snakeskin
short of paradise

---------

Writer's Digest Wednesday Prompt

 0 0

Formality

and ghost that poem
many unexpected, go

straw that crow

observe the mechanics 

ammunition by the month 

heard the hobbyists hiccup 

from the criticized, up please 

why the me, you

soft soup poets

 

your river switching 

crawled periodic melody 

be there, in fantasy as much 

divided effort and written to

what up, add a joke

how trial every mountain

then a bathroom 

makes the list

and who 

just sonneted

in Y3K

_______________________________

In response to Poets and Storytellers United: Prioritize

Prioritizing writing this new year (it's been a while) and reading more about poetry in general

Christmas Morning

the Witnesses stand, beholding 
at the unhinged door 

tablets fired up, verses taut

like rattlers’ ready for striking

I’m naked, quiet

hiding, still shaking

nursing a fresh wound 

found in knuckle blood

drywall pounded through

skin flap holes, bone gone sore 

ripped the closet doors  

like holy temple drapes

windows never stood

a chance, knocked by

the telegraphic fist

in these last days, anger 

is all limbs and memory

this gift, this untempered 

bonus, I’ll take it

like my father, my birthright

the red-cell smears bright

across back splash tile

Jesus

this scarred house

creaks

for another

carpenter

and they 

know it