Archive for the ‘ poetry ’ Category

Skimming BBC

I am always alone
Under the covers of my mind
No thought slips in but what I put in

Fast broaches the dawn of discontent
Hours with swelling need and vacant desire
No energy just a sucking
A sucking of all that is
To the place of hurt that I hope will
Die by
The side of my gathered calamities
The moments of being that aren’t mine but should keep
Deep in the well of an educated soul
Fresh places of pain for all hours of the day

w h a t i s

What is a flimsy breath that turns the lightest thought to stone
What is a pestilence that masquerades as healthy antiseptic for the giddy soul
What is a mirage that dwarfs experiential minutia under the shadow of its immensity
What is an unholy overthrow of sight and sound
What is a more constant companion than the three muses, insinuated among each inhalation
What is Failure multiplied by Expectation and divided by Fear
What is unfaithfulness to sanctified intuition
What is disuse of communion
What is a recession of bravery like waves withdrawing themselves eternally into a sea with widening beaches and bleached sand exposed to the sun until there is no water to quench the thirsty tongue of hope
What is a state of being the opposite of your dearest desire and wildest guilty ambition
What is
What is
What is
What, Is?
What IS!
What is.



Full-eaten belly crumbs tumble within
My thoughts fly apart
And turn again and rend me
Free of the foul-some breath of confusion
Down the back of my neck
As I walk away from what fades
To come what may
I see the Day
Bright-dawning o’er the crystal ridge
Of the past-present-future-in-One.

My spyglass full-full of pleasures and pain
Dancing the love song from here to Zion
One blistered step per moment of time
As the rhythm of Him marks my motion,
Witnessed and sworn, in blood adorned,
Trailing violent joy behind me in caravan and canopy high.


Being Super

Wanting to be a hero doesn’t make the moment happen
But deep deep deep
Look farther and find proximity
Of hopes and possibilities
Under the human hide
That hides the bindings
Of dust and starlight
Within the wandering atoms of our frame.

Fear not the quaking sobs of lonely moon-days
But grope the interstitial spaces
For the subtle synergies of want and desire
That birth our destined greatness.



So now I’ve been waiting 6.5 hours this week
For something to happen that will give me more life
Or fill the productal void of my daily rhythm
Making it possible to keep going on the continuum
Of things that happen or you happen to others
And I wonder I query
When the waiting will take on the signifying signs
Beyond the tick of time
To become what was worth the waiting in the first place.


Port to Air

Breathing waiting
Sleeping wishing
Cough cough
Whisper buzz
Can I charge here?
Little kid boy baby
Huge bags
Bag bag everywhere
Colors mostly black or sad or old
Who knows you?
Can you read my name on the ticket?


Michigan Sky

Velvet isn’t always black or dark or deep.
Sometimes it’s sharp and clear and high
Like a Michigan sky.

The loveliest silk washed o’er the high ways,
Frosty tops and homespun bellies
Bulging with the lake-weary winds
Turning home to the dry prairie tickles.

My green soul leaps with the cherry-throated grosbeak
To meet the goddess of the Air full-stretched across my face.

The lush season of the sunbeams is nigh
And many a pliant wood rejoices in the un-freeze.
Wrap us up in cattail down and tuck into the summer.


The Glad Daemon of Kalamazoo

Did I tell you about the time my heart

tripped over its trailing guts and

fell into your soul?

The rain fell softly that day, so steady

that its sound receded to the quiet

places behind my thoughts.

Fold me tenderly into your routine

Tell me I’m a lovely creature

As the hours tick by

Until my demise.


Black curtains are crawling up my spine

But Rose Red will tell you all about whence they came

When finally the hem-hawing of my youth rescinds.

Heather brushes my cheeks with scents

of happier days

As the light above my eyes illumines

your expanse

Furry Time cinches itself together

in a colorful pull

across your ancient brow;

Mad stories cuddle into smile lines

around your gleaming mouth.

Somehow, you rhyme.

And therein lies the shape of your first,

Glad daemon of Kalamazoo–and White Lake, too.

2:37 a.m.

toss at the moon

Sitting alone at night makes me tired

But there’s energy for the taking because no one else is there to steal it away

Sap at your reserves and make you pay

Through the nose for something you didn’t really want in the first place

But couldn’t say.


I lay awake waiting for the time to come when all last pages fall to the ground like bits of over-soaking algae wafers.

Have I fed my fish today?

Streams of rain run down the glass inside but I know it doesn’t melt with age.

Discovery Channel told me so.


Dreams come and go quickly and I’ll admit I hate the word

That says something immaterial can describe something real.

Together they are made for each other but never as one.

It won’t work.


Why do the paper airplanes fly?

I wish I had a kite or some other symbol of man’s lost sky to toss at the moon of a lonely night.

October Ran Away With November

{my fingers play}

7:12 p.m.

7:12 p.m.