on

going

over the river

i become

the forest

over the river

i become

and go

on

coming on 
age doesnt visit
it jumps upon me erupting
skin cracking dreams interrupting me
breath tickling heart hard to hard to see 
sprouting white nose hairs plucking them out
vanity keeps hoping for surfaces to keep me safe
from my thoughts of that frightened ancient child me
still life moves

Still the cherry tree in the spring is so beautiful with its tiny pale pink not quite white petals, undersized compared to the maples and oaks who share the front yard and who steal all its light as spring fades forwards towards summer the blossoms fall silently to cover the bare spot in the lawn caused by the cherry tree blocking the light of the pittsburgh sun.

Still the cherry tree in the late spring with its blossoms falling silently to cover the bare spot in its shade and as spring fades forwards towards summer the blossoms fall silently to cover the bare spot in the lawn caused by the cherry tree blocking the light of the pittsburgh sun.

Still the cherry tree gives three small boys cooling cover for their summer games of matchbox cars and teasing the girls with muddy feet and the front lawn is surrounded by a thick and evil bed of green ivy thriving on the skins and bones of the gazillion balls we lost while playing with brothers and friends.

Still the cherry tree in the fall lifts upright branches guarding the sons from the chilling father wind and the front lawn is surrounded by a thick and evil bed of green ivy thriving on the skins and bones of the gazillion balls we lost while playing with brothers and friends.

Still the cherry tree keeps watch on me as the winter snow falls to cover the bare spot in its cold shade and I freeze to avoid the dark wrath of the eyes of the chilling father wind that waits within my house.

Still the cherry tree keeps watch on me as the snow falls to cover the bare spot in its cold shade as I freeze to avoid the dark wrath that waits within my house still the cherry tree still the cherry tree keeps watch on me keeps watch on me keeps watch keeps watch.

20110331-124353.jpg

Still the cherry tree in the spring is so beautiful with its tiny pale pink not quite white petals, undersized compared to the maples and oaks who share the front yard and who steal all its light as spring fades forwards towards summer the blossoms fall silently to cover the bare spot in the lawn caused by the cherry tree blocking the light of the Pittsburgh sun.

Still the cherry tree in the late spring with its blossoms falling silently to cover the bare spot in its shade and as spring fades forwards towards summer the blossoms fall silently to cover the bare spot in the lawn caused by the cherry tree blocking the Pittsburgh sun.

Still the cherry tree gives three small boys cooling cover for their summer games of matchbox cars and teasing the girls with muddy feet and the front lawn is surrounded by a thick and evil bed of green ivy thriving on the skins and bones of the gazillion balls we lost while playing with brothers and friends.

Still the cherry tree in the fall lifts upright branches guarding the sons from the chilling father wind and the front lawn is surrounded by a thick and evil bed of green ivy thriving on the skins and bones of the gazillion balls we lost while playing with brothers and friends.

#463. weathered

March 10, 2011

i am walking 
along the river
gone down again
to the sweet wrack 
and wreck of beauty 
and water raining upon 
my brown hat gone grey 
as my hair is going into the
new strength of my daily age 

who cares about the aches and pains
moving fast towards new rivers

#462. dear class

February 27, 2011

i am so 
and so
scramble my brain 
eggs into sculptures 
poem omelettes
tired of over easy

return is another change
in time to
baffle time
and myself
one more time

#460. List Of Friends

February 16, 2011

List Of Friends

“I think a lot about things, and

I think a lot of, well, a few anyway

think like I think and see things

the sane way I see them. Right now

I’d just as soon groove.

c razy.”

— John Daley

Transition.

What?

a touch?

No!

I don’t wanna touch

it just

upsets me.

No touching.

No risks.

Just self

pity

aloneing

in my room

all the dirty clothes

cracked walls

smelly sheets

they no longer smell of anyone but me.

Being nothing.

Really.

Just dying of bitter summer

first time alone in my life.

just dying.

But

What letter is this my soul receives?

What letter is this

my soul receives?

Is it a pardon?

Is it painful?

Is it you?

What letter is this my soul receives?

Riding the chaos blues

the difference between us

is a list of friends

typed up and laying on my coffee table

my bitter and pained list of friends

I want to tell you something

but I didn’t

wanna say it.

need some ups

can’t clear my head

fuckme

fuck me.

The beginning

again but no

you are not here

satisfaction

I on the phone

reverse the charges are collect where is my proof

you are still there?

porcelain shattered dial tones.

all my ingrown fear and laziness

is rising like the yellow smoke of your last cigarette

to choke me

but the mistakes have been mine.

can’t clear my head

fuck me

fuckme.

Separate

the Earth

the life of all.

the garden is prepared for growing

but the gardener is choking on a mind

twisted toes spread in the mud.

and the children sing

‘dig that phonedaddy’ yo

cloud!

come back here, I can’t catch you!

the fist closes

tendons curved and jammed into the granite crack

two walls faced stone corner

and kills

or cripples

can’t pull myself up can’t clear my head

open

happy letter

“hello i love you”

Fall is may-blessed this year

“won’t you tell me your name?”

Here I am, hunkered down on the niagara, drawing my face up

into my eyes. The Earth is polluted here, making the sunset

beautiful and sad.

can’t clear my head

fuck me

Fuck me.

It has always been the lie

separating me from my laziness.

perfection?

try bleeding for a while

what does it matter whether the cigarettes

take away from the t’ai chi?

dance perfectly!

smoke perfectly!

and leave me the fuck alone

since you do it anyway

do it all the way.

can’t clear my head

fuck me

fuck me.

I have a shy and virgin heart

so I send poems to play.

Tell me, what is relativity to you?

flashed

mashed

potatoes and peas

event

fills a potion of mind

and two friends

now tomorrow

we will drive to the sun

by a lake drive

with friendly

women i

get

tired

of

sunsets

tho

can’t clear my head

fuck me

fuck me.

My list of friends I am afraid

its the shadow

pass it on

it belays me to the light

pass it down

depth of experience

telephone’s disconnected the gap

can be no bigger

than buffalo to st. louis

But

What letter is this my soul receives?

Is it a garden?

Is it a vision?

Is it a basket of flowers and leaves?

What letter is this

my soul receives?

decade dance

“I could have been one of these things first.”

–Nick Drake

My hair

is longer than it looks

new scene

life bed and board

the decade dance

has me in hand

it’s like an aroma

strange words

to hang on iron.

Arched back

bowstring

in tension pulled

to pierce a gaze

catching and killing a spring time

object so simple

a choice

either or

a buttercup

your lover’s strong back.

Before fire, there was lovelaughter and dark to contain

them.

The light showed up fear.

Before fire we met.

Transaction

the speech patterns the game

patterns the eye

and mouths

and hairshining

flying low beneath the ceiling

above the pool table

in the bar we met

and brought about the moving

the months.

Who are the friends?

Biopolitics

deal the cards

dance the decade dance

dance with me.

Move.

Separate the seasons.

rain sun snow wind

MOVE.

there is weather out there

taste the gorge and scree

Move!

a morning summer wind is strong

as the leaves it

MOVES!

(kinda like this

terra d’ ombra earth of shade

decennio d’ ombra decade of shade

decennio d’ terra decade of earth

ombra d’ terra shade of earth

ombra d’ ombra shade of shade

But

What letter is this my soul receives?

It is spoken!

It is written!

It is me

my soul doth receive

List of friends

how distinct it is see

the faces you know

backdropped

by faces you don’t know

standing on line

and then you know it’s love.

my list of friends,

“it’s the eye of God, there’s no bottom—“

–Jack Kerouac

amen.

#457. no more rice or salt

January 29, 2011

once you go you’re gone
down the ghost subway 
no more rice or salt
to feel or make

old dreams young
and young dreams old
the sea returns me
and by the sea i escape

the compass
in my bakers hand
encircles my flying mind
crowns and directs me found

#456. belief?

January 21, 2011

time is caught
in my head
is caught in time
the heart too
is pulled strung
to then now
from wild soon

fire a kiln burn beautiful
air scented by wood and water
earth blooms constantly returns all home

#455. travelling

January 14, 2011

part
of heart beat
time is machined
into the blood flesh
moment pushed up behind 
the first last dream put to rest

tossing about the pillow wakes me now

the details of a vision are the least important

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