March 12, 2014

squared circle bouquet and vase...

Illustration by Virgil Finlay ©

tree bough spun wheeled sky

a deejay mixes the nights
winter begins to melt
big knob static slow turns
between beats selling me
on get some spine licking
Springtime by storm line
coming again

I found an old world band
ham handed radio
on a walk with my dog
fashioned an antenna
a tin garbage can lid and
a drain pipe down spout
someone abandoned
where their foundation
met a cellar cold jacketed dust
a permeation of not
having been here much

so I tune in, fork, roads and sin
to find the light song inside me
the when, then and how
cognitive dissonance cost
damages my hearing and
decision making processes

right now I cling
crackling hymn destinies
by Caribbean kettle waves
my sling heavy fates
are ringing in bowed
eastern melody call spectrums

my banded legs love
the shackles I buy
holding onto promises
they'd make an Icarus out of me

I rinse and repeat my name
robe myself in gold leaf ego
my life has become
of my inner commercial jingle

did I want a rankle risen twenty cons
before a song is played piss off to represent me
yes, my sponsors can be all in a row
they can be sitting ducks
locals in blinds, everywhere
everyone says I will
have to pay the bills
I will have to keep
writing the lyrics
and keep hoping
one day they will fit
every key stay high
I frequent for modulation

my bi-polarities
are much like weather patterns
changeling fan blades
clock fire pitter patters
splash back sounds
rain outside

the windows moor themselves
tie onto forced air
new furnace bellowing
an old house’s memories
recited in new lung gasping
an array of freak show sounds
bred bitched stud caged
rickety tiny slivers and
a soul’s rust holding
molecules together
with creativity and cynicism

we each have
an eternal dance
jumping disguise
to disguise
so we may hide
the breathless
we pause and rest
we check to see
if skin has grown cold

my body has always known
it appears and disappears
cycle frenzy to soft rondelet erode

the earth
ash, eon and rain make
the words between senses
perceived limbs
that can surrender
but never be tamed

every name
you give me
is only going
to be 
a paper thin impression
of inks and
wide berth milks
after a moment

a seed once
the soul
to be a known immortality
an immutability
the best kind of song
to be a vessel
or portage
to the truffles here

the movements
and mechanics
of the wind
have me
listening, leaning
bowsprit leading
note to note
into a symphony
rooting for more
tremble veined
wanting and thirsty
kind of theater

where my eyes are always
going to be the flowers
the bitten and bathed
tide by tide
the light that smells
most like me

and my nose is always
going to be the trees
the sentinels and silhouettes
act by act
the scent that looks
most like me


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