Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Another love song


but go out in the hasty silence
of the town that rains

for now
to be a witness to the beat of time

a child
will answer echoes in the concrete underpass

as her mother
waits the rain out in the blue mist of her phone

ride on
past the cemetery and the soccer fields

ride on
when a roebuck leaps across the road

bridging the canal
out into the fields where distant sunlight

lying
like a pall over the far edge of the land

is held
by wind and water in a thousand hands

it never stops
this time but the rain does

and there is nowhere
to hide

(edited 26052015)

Thursday, December 4, 2014

Saturday, November 1, 2014

A Parlay With The Lord

Now, y'all know 'bout Mirko, right? Called him Butch, most of the time. Boy used to rent a room right there, above Ms. Rosy's general store. Did his drinkin' like it ain't wasn't nobody's business Butch did, but gentle too, you know? Never hurt a fly. Could've if he wanted to, though. Big guy. Arms like this. Came back from the war and never was quite right again, boy used to come down to church e'rry Sundy and cry like a baby when Pastor Brown'd go on all 'bout Hell and sinnin' and repentin' in the face of the Lord. Think Old Butch knew more 'bout hell than the preacherman ever did, though. Came a Sundy Butch shot hisself in the head two times. Wanted a parlay with the Lord so bad, doughboy had the wherewhital to squeeze the trigger twice, you know? Yeah, wasn't much 'bout Hell old Butch didn't know 'bout, I reckon. Think on that a bit now. Think on that a good long while before y'all go callin' to bomb Bhagdad or Iraq or some faraway forrin place like that. Ain't no such thing as takin' a war over there, that some poor boy ain't gonna bring right back over here.

Sunday, October 5, 2014

Exactly unlike crystal

a lady walks by
at seven thirty
every day

she's dressed in shades of sun bleached lichen
carrying a plastic shopping bag

her styrofoam bright hairdo
immovable
despite the morning breeze

everything so arbitrary
but incredibly precise
-in almost every way
it's exactly unlike crystal

life spills
from the magpies’ chatter
as the morning lady turns the corner
into other streets

it soaks the early autumn
of my skin and bones
watching from their concrete box
stiff from slightly overthinking

it all depends on everything
and in the end?
-but nothing ever ends

man there ain’t even a beginning