Trash Day

I tug and pull on the black plastic trash can
weighted with damp grass and leaves
scraping the ground with a shuffling rhythm
avoiding the flies

To the curb in the fog of wakefulness
its bulging cracks soon to give way
plaintively aging from can to cannot
before the truck

D

Big fat dropped D
Double D
D that shakes my bones

The only D in Black Waterside
Dropped my D in the 90s
When Grunge was spelled with a D

Nigel's saddest of all Ds
Toco Bell's Cannon....BANG!
Oh my sweetest D

Hard D, Bright D
Desifinado D
Niel sing high D ouch!

Not the same as rumbling D
Thwaping, loose and dangerous D
Slung low and down

Down and Slow

It is a slow heavy-ness
that bears down
on your soul
when you've lost

It is a sharp pain
that won't let you
love again
when the phone rings

It is music
that has lost its sense
of mystery
when the doors close

no air

no air

Under and Beneath

How does beauty manifest itself in demeanor?
With no regard for the skin
The hair
The obvious stuff of Hefnerian sensiblilities
With no regard for movement
Flexibility
The athletic show of bodily preening
With no regard for oneupmanship
Overpowering
The transitory nature of "things"

The steady resolve
The unabashed openness
The unambiguous commitment
The imperfection moving
from here to there and
taking time to look from
side to side and notice
the importance of the passing
landscape stretching into the
distance in the wake of togetherness
knowing that the goal is never
to be reached, but it is in the
striving that we find the mundane
stuff of life bursting with the beauty
of a crashing drop of rain and a
familiar eye glancing away then
back again to find its mark

Still beautiful

Steps

The steps are slow
but right in time
this dance familiar
in my old shoes

New faces, old music
if I were blind......
I could still hear it
and feel the rhythm

Man steps forward left
lady back right
a few times to trod
upon the toes

and away we go.

It's not a downward spiral
it's more of a nosedive
or maybe plummeting

There will be no splashdown
as there is no water
the ground growing larger

9.8 m/sec 2 and still all
this lag time, time enough
to think about it, and sigh

Sundering rend of blood
spilling running off badly
slowly reacting offhand blithely
sinaps retracting otherworldly brain

Half Way

Lead block over head
the creaking ropes and pulleys
thick air in the mid-afternoon
working alone to right the past

muscles aching, burnt on mondays
trembling my dancer's feet
serving my sentence, another nine
take it like a man, my blonde lashes

Dented finger faded now
the trash of memory
still heavy on the end
of my rope

Aquateen nightmare

Mr. Shake get out!!!!
My pool! My pool!
Drinking my beer
Waxing my car

I AM CARL :-0

My Grey Folds Around 1973

Plough the moon!
and turn up your soles.
All the batteries are dead.
Trash in the street.

Remember the space age?
When we were born?
The future was soo close
you could blow it a kiss.

Burn the years!
and batter you souls.
Our rockets are silent.
The grey men are blind.

They lost their verve
for the final frontier.
And became Senators
but I remember when....

Blasting the fire!
Ejecting the stages!
Radio dead zone
to crash in the sea.

The future has come and gone.

Parlez?

Chown
Brattard
Flaglam
Pretund
Narf
Gool (ish)
Plout
Sliefly
Plental

Reddish Brown

Twining the skeet hats
the pinkering hills abrupt
flush with the entrageousness
of mild footprints.

The smarge couple
pretending they are not
middling the yolk of love
almost every week.

Pastorage and greenloom
the backdrop of manic slowness
dwelving on the ordinary
and yet unceasing.

The interloping music pads its rhythm in the east-winged dusk: BOOT boot boot BOOT boot boot boot BOOT BOOT boot boot boot boot Boot boot boot boot boot boot BOOT boot boot

On On On On On On Off

The child won't sleep
he is wakeful and wants
to hear about star wars
and guess the names
of every masked alien
in a fold out magazine.

The child won't sleep
he is giving me his splint
which needs to be washed
and smells of sweaty ick
relating the detailed
instructions of its care.

The child won't sleep
he is playing with some
noisey toy to keep his
hands busy while listening
to a book on CD
with the door half open.

One more hug
One more bite
One more look
One more question
One more tick of the clock

The child is asleep

Shine

I heard you singing
and your voice was sweet and true
the fame is stinging
all the ears are turned on you

Washing line tranny
moonshine and you have your fun
Just one too many
Candy in a current bun

If you could paint it
would you try to paint it green?
your telecaster
missing from the mirrored scene

I drop the needle in the groove
I know the sound is less than perfect
but your golden hair shines
and when I hear your words
I move my lips and wish they were mine
Rejoice in Joyce's lost love
It one he never did find

Your head hit the ground
wouldn't we miss you at all?
without you the sound
stifled by the waters wall

Unforgotten man
and your voice is sweet and true
whisper if you can
all the ears are turned on you

A Denial (for KC)

Eleven years in flash
and hardly a word now
about the voice of
our generation

X
I can't think of a less
apt name for my people's
generation, putting the
FM dial back where
it should be

Great art, poetry, and music
is often wrought of inner turmoil
When all the beauty is given to craft
there is none left for life

My my, hey hey
Mr. Young was right and wrong
all at the same time

As for me, and my fellow Xers
now pushing forty
our rust never sleeps

Hell if I know!
a denial

My Part

We were close once
close enough to see the yellow in the eyes
swimming life of hope
younger than we knew
I never strayed

Now we are all business
money matters and hurt
few words in kind, memory
we imagine it never was
a mural of a hole
on the solid wall

Here at the median
I am waiting for you
knowing that you will not come
once again
never the less

Changing of the Guard

A man loved

Out of his seat
and into the streets
of the world

To know his people
to grow his flower
What a seed!

Now lying in state
the mourners tents
soon to rest in Rome

Soon to be replaced
a new red cap
the color of smoke

But the flower remains
fruit of labor
in the wake

of a dedicated life

February 2003

The silent distance

rolling unperturbed

as the clock ticks



The heavy day fire
steaming in the sea
as spheres embrace



The late crisping air
waving winter's moon
as pear trees bloom