Apolgies All Around

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

and a red
shovel

and where we
hide the bodies.

(sorry william carlos)

Sometimes, It Seems the Story is in the Sand

or

foot/prints

written on your feet i find
i have not lived by force of will
calloused be my sense of time
and graceful steps evade me still
in my mind at times i look
and see some imprint in the sand
think the mark once made so shook
the ground, resonated through the land
oft i believe the mark was made
from some free soul’s high will to dance
without design the dancer played
and from the dirt made high romance
once i decried all forms of toil
now i see fault lines in the soil

Last Thoughts on Last Thoughts

or

talking/blues

it's a strange thing to steal
when someday it snows and you feel
forlorn all the way down to the tips of your toes


when the ceiling lights flicker
and it seems like everyone knows:

that your wiring's shorted out,
and the coffee is all gone,
and you don't get a buzz when you sing all your songs,

and the bus isn't coming
you know that it isn't
and the wind's always blowing asking you to kiss it.


the chimneys puff smoke like cigarette packs,
and it paves up your lungs all sooty and black,
and you just can't seem to find the prize in your box of cracker jack.

when the digs are all deeper and
the dog starts to snore
when you think you're a coward and the sun is a whore
who you just keep begging for.

when the brakemen all nod and
they tip all their caps
in their stares you can't help but see:
jazzmen singing scat.
when the train tracks all curl like
news in the fire
and all you got left to be is a murderer or a liar
when your friends all take trains and march in parades
when everyone else ignores the charade
and you're stuck right up there on the balustrade, my friend.

and it seems like it's all coming to an end like
a movie you've seen before
but slept through three times.


or more.

the window pane's staring
making faces at the furniture
and the general orders the artillery with a side of fries
the soldiers sip milkshakes while the janitor sighs
he cleans up the mess like always.

and shakespeare's drunk on turpentine
he won't stop writing sonnets on napkins and bathroom walls
the powerplants burn coal now and
the smokestacks puff and croak to simulate the clouds
lenin’s telling jokes but
he can't remember the punchlines
as batman parks your car and
you're arrested for doing time
when you feel the ground spinning
shaking like a leaf
the trees all look like arteries and
there's nothing underneath
and all the consonants are cold
your demons wear diapers and do as they're told

if three blind mice become three dead rats
and all the black panthers are now domestic housecats
if your architecture's leaning
and you're afraid you're a terrorist cause
you can't tell the difference between your hand and your fist

the spiders start crawling like you knew that they would
and king midas won't touch you (though you think that he should)
several princesses pour you their hearts
but they all taste like kool-aid and stale pop tarts
and you just can't tell what's accident or art

well I don't have any medicine without harmful side effects
liquid fuel and arson
fistfights, drink, and sex
so if you really want to walk away without being broken or bemused
try a different practitioner
find something else to choose
but if you want the better story and your head knows when to quit
if your tongue and eyes salivate but you just can't seem to spit
if the fire in your toes makes your still legs dance
start walking and burning bridges

because your father never needed them