Water rushes past on either side,
a descending pretending montage
I'm paralyzed yet paroxic,
one yet none.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Discomfort
Ever get the feeling you just took a messy crap outdoors only to realize you're in a forest full of pine trees?
Friday, September 5, 2008
An Old Man Walks Circles
My feet muckrake concrete sidewalks
I've walked this circle for more years than I can remember
though in truth there aren't many years I do remember at least lately.
hmmm....what's over there...open door
where's my wife...she denies my addiction
"I used to be in a band, you know. Used to travel the country. Been to St. Louis. Pretty famous, if you knew who we was."
At least I think.
The curvature of this sidewalk is as familiar as the tarnished handle of my trumpet...
"Hey...what's a fish say when he swims into a wall?"
. . .
"Dam! That's a good one, I knew you'd like that one."
You got a cigarette? Don't tell my wife...she doesn't support my addiction.
Quickly now...around the next curve....that garage has a futon and walls like mocha
or the hands of a girl I once knew from a band in Chicago or Memphis
"You're a good neighbor you know...mind if I see your backyard?" I ask. This man...vaguely familiar like a dented road sign tenses up, then releases, looks unsure, but I remember the wisp of a burning tobacco in this garage on the back of a grain of sand running backwards through the glass hour of my life somewhere...and
"You got a cigarrette? Don't tell my wife...she doesn't support my addiction." The man seems to be tiring...my feet shuffle and my shoulders rock as they did in a smoky back room outside of San Arcana before excuse me pardon me past the drummer trumpet in hand
You got a cigarette? The dull ache in my fingers worsens when a storm comes and my days are as muddled as rain soaked sheet music but my wife still won't support my addiction.
I've walked this circle for more years than I can remember
though in truth there aren't many years I do remember at least lately.
hmmm....what's over there...open door
where's my wife...she denies my addiction
"I used to be in a band, you know. Used to travel the country. Been to St. Louis. Pretty famous, if you knew who we was."
At least I think.
The curvature of this sidewalk is as familiar as the tarnished handle of my trumpet...
"Hey...what's a fish say when he swims into a wall?"
. . .
"Dam! That's a good one, I knew you'd like that one."
You got a cigarette? Don't tell my wife...she doesn't support my addiction.
Quickly now...around the next curve....that garage has a futon and walls like mocha
or the hands of a girl I once knew from a band in Chicago or Memphis
"You're a good neighbor you know...mind if I see your backyard?" I ask. This man...vaguely familiar like a dented road sign tenses up, then releases, looks unsure, but I remember the wisp of a burning tobacco in this garage on the back of a grain of sand running backwards through the glass hour of my life somewhere...and
"You got a cigarrette? Don't tell my wife...she doesn't support my addiction." The man seems to be tiring...my feet shuffle and my shoulders rock as they did in a smoky back room outside of San Arcana before excuse me pardon me past the drummer trumpet in hand
You got a cigarette? The dull ache in my fingers worsens when a storm comes and my days are as muddled as rain soaked sheet music but my wife still won't support my addiction.
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