Sometimes I write really awful poetry...
sleep softly in the syllables
darling darling boy
this is the story
the one we were born to tell...
My Mother
she was the liar
I was the murderer
sitting in benevolent silence
the stormy car
the parked silent lot
the same blood
we the unprotected graceful myths
sifting the dusty rubble
for the secrets buried
there
the angels frozen in the asphalt
sodden heavy with
dead mercy
she spoke too soon
The Deerpath
magic magical land
we live ten thousand years
there
sun standing
complacent yet
somber soldier trees
roots like veins
the blood runs red
the blood runs red
dreamers
free from beauty
we mingle with
the angels in the leaves
many a stifled
DREAM
sprang from the ground there.
You were my brother
as it was
this moment of discovery
needle on the point
it can break you down
the spin of a galaxy
tearing at the hem
world too sickly busy
to listen to
the heavy sobs
of growing up
the silent lights of youth
flicker cold
shadows on the floorboards
we were so young
we were so young.
The Suspended Snowflake
a waterfull
rivulets
on your tongue
tip
the monstrosity of the temporary
cities flashed
lightbulbs crashed
to the pinnacle
civilizations fell that night
she grabs
your hand
The Mountain Men
have hands of coal
hard years of work
weathered in their letters
they have forgotten their daughters
they have fogotter their mothers
sons
carved from the veins of coal
the mountainsides
the rocky tides
empires
will suck life
from every valley that remains.
drunk
the vestige of immunity
has scared her mother silly
girl your father's heart
is cracking at the seams
who knew you to be
so heartless
is it you
or is it the bottle
tommorow's recollected
yesterday.
you are good
they tell me
hungry bellied strangers
alike
have whispered your name
make poor
some former complacent life
it was like death
in all but name
if I were to love
what I had loved
now that I love you
neither could be true
neither could be true.
saving souls
oilslicks are lovely
pretty child hops
in puddles of
haphazard pollutants
asphalt rainbows
sin and angels intertwined
between her virgin toes.
night photographer
waits
eyes prowling
on the desert rocky road
where did the owl go?
he has gone home
to his wife
and children three
far away in the shelter
of the redwood trees.
and where have all
the rainclouds blown?
they have no home
no place of their own
jealous of the nighttime owl
refusing the nightime photo prowl.
these moments losing potency
what's to capture
when there's nothing to see?
suitor
forget you
always chasing the wind
she says
the wind
it chases me
he says
I was never strong
born dancers
dancing
fingers grasping
for the breeze.
*all poems from recent journal entries
Haha I will never ever make a living.
