When I walked out to the old log barn
I heard a friendly call
Two little lambs looking for food
Litte orphaned bottle bumpers
They met me as I swung open the door
And stepped into their excited embrace
Which was full of expectation that
I came with two bottles of milk.
My reason left a black mark upon that open door
It reached up, seared the roof then clambered about the floor
Dragging it’s hefty tail each step along the way.
Lamenting, I cried into the rain splashing about my ankles
Until I made a lonely call that brought back each raven
And there we sat in harmony, speaking to each other free
As my marking upon the door began to float up, on, out the door.
When glasses are heating back spaces
And love’s been ticking empty pages
It’s been a long night again.
But when the moon’s light lets me
Hold onto what little I’m left with
Can I see the way your eyes look again?
You can call me when it gets you
Has it been enough to forget you
To the door that never lets us in.
Dance, like it’s been played out
And I will never fade out
Forget just how that moonlight
Used to rise and shine without you
And then it’ll be midnight
As silence closes it’s doors
And symphony erupts in scores
I listen attentive to
Catch each source, each hymn
Like dominoes it begins
First here, a call
Then there, and there, and there
Into what feels like
The whole lake’s edge alive
Conductor’s up, stage is set
Violins have all been tuned
To which my eyes then slowly find
Moonlight, and silence again.
I held a spoonful close to my mouth
Sips of whatever I had coming again
Tightly packed for a business trip
In a car with four doors
Fingertips and a medicine bottle
And a spoon held for too long.
Take me down a river road
Cottonwoods and wheeping willows
Blowing in the wind
Long lamented tailwind signaled
Our swift departure – forward
With an essence upon my lips
Holding on to my silver moon.
I carried your tobacco pipe
Like a diamond on my mind,
Two puffs and a closed grip
Ricochet all security
Through the back door:
And we pass it on
As night songs
From a holy tent with a view
That lisps night skies
Through dreams of a far off land
But hold me, hold on
Hold the flowers
Growing here so wild
In the palm of your hand
Until it stains your closed grip
The colour of my dream.
Framed, I calculated an unnerving amount of resistance that spread like wildfire into Westward directions, of which of course I had no control over yet still tried to impart my wisdom and hence strength into the combined force of what I could not really understand.
So from A to B related my conceptualized compassion that hadn’t yet fully been realized, described as it may have been impartial as it was, was released into the atmosphere that concluded the segmented destruction I had begun at once, since I was always hanging around at the door.
Did you mean it?
I, for one, hadn’t lied since the conceptualized rhythm had taken hold of my toes and left me writhing aimlessly upon the cold, hard floor encircling my conceptualizing and leaving faint ellipses of my heated innards, heated imprints of smudging recollection slowly evaporating.
Yet you. You. You you you you you! You hadn’t had a word of truth since your mother siphoned ink drops from your stained fingers to extract what viciously romantic letters you had sent to the tightrope walker of your dreams. How could you remember such blithe moments of innocent lust, only scattered in pajama pants of a sleep-over with two bottles of soda pop rattling against nevermore.
So I thought my captain’s hat was an excellent choice to begin my journey with. I thought my heart had a marvelous lagoon illuminated by fireflicking effervescence – like lightening bolts for my neurons jitterbugging their way past each other in such a hurry A to B, A to B, A to B to one two three for I am lost in the conceptualized space of lighting bolts upon the cold tiles of this broken bathroom’s shore.
Framed, I left no remark, no emblem, no Saturday night band-aid to recollect seashells from the forest floor – blown. No deafening roar lifting up my coattails I had left begging at the door. No satin sheets too stained for use and frayed at the edges in bad need of delicate iron’s pour. No guilt nicely crumpled up inside a warm cocoon, marsupial, canonized, capitalized, heavenly guilt-free and framed, alone with torment.