Biscuit bushes crash my landing
Stumbling from here to there
Upside down maps in a field of grass;
Whatever the cost.
Twin bed of memories;
I couldn’t sleep tonight.
I couldn’t crumble my formulated wealth
Into sub-sectional mastery.
But if I was a truth say’er
Gifting this shit into inexperienced hands…
If I was withered like soul-less dumplings
I’d be the better man, smoking gaily.
Mischief lept into the hands of death,
Startling perched birds
Into instant explosions skyward.
It drew the sounds of wings
Squabbling on,
And following the commotion
Into the sun
Blindness crept in
And faith began to recoil
Sinking slowly into nevermore
When my sun rises over East
I sit at my bench and wait
And whisper to my gods in prayer
To bring me all their rain
So that I can find the strength
To hold my head high again
And if my bare hands I shake
That worked the earth for seven long days
Should hold in them a crying shame
Then it shall be for me, forever rain
To wipe away these falling tears
Before my sun sets again
From my bench I sit and wait
Little almonds
Roll down
Grassy knolls
To find
Empty hands
Waiting
Like eyes
Of a newborn
Lines worn into my curled hands
Write stories about these barren lands
Cris-crossing my page
With dried, sweet smelling sage
Listening to fading sounds of the band
We smiled and held hands
Walking through the rain
With a dollar store umbrella
Bending backwards at the knees
But that’s ok
Because we’ve got our Vancouver
Take away coffee mugs
Gripping tightly to the warm feeling
That’s slowly enveloping
This Saturday morning
Satisfaction
I’ve unconditionally surrendered my old favorite sweater
It’s ok, I like her
But… there’s something about it
There’s a beat-up-rusty-truck memory
With worn seats – yellow foam surprises
You know, a once-was-navy-blue bench seat
Shift-knob-black that knows my sentimental touch
Caressing like I’ve driven her well
Like I’ve taken care not to drip gas-o-line
Checked the oil twice a month
And kept the tires at an even thirty five p-s-i
Perhaps the memories are shared with
These in-animate things
These pieces of fabric and steel-workers toil
That warm those chilling days
That don’t quite sit flush the whole way down
Letting familiar drafts rush up the back
Hands in my pocket
Perhaps this is why I smile when she’s wearing it
After all, it’s alright to let these things
Live a life of their own
To sit me down and coo in my ear
Hot chocolate and unconditional
Kind of love
A motionless saunter through the cold grass leaving footsteps every bloody place that I go and picking up my feet without tying up the laces because the gloves on my hands are too warm and the air is too cold but the path ahead is shaking and quivering in unrelenting uncontrolled mastery non-mastery in spite my insistence on leaving my hands out of their pockets to fight this urge to cower and shelter from the brutal elements hoping to bridge the gap between strength and toughness without too many frost bites but this is ok because I read about it in a book that told me I should and it told me it’s valiant and it told me I can walk on coals with bare feet too because the skin between my toes is too soft and could use a good toughen up but oh my look at that large dog walking down the now covered in leaves path about to jump up on me because I treat it like a human being and acknowledge it’s existence for who in their right mind wouldn’t want to jump up on me with such an acknowledgement but you know the dog is so friggen big it’s like a young man feeding must be expensive is all I can think as my steps trace up the frozen tarmac slipping on the thin layer of ice hardly visible and highly wavering but all is good because I’m about to peak this crest and stand for a moment on the highest point and survey my kingdom for it is my kingdom for it is my kingdom for it is my kingdom that I survey due to my commitment to walk the coldest slippery path in all the woods in the mornings before the dusk has settled in and after all of the leaves have come flying down to the maker of their fate named gravity and decay and decomposition and footsteps along the singletrack path between the naked branches of thinner than I thought birch trees awaiting the bounty of springs sunshine because I’m not ready to give up on the year yet I’ve got plans to formulate and materialize and time to waste and sleep to never catch up on and a nice warm cup of coffee around noon because I’ve begun to let down my guard for certain things as I raise my guard for garbage and consumption and waste and destruction of our land this land my land my kingdom I saunter through on this cold frosty morning good morning world good morning world good morning world get up and go now take it off.
Her hands will die
Maker’s shoulder
Sifting clean sheets
Un-kept wicker
Lie not to her
Monotonous
Cold cold flower
Hold not wishes
Wind blows strong here
Lives hold on with
Tall tall top hats
Blurry shading
All I’ve covered
Dying grasses
Loudly told me
Surrender youth
Make me love her
Dying oak tree
Make me cry here
Falling dead leaves
Take me home my
Lonesome lover
Take me past all
Reverie then
And if this aye
Shall swerve this goat
To set me free
Shall make an end
Then ere warned
Five thousand shorn
A gooses neck
Death brings this end
Things I’ve left behind
Oh, things I’ve left aside
I’ve walked along the road
And down, down, down the ol’ block
Hands hidden deep
Beneath layers upon layers
Oh why did I sleep
Why did I take that lonely step
These times as they’ve left behind
Oh things I’ve left behind
Drag on the changes of my mind
Where does it go
Tell me, where does it all go
When I’m occupied
Searching for changes, aside
Oh, the things I’ve left behind
Why did I stop, time on my mind
Stumbling down this block