She’s become a rich thud
On the inside of my stiff rib cage,
A desert dweller
Wrapped in a long scarf
Elegantly colored
But wind torn.
Her footsteps stretch from
Slightly blurry horizon lines
To a place not far from me,
Not too close.
One step behind
One step ahead.
So the dust rolled on
And my footsteps I would have liked
To trace back my heart steps
Casually covered over
With waves I vaguely recognized,
Which feigned my heart
Like a sticky leaf
To the inside of my rib cage.
Tag: dusty
Toughness (day 1752)
What a long, dusty road it becomes
As I snake my cool eyes towards limitless skies
And bull horns I’ve worn well
Emanate a toughness
I don’t want to carry anymore.
Another Day (day 1721)
I am a little sentiment
Of ever growing resentment
Lost in a pond of gray
I’ve floated off on another day
But if you walk with me a while
I’ll show you how, erstwhile
I was once a former self
Lost amidst a dusty shelf
Practicing Wizardry (day 1569)
Wizards are taking turns cracking whips at higher shelves,
A lost umbrella serves as a dusty stepping stone.
When did he ever know his heartache?
A landslide, at the base looking up standing tall.
Can the old boys help anybody now,
Since there’s a guardian knocking all them down?
There’s a wild side whenever anybody’s holding on,
Take a look now, tomorrow’s rhythm of any song.
Inner ambition’s little sister came to say hi amongst terrible rubble.
She cried big elephant tears until socks upon giants grew ears.
Dusty sorts, way up there, but important bits reside beyond the whip,
Enough so, that a lazy angel has taken it to be her resting place.
Leather bound and locked without a lock.
Page four houndred and seventy three.
Journey’s End (day 1559)
A road as a passing song
Carried our fearless warrior on,
Deep as a jungle far
A dusty trail,
Hidden but not gone.
When the road turns its wiles away
Heavy hearts jump and start to say:
“Adventure is this that we have,
One and all, to journey’s end!”
So press on forth
Deepness within,
Make passion journey’s begin.
Grandfather’s Shop (day 1557)
A sentence was all I wrote
On a dusty pad of paper
Laying on the old workbench
Inside my late grandfather’s shop.
I knew he was still around there,
He spoke to me in hanging machine parts
Scattered about full walls.
Then I whispered goodnight
And turned down the lights
Making sure the heavy door
Was shut the way he’d shown me how.
All Night Long (day 1458)
There are leftover bottles
Sitting on a dusty piano
Forgotten in the corner
Singing heartfelt bluegrass
To drunken loners
Habitually smoking
Leftover cigarollas
From playboys and their lovers
Who wore deep pocketed holes
In a beer stained dance floor
That sang hip songs
From an old jukebox
With burnt out numbers
Shuffling in the corner
All night long.
A Hazy Memory (day 1304)
Whispering as the highway rolled on
Curling around giant pillars
To big to divert.
Azur shades reflected memories
That hazed along waves of transilluminescence.
Small shapes far off in the distance
Brought imagination to present
That click-clocked believable thought.
Dusty blankets draped loosely
Over tall shoulders held proud,
Warm tea wafting around the room.
And an old dusty broom
Leaned lifelessly up against the
Wire mesh make-shift windows.
Drugs in Mom’s House (day 1145)
A passive sales strategy
Sitting lonely on my mother’s couch
Wriggling into uncertainty
I watch through a dusty glass
Tripping all the alarms
Tipping the Chancellor off
To an undercover sedated tragedy
And Earl wandering.
Smokey-Joe pan-handling
And I’m a lonely gravity
As a slow song plays
Like apple cider vinegar
Going straight to my heart.
Transition From Hurt to Love, and then Back Again (day 1092)
..And there were golden letters.
[Can I finally tell you?]
Like streams lapping mossy brooks,
To which my gloss rolled over.
In spite my anarchy,
My self propulsion…
Towards your grace.
I left slipping,
Jumping to and fro
Unto my broken jaw,
Lifelessly turning me over
Into airbrushed aluminum oxide.
Geometrically tracing
My bloodless sorrow
Into triangles
[Non-conducive triangles]
That weaved my sorrow
Into perfect pitches
[Acute pitches]
Hallowing my desire
Into five unspoken pledges,
Five needle point succulents
Layering my borders
Like foggy rolling alcoves
Set deep amongst
Cool summer’s afternoon
Wheeping willow rushes
– faint memories about this seascape –
But my layered angles sheltered me
From petty hearts that soothed me
To make my sleepless nights
Ever lonely, evermore.
A riddle I can’t play just so.
But lighting candles
That broke into my bedroom
And watched my brow quiver
As morning wretched it’s yawning
About the dusty trails,
I traced an even pathway
In triangles, forever faster
Until my morning had at last come
Filled with ancient rhythm.
Eyes so better clearer
Than one thousand lenses focused
On a heart so muddy [clearer].
I held onto my breath
Until anxious had subsided,
For I could not remember
What words had come before it.
And in such built excitement
A heart did flutter on,
Lost but not forgotten
Into books of golden letters
– Bound with broken arrows –
That felt so narrow holding
Pieces of leather’d sorrow
[Remember bloodless triangles]
That wept a stainless trail
From deep within desperation
Into worn hands of a savior
Who whittled out a triangle
To feed alotted perscriptions
With ever nimble fingers
Soaked in rosé water
And dried with ancient scrolls
Written in a forgotten language
That told of a lost soul
Who pledged a life to quill
Written in golden letters
And tied with broken arrows.
Words he’d lost to scrolls.
A heart he’d bled for food scraps
To feed his lifeless voodoo doll
Filled with needled pin holes
And scarred with a single triangle
Between worn out eye holes.
And written just below it
In tiny golden letters
Was ‘dia de la muerte’,
And the eyes all turned to sun
That grasped their holy language,
Blinding them to forgiveness
In smokeless trans-am tires
With a golden eagle flying.
This was not the end of stardust,
Not a burning pledge for Satan,
Not midnight’s showdown in dusty boots.
This was the last redemption hour,
A stained wedding gown and laughter.
And two boots made of leather
Tied tight with broken arrows,
Tracing triangles in the dirt
At gun points scary tremor.
Written neatly in a book
In perfect golden letters
Signed only with a triangle.