Head pushing backspacer
Forever is a road sign
Empty windows feeding your seed
Fragmented vision – indiscreet
Waxing on the good side
Wondrously bowed a King
Stained white dustbowl
Shady blues bus stop
Cruel is a stop sign
When life’s on the run
Freedom is a hole in
Denim back pockets
I hung onto raindrops
That caressed a blurry,
Single paned window
Sitting empty in a dusty house,
Too tall for company.
I flicked white paint
Peeling along the border,
Imagining my memory
Washed away by a doorbell
That signalled good news.
Of course, a dream
Only dreams,
For never has a swan been seen
Basking among scarred lands:
Desolate trees with
Children’s toys scattered,
Left behind in a moments rush
Towards a meaning to all this silence.
A terrible wind
Is blowing through
The house again tonight.
I’m lucky to
Have got on my
Moccasins for extra warmth.
And if I am
Of my right mind
I’ll surely bring out my socks
To keep my toes
And this empty bed
Warm throughout tonight.
Left my memories
On an empty bank today
Singing an old song
And my heart bleeds on
Turned to a broken arrow
Shot through the dark
Loosely wrapped with a
Half written love letter
Leather upon my wrists
Empty and holding it tight
Got a wing on my mind
Baby, I’m doing just fine.
“I’m not that fun”
Said the crescent moon
That wept loudly
Amidst autumn’s leaves
Spread carelessly perfect
On an empty yard
Sitting aimlessly awkward
With such high hopes.
And then thy heart stripped.
Forsooth, a voice sounded;
To gasp, even just for a brief moment
The complexities no shadows
Could reveal.
This is my state of missing,
My left right left
Shuffling to a lone beat
Far off in the distance
With tightly bound vacationers
In a cold and windy coastal retreat.
I’m a window shopper
With four empty pockets.
I’m a full stomach
And nowhere I call home.
A valley, like my mind, may look empty on the inside – void of all that makes up matter. Void of all the mass that builds houses and factories and city roads and flower gardens and traffic jams.
For cannot this still matter? I am lost in a wasted land, and the fight challenges my patience along grated edges of wisdom.
Do you hear the sharp bells ringing? Is this the difference that is ringing, or has freedom finally called my name?
The sheath shall sadly fall apart, ragged from too much use like a cocktail napkin at a lipstick party. History shall not scream loudly here. This is not the bitter pages of a non-fiction picture book.
Here we have wrinkled tin garbage cans rolling lifelessly along unkempt lawns of former princes’, former glory holes that believed in a dream. A lifeless dream built on waste management systems and recycling plans.
So I cannot spoil my food anymore. My valley – running deep – is the chance to be faculty and chief. My valley is the early morning breath and the dying chances. My valley is the shortened season and the wilderness.
My valley is me, and I’ve begun to see.
A needle digs deeper guiding the well worn thimble on
Scaring dogs, singing and howling like Big Momma John
Like she’s snaking about a pale spotlight covered in sequins
Singing the whole time about a blue moon kissing her empty bottle
And filling each patron of the evening with wonderment
A quiet lady, sitting idle at the bar dressed only in pink
Clinks cold bricks slowly about the smoothed edges of her glass
Pulling at her soul for every single bit of truth she has
With high hopes that this very night will reveal all that could ever be
And harness her abandon like the piano pullin’ Big Momma John in
A mood envelops the patrons, sensually gliding from table to table
Touching far reaching itches only elation and jubilation can satisfy
Like the silver lining on a red velvet goblet
Deadly for all those unaccustomed to these desires
And final, like large Gothic keys hung around the undertakers neck
Little almonds
Roll down
Grassy knolls
To find
Empty hands
Waiting
Like eyes
Of a newborn
This is me sinking into the glass that’s empty
Subtle tones flickering off the semi-opaque sides
Autumn yellows and oranges from incandescent bulbs
With smiling faces shifting about the vacant spaces
Of this safe-room-white walled habitation
I was wrong when I sang your song with my sad heart
A slow beating heart like footsteps in the snow
Alone in winter’s paradise
Holding your cold hand as the glass set to stone
And too, by then the glass was empty of mischief
Labelled fun by the secret-book-black marker
That always lay beside your handy-dad bed
Wedding-dress-white sheets and matching pillows
And I was sad about falling through this time
When my step moved with falling’s grace
I was sad about falling alone without you
An early-morning-fog around my empty glass windows
For I’ll keep you satisfied if I took the time
Forever and always inside the skeleton of an empty glass
Sliding down steamed windows
Labeled Heart with stapled messages
Damp autumn orbs of wind blown tears
Settling on semi-opaque sides of window’s emptiness
Emptying my heart and welcoming winter’s vacancies
Sinking into answers in white
