Friday, April 11, 2014

upon the bark of blossoms


stenciled
cherry bloom upon the gray of blue
trailing the wounded ... the collateral damage
wrapped in ancient calendar pages & lemon balm
does the inside ever match the outside
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Sunday, April 6, 2014

axis part two


sensation sometimes disguises itself 
as 
sophomoric sentimentality
candy apple brightness hurls along causing the hairs to stand up on forearms
trembling to the distant sound of crickets, cellos and bees
what is authentic movement?
the downward-dog of you?
glass crusted 
and
crackled with the dust of unknown origins
reach beyond the tactile first responder
reach marrow deep to scrap the soul fibers of Jupiter from your tongue
oh petty benign graze of presence ....
soothe the night wrinkles
draw a warm bath
and
sing to me of
cerise waxwings & marigold 
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in & of part one

timeless enfolding
syncopated rhythms of petaled tender
we turn inward while turning outward
to sun
to the violet edges of linen old
crinkled clasping of celadon hope to breast full-striving
for the sulfur spring
while doubt circles disguised as stardust
we loom fierceness with hands leaning in ....
how can we tender so to such persimmon fragility
while soothing our own feathered fear & bones?
holding in fractal spaces defined by
lips pressed to peach skin pressing protection white white
lean in
lean in
to love in all it's brilliance
to the cutting sorrow path
lean in ...

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petricor



















sometimes it's easy to abandon all musings
on
cosmic folly & rolling hills
to take up a fist of soil & work the earth thru the passing of the hours
to battle amongst those who can look sky ward and see no stars
see no force there
but blue
to rumble along ignorant of ardor & fascination & truth
merely to delude oneself into thinking that this is how it should be;
hard work and sleep make up the days 
habit follows habit follows habit 
follows
into the yellow chalk-outlined box of tomorrow
until 
something slips,
something tilts ....
into a particle of possibility
perhaps it is a smell on the wind
a song on the radio while strolling thru the frozen foods looking for 
bright green peas and razberries
something awakens in the pit of your chest
the bone of your thighs


the spaces in your heart 
the burn stirs
and you hope and want and yearn and breathe
in
him .
.... and 

all events and passions and senses
collide to entice you to rattle the bars of your cage
to stomp and shout and
mark your scent upon the piece of 
sky & earth
that calls you
home 

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thimblerig










Every breath a lament for the loss of you
every breath
in & out
in:
cerulean sky smoking past my lips, into me …
living in the corners of soft forgotten viscera
is there a time when i am full ?
full enough of wren song & the new grass of April
that
i
cease belonging to myself
instead …
a shell of fire, stars & stories carmen thread
a winged & rooted thing
sitting in the shade on a sidewalk on a cobbled street
in some ancient city
in Spring
somewhere that smells of vellum & apricots
collecting tales
collecting linen minutes
as
the sky beads from my skin
a harbinger of return
and
the intangible alchemy of immortality


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Tuesday, April 1, 2014

the blue jay


a blue jay calls ....
forecasting ,,,?
some feathered crisis pending in the bark-leaf world?
some theft of spirit or source?
an invitation for company?
a subtle shift in geography ...
a blue jay calls
pushing open an ancient door 
left ajar
by spirits thick with the honeyed ordinary
stepping into a forested hollow
replete with apple pie
gingham tomato trees
and
pearled iris purple budding amidst earth-wet
the sweet smell of existence
defines the atomic capacity
to be in two worlds at once
to be incandescently wakened
when a blue jay calls

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Friday, March 28, 2014

dark moon passing

Molten currents
of
stardust ...
ursine scarred
mythos lined
flared intention of wool rising
wooliness ... the kinda that scratches and bites at softer things
like skin and ego
discordant by nature
fealty a fault
no tepid passive dance
tango becomes him
gypsy passion drips from lips and hands onto waiting wounds
grizzled roughness that craves the taste of
chamomile silk on the amaranth of tongue
fight yields
to
transcend
the white spaces weep between the poets words
revealed knowing
transcend this day ....

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