Between the longness of you
And my shortness of breath
Our moon falls into shadow
I was up in your neck of the woods today
Hiking the trails
For a moment I was back in Arkansas
And you were back to being yourself
I know you’re here, somewhere,
Your soul clings to the hills
And your delusions fill the valley
Oh, sorry, in my excitement
I forgot all about informed consent.
You may wanna know:
You’ve Been Upgraded to Muse!
At least I hope it’s upgraded,
It may be a downgrade,
Hell, it’s probably something
You don’t want at all.
Muses do tend to burn fast
And leave craters behind.
I’ve seen enough craters.
Let’s just say,
Being true to my own nature (poet),
I’ll write about things I find intriguing,
Poems without Explosion!
Time of the burning dream
When the air shatters into song
A fracture a shard at a time
When Katana, the Fox, darts from
The wheel well of a melting Karmann Ghia.
And pounces into the Blackwood,
Where the song recedes ghost cold and still
An end point of a configuration space
Of a subsystem spanning subsystems
With fudged and blurred initial conditions
Understood as motionless possibilities.
The clearing strains, and holds, and breaks
Into new songs as Katana smiles and runs,
This time it’s a disused warehouse
Where the cunning sneak drinks or naps
When it breaks the Fox’ll move on
To meditation studios, and dungeons,
Daydreams, and death,
Katana the Nexus: the Binding, the Breaking
I’m not looking for love,
I’m not looking for sex
I’m looking for a poem.
And maybe sex,
And maybe love
You have green eyes!
You have pale blue eyes!
I want to write a poem
But I don’t know what medium
Works best with poetry
Conscious maybe might help
But my pipe is clogged
And the paper clip
I was going to use
Maybe under that silver car
Or maybe someone else
Wanted to write a poem.
the monkey dances
through your yard
into neighboring yards
and out beyond
into a blip jiggle
along uneven paths
cobble stones potholes
fell trees and bones
I don’t know
I thought bereavement was enough
I need to
clarify it down
to the cliche
I’m tired of burying bodies
That’s a given, and my ain’t we all
I’m tired of being surrounded by ghosts
Every breath being a breath for someone else
I’m tired of being amongst the dead
Is that clear enough, cliche enough?
I approach stunned, bewildered
A minesweeper’s brute concentration
Focused on the next step
Stepping aside ghosts
Step aside, make room,
It’s a throng now
Like, at that point
Where you’d feel cursed
If you didn’t know better
I mourn the death of a friend,
And I feel guilty for forgetting,
However briefly, the old dead.
I thought I was coping just fine with yet another death.
Whatever, done this before, no problem, right?
But, maybe not.
I don’t know if I’m doing this right.
I don’t know if I’m using it as an excuse to write poetry
Or exploiting it to reach out
Calm and something else.
Some other feeling
I take these as common signs of bereavement.