"There's not much doubt in any of our minds that no complete idea springs fully formed from our brow,
needing only a handshake and a signature on the contract to send it off into the world to make twenty-five billion dollars.
The germ of the idea grows slowly..." - Walt Kelly

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

The dark heart

The trees speak loudest
in the early morning,
when thirsts are quenched
and the years pour out -
just weddings and moods
stretched in rippling order.
At night, all becomes tribal
and they dance a strange,
disorderly melody, motionless
as they rend the blazing air.
The seams of the universe
come apart, portals open
in streaks of cold, yellow fire.
It's all cold from this far away.
It's all just wishes, make believe.

Been reading lots of good things lately:

From the first issue of Cloud Rodeo, two poems from Quinn White.

Elizabeth McMunn-Tetangco nailed it in the newest issue of decomP.

My friend Zach is doing good things - this is one of them.

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
OK Go, White Knuckles

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Dealing with it

Done. Eyes like
ghosts of
a shattered bottle,
drunk and discarded,

taped loosely
to reality, no stronger
than a dead leaf
gripping a windshield.

The sun is back
by the time he leaves,
anchor chain cut,
adrift on pavement,

his constitution
bound together
with fading,
fraying bandages,

his past like
an old war wound,
a howling twinge
in every rainstorm.

Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Paul Simon, Hurricane Eye