The monkey brain has taken over
Each blade of grass.
Motioning hands over the wet earth.
I take a picture,
I tweak and tweet,
Like share reply.
I divide the day into
The monkey feeds on
The morning dew,
On the reflected afternoon light.
Every night is a full moon
Until the stars are out.
The forks and knives
still reflect the empty porcelain plate
The flame has closed
and the faucet no longer tracks the seconds.
The carton of eggs has already shuffled off,
each leftover shell a promise that was never kept.
When the wisps of night still
swirl around the wind chimes,
The coffee will still brew
The spaces in between are filled
With my own words–
A Sysphian stutter.
Where my hands meet the boulder,
The ink bleeds through.
And I slowly coat the indentations.
I’ve been slack, uninterested. This is an attempt to correct that. A poem a day for the month of April. I’m off to a late start.
Here we go.
When we know little more than a name
wasting away in red
a free moment that glasses over the moon in repose.
I am silent in the bog.
Watching. There is a hope
of limousines and remorse.
Broken rings break constantly.
We come home from the past
seeking abuse of the horn
I am whipped again.
The leather is the bringer.
Frayed among the lashes.
having nothing to say.
“That’s not fair,” she said.
An afternoon sidewalk.
A cafe where
the pigeons come and bus the tables.
Whiskey was spent afterwards
trying to wash away
the syntax of things.
The words become a river
where whispers will only say.
This is missing.
It’s all bullshit and shells.
Empty chairs or pages or
the taste of warm Dr Pepper has outgrown us.
Glass alters the shadow,
it now shimmers on the table top,
the pre-distressed concrete floor,
with all the hints of a broken life.
But they said you were missing.
Hidden under a presidential beard:
guns and top hats,
swimming pools and cocktail dresses.
The simple hedge of mourning.
a glimpse of the blasé.
My fiction is newer than your fiction.
I dream of rustled spines and yellowing pages.
The fit of letters into each box
the fit of a book upon a shelf.
We speak in favors,
the race to fill each space
with words is ungodly.
This is the dream that fell asleep
because we could not wait.
the mouth listens to mercury
capturing each echo on the teeth
tapping the saecula out
be sure to look the oracle in the eye
Come over here.
The vineyard of dreams
The slow rolls and baubles belittle,
Husbands and wives mingle in the abandon.
Tonight we will mine the soil and leaves.
Pressed in, pressed in.
If the stone breaks
if the rough pebbles are broken,
a lattice is stolen in smiles and vows.
We will spit and smoke,
and dance upon you.