Rushing Air

Serrated bluffs afar,

Self perpetually cascades toward an unknown,

As fate would have it.

Rushing air whirls upwards

Glides past skin, moist

attached.

Shroud of warm dew over

Sun-touched membrane

                                                        seperates

Air from flesh.

Transmuted pale blue overhead,

Receding cloudscape.

Peircing sky evanesces to euphoric rememberance.

Rushing air floods in a stream around this body
                                                                                                de
                                                                                                    tached      
                                                                                                                                  f
                                                                                                                                  a
                                                                                                                                  l
                                                                                                                                  l
                                                                                                                                  i
                                                                                                                                  n
                                                                                                                                  g


~I wrote this several years ago, but it rings true again.

Poem (I Can’t Speak for the Wind)

I don’t know about the cold.

I am sad without hands.

I can’t speak for the wind

Which chips away at me.

When pulling a potato, I see only the blue haze.

When riding an escalator, I expect something orthopedic to happen.

Sinking in quicksand, I’m a wild appaloosa.

I fly into a rage at the sight of a double-decker bus,

I want to eat my way through the congo,

I’m a double agent who tortures himself 

and still will not speak.

I don’t know about the cold,

But I know what I like I like tropical madness,

I like to shake the coconuts

And fingerprint the pythons,-

Fevers which make the children dance.

I am sad without hands,

I’m very sad without sleeves or pockets.

Winter is coming to this city,

I can’t speak for the wind 

which chips away at me.

~James Tate

Sulphur and Iron

Click here for video: Strindberg And Helium With Sulphur And Iron

Sometimes in our despair we forget that happiness is only a small, pink, adorable bubble away. Now I just need Helium to bring me a cupcake. WHERE'S MY CUPCAKE!!!

Lost at Sea

And we pass like two lost ships in the night  

No navigation to guide us,

blindly adrift in complete darkness 

Each hoping we choose our course wisely

Each hoping the stars will guide us to harbor

as soon as the cloud cover disintegrates

The only sound; dark as oil tide rhythmically lapping against the hull

And the stark sea splitting with each movement forward

To never know where shore is

Nor the sharp rocks that mean our demise

To never know where the sparkling blue of home waters lie
leaves one bereft

Each captain praying to their respective gods

That a trusting crew has not been led to a cold and listless grave,

never to be found

Deck hand's names carved into the limestone on the shores of a foreign land

The stuff of legends

What now?

Dexter; a Tree

Seattle Subway

somewhere

strange jane

strange costume, wearing a strange face

white dress, red shoes

black hair, black eyes, black heart

poor elijah

drawn on lines to disguise trembling eyes.

under a stark, black t-shirt,

lies a pink, naked heart

somewhere is a strange place

a place where the sun glares through dark gray

a place where the costume decays

and all that remains is raw gospel

Black is the Color

A Trying Day

Daybreak and already the onslaught knocks on my headboard

To sleep is to ignore.  I hit the snooze button.

Before long Michelle Norris reminds me of all that transpired while

I was dreaming about rubber duckies floating on tiny marshmallow waves.

Car bombs, personal trangressions of prominent world leaders,

The Englishman who ate a thousand nettles to prove he was a man

Remind me my dreaming self is gone.

Good morning world!

I brush my teeth in the utility sink and and have a nagging feeling I’m a failure.

Shit.  The rest I do on automatic. 

I put on the face expected and the attitude expected like a well worn mask.

Normalcy takes the reins…10am coffee break…taco truck lunch…back to the grind.

Michael Jackson died today and I feel sadder than expected, but tell no one.

Listened to Dirty Diana 4 times in a row on the train.

Looking out over the water as I cross the bridge

I consider Alfonsina Storni and that last fatal  slow stroll into the sea

And wonder if I will ever want anything with that much conviction.

Then the sun hitting the water blinds me suddenly.

Sunshine is overrated, who wants to see this mess lit up anyway?

Pike Place Creamery

Rummage Hall, Pike Place Market

Rummaging for Self Worth

Maggie, wearing baggy dollar bin sweatpants, stringy blond pony tail and sticky palms Her junkie boyfriend swaying in the wind like a used car dealership windsock man,

Stops at  bank of newspaper stands and thinks

Maybe this is where I left it

Buried in the nickel want ads and escort service flyers

Her ragged hands, a finger wrapped in a cigar ring (a sign of Junkie’s affection),

Search through stacks of papers and words for that moment when she went from

Waitress to Junkie’s girlfriend, street rat

She meticulously collects each free weekly in her shaking arms

So she can peruse them later,

When alone,

She can get down to the business of finding what she lost

Moon and Calacas

I'm Wondering What's Over There

To blog or not to blog? I felt a need to share...stuff, so here you go world.