to take and not get back

and all of the fury
drips down
like shutter paint
on sills that
New England mornings
won't take inside the womb
and make comfortable
with slippers
tall scotches
packed pipes
dog pants of
obedience and
floppy, floopy ears
Rockwell paintings gone awry
I have lived them
you say 'no'
you think they do not exist
not in minds
not in kinds
not in paintings hung high
not in me
not with me
New Enlgand mornings
complete with greyed out
mornings of Rockport dismal
the days of black out
the days of Bearskin Neck
Hannah Jumper coaxes
necks to be hung and cut
but no one does
they buy you more drinks
and no one seems any wiser
except on the days of spouse birthdays

what is LA all about?

trebuchet my love
whip it back
and call me a name
that no other could
and all the while
the match stick men
collide and collaborate
in my den
with pipes a flared
and book spines groped
as if in Never Land
and the ranch is only miles away
yet the ones that figure out
what could go down
are only left in lawsuits
that seek no fruition
and only a simple gesture
of what the Laugh Factory could
encompus as the 'N' word
and what that might mean to us all
if we only stopped to wonder
what a word meant
if we only meant them at all
or took the time
the pure simple time
to write them down
and caress them like children
babes in cloth
sweet times of innocense and simple thought
easy interpretation
and awfully awful days
need be to us all
yes, need be indeed

talk with a girl preacher; a simple, satisfying talk

sterile the thought
simple the day
little known from
where it once was
and there are the days
littered in lingering sunshine
and thoughts of forlorn forefathers
and all of the such
that make young boys cry
and weep for better saxophone solos
that make leaves fall from trees
and make horse shit
pick itself up
from parkways
and driveways
and all the other ways
in which we travel
little girls squeel
and hold tight each other
at the thought
the simplest thought
of too many candles
too much wax
too much fire
contained in the heart
of a man that shook His hand
and took it for what it is
through all of the days
all of the nights
and any time in between
anything once known
all welcome and read through out
John,
John the Baptist
I can hear the notes
and the paper waivers
and shakes about
in a breeze that was never meant to be there
not even in the typing

what happens to snowmen that never become men?

surly white snow
and all of it's fixin's
gathered in flakes
and drifts and the banks
with salty dirt piss stains
of brown, yellow fancy
like the rottened out teeth
of stinking bar whores
with their menthol 120's
and angry little drinks
containing nothing but booze
the ether escapes
from twixt the gaps
and 'tween the gum holes
like reverse vacuums
of reality's shortcomings
anouncing to the world
that reality's limp
a little smidgen of post
that doesn't last long
but likes to pull hair
and obscenely scream out
making the neighbors
bang on the walls
the pounding
the pushing
the screaming and yelling
and that's just the neighbors
fighting the sounds
and found down and out
outside the room
is a yellowed out snow bank
seeking to melt
wishing to crawl quick
into the bedroom
and gaze ever so briefly
at violent love

full range regret

warming back up to quick thoughts
like a mesquite cowboy
with well worn leather chaps
covering dungarees
before they were jeans
holding nothing but a stick
to stoke the embers bright
for the pot of beans
that will never reach tasteful
and only be consumed
out of need to ride the night
into dawns filled with sage
like dresses so dirty
they should not be worn
by the girls in the towns
so far away
from the burning black cauldron
of quick thought beans
and how they might taste

hidden infatuation

salty marimbas
that don't amount to much
on the shelves of bossa novas
that never happened
not even in the imagination
of Isaac Azimov
or any of his thoughtless thoughts
the ones he never wrote of
the ones he hid under his bed
and only pulled out
when the day was done
the side burns just so
the slacks hung so
prim and proper by the bed
on a hanger that wishes
it was not just Azimov
but rather the thoughts
he never thought
and the words never used to express them

sideshow afternoon

foliage of another time
garden walks wind up in filth
the dirt of the day
caressing molestations
in the grass, in the bush
days forgotten
days remembered
blended and shredded all at once
a Cuisinart of emotion
a flury fury
a simple gesture
from a jestor
makes one explode
with the grime and grit
the gorged glutton
explosions for all to see
you need only pay a nickle
and no one yet has seen the buffalo

swimming lessons

eyes burnt out
with hot metal fury
hot medal fury
fury indeed
never a need to hear again
nor the need to see
shut it all down and cry
cry tear drops from your mouth
disguised as drool
so no one knows
no one at all
keep that mouth moving
open, shut
open again
hold your nose tight
dive into the pool
don't breathe
can't see
stop and smell the underwater flowers
all the while they wonder
'what does he know?'