tramps like you

we were a couple of turnpike head turners,
young buck hunters, spruced up springsteens,
high fiving our high heeled wild sides. hearts slow
drip skipping as we raced the rising sun on our last lip gloss runs.
we were name takers, ball breakers, cum fakers, 'til we were done.

and gave the streets back to the newest ditzy tit sinning minis,
changed the locks on our legs, and went home.

smoke on the water

the sun slumps low
drags the tide down with it
and the harbor smells hung over,
hurled up, sour, locked out on the stoop.

this april just hangs on us;
wet laundry draped from the door knob,
the morning after our long moans got drowned out in the concave of one another's mouths
and the fog steamrolled over our sound.

Sapiens

I was made in the shape of a man, with few exotic features;
neither beak nor paws, nor anything adventurous,
but my opposable ape thumbs
remind me that there are other things I may have been.

At night, I always feel less human,
like the darkness releases the wild;
the reservoir is filled again
but with a savage, seething current.
But as night recedes into the morning,
I freeze, now solid, frost-capped ice,
deception known to every human.
I expand beyond my animal constraints
and hairline fractures bloom in my beginnings.
I am no longer instincts and evolution;
I am more and more and somehow better
until night, when the myth is once again dispelled.

The power of expression seems to dull and darken
our understanding of the roots of our behavior,
those most basic processes, what we have come from;
I regret the loss of pure primitive midnight, where we were once beasts,
a template for raw existence, nothing more.

This poem is supposed to have given spaces, but the html will not do it justice.

Animal Sounds Jolted

When something was wondered by curiosity
what that was a cat peaks a bed-head out
of the mid-night door in to a light binged hallway
square blank folded short playhouse vision nothing.
Curiosity side-
Steps and the writing voice thinks about words and
forgets the :: pop :: sound in the hallway
remembers
going back in self-removal
sad rope j u m bl e
of cords tangled chargers.
Likes the sound after all.

Fairy Tale

She feels like Sherlock Holmes has been combing her hair
All full of sleeping moths’ metamorphisizing inside her
Mysteries keep cutting out the electricity
On the edge of a verb
She could feel the devil dancing
To the rhythm of thunderstorm tongues
Wet with metaphors
Now shame is the shadow of love
And Sherlock Holmes is kissing her nipples
Twanging tongue to fire thigh
Cause freedom is a fleeting feeling
With the forest wedged between herself and the world
Deconstruct the layers
While she shifts to lessen the pain

young voice

The kids bang to the beats,
Skateboard to concrete,
Beer panhandle, land in on two feet.
Their wet ears can’t hear it
Rebound sounds of old poets spoken.
But I recognize that tongue,
My own mouth was once,
Young.

i find that this is the only pace:
aging bones and growing wrinkles.
a picture of the world upon a single face,
and time - the difference.

i find that there are many shapes,
 and many instruments that create them;
 fires for the forging make the dark a lesser place, 
never again so oppressive or binding.

sometimes, the people in my memories blur,
as if one could be another could be a third;
and sometimes, my memories aren't memories at all
but ghosts pretending, out of line with reality,
molded from formerly accurate shapes,
replete with embellishments.

i study these fictions as truths, 
the two now indiscernible like distant shadows ,
the rate at which they multiply absurd.

And ya see planes are coming down faster
Than I can catch em them.
Places I never knew the names to are smoking,
Smoldering, sweetly and then not
So sweetly , in me.
Leaving me heaving,
For once not weeping
Wishing water please, sweep
These trees into a cool sleep so I can speak
Freely.
Once again.

ongoing project not done yet

Gonna go months with a mouthful of gonnas,
‘til I get a good jaw on you.
I won’t even bite a bit of skin
I’ll just save it all for the mosquitoes
to tattoo their red map upon
and just gibber jabberwocky,
sleep softly

******

I can’t even remember my dreams anymore
And you look at me as though that is some
kind of problem
Well fuck you, okay?

I never was one for real words
So allow me to quit rapping that poetry pipe.
Lets just say your words make me wet


******

And oh the rusted tops of pick up trucks.
Musta been a hundred and one suns that day,
And you
all stupid in the eye with gold spun tales
of a thousand well worn punches where people love you so hard
they hafta hit you.


I don’t know
I don’t know
I don’t know

Y’all

******

Maybe all words are just a song:

If his is dee dum dee dum dee dum.
If hers is diddy dum diddy dum diddy dum.
Mine is dum dum dum.
A dull drum.