Some  sages  go

(A whispering wise guy softly, so surely said)

“Misspent love  went on to lonely”

“Misspent love  went on to lonely”

Ready made for Radio Emo

.

Bookmarked  old  pages.

I can refocus  the fogs.

Someway stay clearly on course.

I’ll motion towards  sprays of moonwords

(Really)  I’ve moved before  from here before.

I can come to feel at home.

Then some really lonely songs share firesounds.

 

 

 

Inexactly, a drinking priest,
You’d think he, at least & at last,
Classically, might be caught in
(Necessarily) tight vises
Of  crisis’  of  faith.
.
Vacuously, I’ll see it’s not
Necessarily true.
Knowing the knowing needs
the slowing some
the clogging some
of logic to help the heart sing through
.
.
.
(for Graham Greene & Tennessee Williams, & their wondrous torturous sermons)
.
.

.

 

 

 

(FROM YEARS & YEARS BACK)

C A S K

April 6, 2018

There’s a cask of Chianti

With Leo Da Vinci

On the label like it took from a notebook

But my curiosity sought the imagery

My  thirst  might  evoke.

.

The cask stands upon a piano

Like a candle in the window

Not a word about the new chords

Almost heard in the darknesses, a solemn oath

Not a word about the new chords.

B L U F F

December 15, 2017

 

 

 

My god my marygold

You’ve had such a holy hold

On this old drifting imagined world

You’ve banged open the till

Abundant with bundles  apparent now

Inside this  2-lane roadside  joint

Trucks rocketing by

You’ve had such a holy hold on my

sprouting spouting spurting words of my own godly modern love/

My own heart murmuring/ my idleWild  chit chat/

My own head concurring nodding plodding plotting

“Don’t take this cup from me”.

I can ante up.

What I can bring to the table.

What I can ad lib/ to fib  my own fable.

.

.

.

.                                                            (from 5 or 6 years back)

OF FINAL NIGHTS

July 16, 2017

 

 

 

The taste of  spray,

Back splayed against the lighthouse wall,

Is saltier/ The roar of  final nights

Saddled on sea wall gusts

Is Fiercer/ When strength one requires

To withstand and understand  such threats

Is steadier/ The beacon’s cliff path

Is grounds for  light/

.

.

.

.

.

(from 2011)

 

BREATHING EXERCISES

June 29, 2017

 

 

I.

She won’t roll away & not watch me.

Y’see, I won’t  seem to take,

When I dream (or I wake).

to take  another breath  before

The scene fades, before

lights go up

then down  to more of a zoom.

She waits in our bedroom for me to resume.

II.

We went to go to a yoga class.

Where a barefooted, hairpleated group leader;

beautiful, and calmer than a

merciful last coma,

She insisted that our deep breath is

the gist of all of it  (within, & out).

We rearrange the short & tall of it.

The Gist to change the depth, see,

of our sea of possibillity.

When we inhale

we rememorize  our own gods.

We exhale our hell.  barefoot.  on a mat.

Whew. To all that.

III.

When I get to go to the Gulf of Mexico

I’ll try out  into the drink,  1st thing.

I’ll try not to think when I try to let go

&  sink when I deadman’s float all day,

into what I think of as a spiritual drift, in a way.

I’ll hold onto my breath,

face down,

head down.

 

PRE-POETRY

May 31, 2017

Foraging is one way we fauna

Have found purpose in all this breathing

We’ll search, and trust that sustenance

Will surface to topsoil in time for reverence

.

.

.

 

 

(unfinished)

F O R G E S

May 1, 2017

 

 

 

 

 

 

There ought better be a beacon
on a pacific coast cliff could be
where hope’s light works with sea horn
where a night light works without warning
It forces & forges  the blackest  fog & forests
There can be a candle
in a window with enough heat
to fire the hearth
to light one lone solitary stone room
.
(from 2010)
.
.
.
.
.
.”Writing is nothing more than a guided dream” -Jorge Luis Borges

 

OLDE FACADES

March 22, 2017

West, we rode & wrested away of, save the olde facades of   Savannah.

When in Jesus-sodden Southern Georgia

Some sign solomn told me  “try him”,

I ran & ran that mantra by

& waited ’till my lips straightened.

.

Here,  I take my sweet (& dear, fleeting) time

Rake  up  raw  data…

 

.

I’m readyish I guess for you to take my order

.

 

N E W

March 13, 2017

i)

M  U  C  H

often it’s uncertain   to see,

to see the true things through,

but certainly sometime’s there’s time

when surely much of what’s new

when noticed might matter

to you or rather

to me

.

.                    ii)

.

D  U  E

I fear I forget that the frail,

nearly unable, but

when a whisper of   Will…

when they muster an incalculable

measure of  reach

to straighten, and lean up

for what’s due.

That’s alot to wait for

.

The Freshest thing in the clearing

by the pond’s sunk boat,

near a nest,  There’s this ringing

drop, possibly  just now dotting

one leaf,  left  just new

by all the dew

That’s what I wait for