no not that

here not then

now now, no no

too late

wrong color

wrong tone

wrong black and tan wire wrapped around the phone

i love that, i hate this

screwing up my courage to type the word kiss

hamper your temper and still sharpen the blade

no one can never know how the light lines are made

gardens of gerunds and sultans of nouns

everything lost when the red marble’s found

no  wrong, too late

a heart sigh too much

i hate what you make what i make what these make

what clatter is the matter when the three day bread can only break

all there is is this

this i hate all i have that i have is this

i hate your this

i hate your that

jealous and sour and howling cravat

stop

stop this

stop that

too late

uncork the prophet
and come running for payback
still gunning down interlopers
cotton thieves outta stayback
wiggle my toes and rummage around for flows
hoping i’m still beating when my heart already knows
song of the vandal, coming back to ramble
leaving my gleaming all screaming on the bramble
home of the brave and cost of the knave
and singing down august and hoping the joker’s played
i hope you have time and I hope I find mine
and I hope the clock’s still running when Frog’s down in the mines
luck in the scandal, trust in the vandal
legends are burned like any other candle
stars fall and i’m still dreaming
hand across my face and the gear-work still scheming
hand on the blade and fog in the glade
and this is the only meter that matters when the psalm is played
hum it with me and remember me best
when the sun is down and autumn is creeping into my chest.

[Originally posted over on verses.site – a new social media thing for poetry, I guess?]

unlikely and tritely
and measures of soup
who knows the ketchup man
when he’s covered in goop?

stop in the rain and pound in the sun
my heart is a rolodex and the time never runs
frank like my idol, can’t scratch the vinyl
keep chattering and nattering i say when the mix is final

worlds like birds that flap and then are silent
i hunger for the wonder but feel only the violent
blood that spills and pumps through my caustic veins
brown earth choking and the black water all that explains
my inability or responsibility to mutter more matter then one or zero
flashing on my screen, hoping that this syllabic construct’s the hero
i duck and dive and stay alive
slurp down the sugar and wander through the bee jive
is it me or my environment
that remembers where the echoes went?
did i make this place or did I make this face
or do i face this place so i can contemplate disgrace?

same rhyme same story
don’t care, cut me Hal’s piece of glory
sinner covetous, young man grown older thus
howl at the moons and remember the brittle trust
i once had for the turn of the page
the child’s love for the step on the stage
the horizon never dies and Vash never lies
but i’m left in ash running short on supplies
burn out the heart but leave me the rest
nothing in here but rubble that’s double blessed
hold and hold and hold and hold
name of the game and the player’s old
but still i remember a long way from december
the sun is hot and can lead to distemper
i chase down the beat and dream through the heat
singsong radiation keeps me humming in the street

i’m coming home
always back to where you start
unlock the clock
and tell this shaman where to park
brown and gray a song of the elder days
turn up the radio and hope that tune still plays
singing in the dark pines
hoping that I have the time
press me in brick and I’ll paint you in steel
quiet is kept when the Future’s Past is real

ink is poison and

tongue is granite

and

can’t stop hoping there’s a way off this planet

and

rumble and jumble and sections of squares

i howl and i holler and i’m running out of spares

keep returning and burning and scattering the same words

say it again and again, this character class is for the birds

flipping my sheet and squinting at the pencil marks

am I all out of spells or just out of steel-cased heart?

stabbing and grabbing and hoping for shade

ghosts can’t sing when their vein-blood begins to fade

i return to the numbers, the lines, the clack and the clamor

hoping that muscle-lies can out run this stammer

working up a head of steam like a train wreck

best believe red and black when this kid finds his deck

tapping Plains and TRAIN and Automobiles

baying at the moons and cooling my heels

i stay for the moment, elapsed for the quotient

corrupting the eruption and collapsed for the tone when

the trumpets will bray and the gray stone moves

love is the ink that my straydog paper proves

i am he who stands, the storm no longer

missing the lightning, but my copper teeth are stronger

spitting and spraying and praying for rain

knowing that the coracle-doors are never quite the same

pocket full of stolen keys, dreaming in the forest breeze

forget at your peril the unparalleled shaman please

i can never know the way, but i find it when true

remind the vine but always give the Gray her due.

power in the east bows to the west

north vs. south ulysses grant this weight off my chest.