trees are bleeding…
i’ll venerate all that can’t be explained away until i no longer seek confirmation through life’s more palpable incarnations,
won’t pretend i need, any other thing for cords and lungs to blare off-key as i wish
i’ll whip-up dishes and serve ’em. to fellow bird bathers, sick of seed, seekin’ something raw to peck
but don’t go and strain those bendy straw necks-
for grubs, ain’t. worth it.
for taste of that strange brew what would an old shoe do?
maybe tongue you a. well versed sonnet broadcast across ‘the’ internet
it’s time to lace the black silk bonnet
and suck a bottle ’til rainbows spring from my dim sockets.
so long, city…
a ginger-ale rebranded beer to entice further blind purchase,
exerts a white knuckle control to deny the breadth of his own fears,
don’t flinch, just close the curtains on this outdated circus,
and take to the countryside for someplace less grim to hide,
away from these hills n’ their hidden eyes.
i’m a feeling with no name,
and plenty are these cones o’ shame,
still blame my station for a homeward train still never came,
blamed it on a misprint inked to crumpled schedule,
and maybe its blue– just soaked thru
i’ll wait out the chilly of this season just to get me home, on you.
it’s high tide for some under cover trouble
beneath the surface only membrane between us, a soap scum bubble,
dope opera star still holds his stage, but soul’s been drawing in the curtains,
gospel tune’s a spinnin’ on replay, top down, i cruise through the quiet parts of town-
n’ let my headlights. do the flirtin’
when blade’s not being waved or weaponized it’s the tool designed to peel dead layers from my eyes,
i’m the tool chiseled in flawed design, ever making nice with lobby’s shortest exit line,
but movie’s just begun and i vowed to stay, at least until i sprout a spine,
and elbow my way thru popcorn n’ soda line,
in a bum’s rush to next lit-up exit sign.
a truck stop special, served up good as greasy
as 3am creeps around, the gals from quiet corner pour into booth beside me
during slower times ’cause my island eyes hint a deep need for company,
no tricks, no tempt of treats just a heavy helping of raw speak,
bless the queens that ran these streets.
I used to write the nights away in a downtown 24 hour diner. The sex workers best knowing those corners would often join me for quite the inspired and exasperated chat sessions in my corner booth. This is written in tribute to their wisdom, strength and humour.
can’t peel my eyes off you tho to be fair i’ve never tried,
it’s ok, you like your fashion fixtures brushed over surface n’ press on anyway,
like prettied nail calcified over the finger point
a crusty lash above the floodgates, cries now more over love than she ever hurt for hate,
still, wouldn’t swap all that’s smudged so streaky for flawless stroke applied to model face.
for every sinner, his own sun,
and i’m half-past late for dinner ’cause i lost track of time for sake of more fun
begin, then end just to begin again, til mercy pulls the plug,
or sweeps feet out from above the rug,
once thought affection was just something grown-ups hid in their closets,
away from kids so needy for love.
it falls apart to fuse stronger,
like smoke binding ol’ lungs called cancer,
let’s dance streamers over graves but just so our dead can join us in usherin’
fresh age braids with golden hair, blew tumor out my head as whale geysers to the air.