11/10/10 4:44pm

love, at a busy intersection
has no traffic pattern
not like some carefully
in tune migration pattern

warning signs flash repeatedly,
a loosely roped mattress
slides on acceleration
where the next in line of succession
may sleep comfortably

unkempt and uncared for bass lines
tremble against the air,
glass and essence vibrate the echo

flashy accessories, uneducated words
grime from the street following tire lines,
deep in the tread it builds
and flows. love,

given the go between drivers
has directions that
did not include the previous
stops.

11/9/10 2:33pm

crashing sounds and babies crying,
a soprano effort in those too young to sound ethereal
just screeching and squawking birds
more like
aggrieved by infancy.

no legs to say the things we shouldn’t,
concerned stumbles, fumbles
of general malfunctions.
The floor seems a good place to crawl –
a gathering place of the less comfortable,
slouch back, no muscle strength;
sit, collect . . . meditate the day

11/8/10 6:43pm

unusual in the wood,
a larger split than
yesterday – middle of the living room
a hairball stuck in it,
cat swats
drag claws down the open wound –
wood floor older than me,
vehemently carrying the strong
grain
of my birth, locked in place
one in to the other,
side
by
side, carrying the un
bearable load;
a weight in life
bending,
bowing,
slamming on the shoulders
all the shit from hours before,
from years before my existence
leading in to moments beyond life –
beyond breath
beyond blood flow.
1981 was the year, little lung
little heart.

11/8/10 1:04pm

the sun was out
earlier this morning, a loose
cooler air
taking steps with me to the car door

time change and rearrange,
i start the engine
and everything sounds fine. the tree
planted nearest the corner
is still in place, still unscathed
though nature has shook and dried
most leaves from it. the car
begins to heat, i forget how
the brief walk made me sniffle,
slightly, this luxurious comfort
canned me in and rid the windows
of the condensation i so fondly
drew figures in to as a child;
it’s too early in the season for
there to have been ice on the glass.

turn, construction zone
breathing debris and rock dust ,
the corrosion of the air itself
around me,
i breath like a sat frog;
GULP, GULP, GULP.

11/7/10 5:01PM

the sunday morning smell
reeking fiercely
of the deepest circle in hell,
faces of eternity
bonded together
like blown glass -
swirled and colored
sin physical art.

awake, alarm clock
blood and coffee,
better than creamer -
digging graves
on the sabbath,
heel gripping to death
grip and dig
shovel to earth.

the smell of bodies
on sunday morning
(god, the stench),
life decaying in imagination.
the damned.
the fucking damned.

my foot exposed
from the grave,
footless, i stumble
staring at my own burial,
shovel and intention
in hand

i etch on stone,
"here, i mean nothing.
here, i mean everything.
this is not my stopping place."
not even the last words
of the world, my world

i've died more than once,
i'll die again.
same shovel
and pen to tell.

11/4/10 10:44PM

waves crashing hard
north side navy pier,
repeating patterns
spraying the cold
stale air -
the mist
and that bright wheel
speaking in revolutions;
LSD creeping of slow drivers
and unfamiliar destinations -
i grip the wheel
like there's someplace better to be,
a lane change
losing the city behind me
with a turn.
before the wind
got angry
there was a conversation
about god and hatred,
they came together easily.
i laughed it off
looked to the empty seat
and for some reason,
questioned why garbage on pavement
is considered to be litter.