words. music. randomness. life.
Like pines that chase the fawn.
Roads that’ve splayed my way
A high five-ku
Circle the wagons: the bonfire burns.
Your salted instance, a glinting bastion.
I let them go. I flail them in.
Stay the hell away from why.
It starved me then. So I ate from it twice.
To hold a naked note at your trembling waist…
Maybe you’ve never seen a man lose his hope in the smoke…
Let me be…more than that bitter-root wine.
Maybe it doesn’t matter if you do right.
Leave me to live on your ceiling and, between us, well enough alone.
Happiness, I swear…
I fought four decades of demons to be sought, bloodied-over…
To what sunset should I sweat-lay the rail?
Jazzy Lou would be a song
the gulls would sing…
It rhymes its rack-and-ruin rise to the hope in my glacé eyes.
Strange does fit the recluse, dresses up a bit the riddle of it.
You…pulled the breath from my lungs.
The toil and over-turned earth of it, for but a dearth of believable dreams.
Read me with a genuine desire to see me.
My heart has become gaunt of fate, my traipsing twisted.
Sushi me again…
Show me the stone that sings your melody…
It was a rickety rack and a rook at risk, all chess to be checkmated, I swear.
No hands have grip enough to seize a hope,
no whip sharp enough to crack out a wish’s wheeze
Originally posted on WINDSTREWN: In myriad ways, now and since, I’m less a formidable force than then, When I was…
Hope bore you home and when you came, mystery fell and broke open wide.
Save Destiny, but She was with you already…
The cloth of music is sewn as the spiny drum spins its wonder-thread.
My legend was all doodles upon the door.
Swing your smile on my heart like children play
But I’ve become a worn welcome to chance, having dreamt near all I’ve done.
I have exactly three cardboard boxes that smell of musty rental storage.
It took time, but I dug up that heart-choking chain.
I don’t dare care. Against what they say, I know.
To whim-water the drought-stricken seed of our dim, near-forgotten and purest place…
As batten on brickstone would build a wall…
The past is a curious optic.
What was always at the punishing verge of those who push knee past bloodied knee…
I’m but one of a too-chaotic crowd.