words. music. randomness. life.
An old memory.
A high five-ku
Are clouds good for skipping stones? I’d like to know…
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.
The Drive (Updated Audio)
You…pulled the breath from my lungs.
Read me with a genuine desire to see me.
Show me the stone that sings your melody…
Originally posted on WINDSTREWN: I’m neither young nor old, but I feel like both. We always seem at war with…
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.
The children…called him “Tristeza del Padre.”
Save Destiny, but She was with you already…
The cloth of music is sewn as the spiny drum spins its wonder-thread.
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.
I don’t dare care. Against what they say, I know.
My heart abruptly, but softly, suggests, “Tell her.”
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.
I can’t count the times my momma tsk-tsked it.
Letting Go, stretching back three decades…
Across my forty years, I’ve been wrong aplenty.
The past is a foreign country…