Monthly Archives: October 2013

Cardboard cut out My Heart

your wings
R
made
of cardboard

But

if you
spill
anymore of that
milk from the
carton
dribbling down
to
your chest
while wearing
my shirt
Un
buttoned

I

think

I

will

Scream

mercy

– Have
mercy

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round table with a good waiter

jazz

p
u
l
p

neo – john wayne? – westerns

pocket books

poetry

rain

not cold. but white. colour days

great
sidewalks

neighbourhood citied
evenings

country cedar air

s
t
a
r
s

blue, black
sky

callused hands

sore joints

broken hat
u
s
t
e
d, shoes

boots, foggy solo morning

h
o
r
s
e by the barn ready

dependable truck

good

coffee

a
nd

a woman who
understands
him


and God called Louis Armstrong Home (the trumpet poem)

to
her,
the trumpet is not a real instrument

Buddy Boldens
only pic
just faded away
and the 4 beat
is lost

i
think Miles,
just broke his hi-way in half –
over the knee

‘funny valentine’
crawled
in a hole and
died

Chet
Baker,
looked out
from
his hotel window
and figured
it didn’t matter
any
how

Jeff Healey said,
‘gimme back my guitar’
quit his sunday morning radio
show
and denied 3x
ever collecting
horn records
when he was a child

Wynton Marsalis,
handed back his
9 grammy’s
said he could no longer
be the jazz director
at the lincoln center
and jazz itself, could
finally
give up
the ghost

to her,
the trumpet
is
not a real instrument

-the world keeps on spinning


in complication, you simplify me

you
are
as

you’re
as

beautiful as

a portrait

a photograph

an easel

charcoal
knuckled
wristed
into words of
flesh

muybridge
woman
stunning

and

as

natural

cored
wood
where i study
the timelined
rings

finding
both of
us at

the

center

knowing the years and seasons

have made you more important
to my
existence

than…..

you are
as
beautiful

you’re………..


In a town he once loved, that never loved him

Jackie-boy
always, now
sits on his stool
in a certain
way.
Slouching, drunk
ready to
sleep
chin in
hand
sort of
way.
Hat tipped up
revealing
a nice crop of
hair
well kept,
but flattened
grotesquely
from the sweat
of
his
grey hat
with
the black
band
and yellow feather.
What a
bar this was, this
once
was.
Like Jackie-boy
lost to
time
that wasn’t so
far in
the past,
but far enough
to
seem impossible
to
re-capture.
Like a
doctor’s office
with magazine
issues +
newspaper editions
just old
enough
to be
irrelevant.
Jackie-boy + the
bar, lost to recent
time
in a
recession
where there
was
zero left
to
steal.

And Jackie-boy
with a
half mug of
stale beer,
dreams
of nothing.
His
elbow, resting
on the
useless ‘Want
Ads’
of temp jobs
that
exist in
this
un-renovated town.


the room is white and grey, so is the world you fear

If you enjoy the
window
view,

why

do you hide
sitting on
your
steel chair
curled
up
chin on knee
socks
on seat
heals,
driven into
back
legs

there is a mole on your shoulder-blade
the one leg is
missing that rubber thing
on the feet to keep the
floor scratch free

still

you would rather
stare
out that window
curled up
like a piece of
fruit
uneaten
and dream of what
you
think you
can’t have

the world is only a few storey’s
down
you could jump
and survive

and then conquer

but in sock feet
you would
rather stay
curled
and shiver
away
the
day.


Book Handling – Rediscovering new lines or quotes

I
throw this
particular book
from
my lap onto your
bra and
jeans lying on the
floor.
Ironically, this particular
author
would probably would
enjoy knowing
that tid bit
of information
even
if you don’t particularly care
that
the rest of the
world
does.

It’s a re-used
book,
dog eared like
most
of the ones i own,
there’s a damn
few that
don’t get marked up
and they
usually fall into
two
categories –
rare
or
so shitty who
cares.

None of my books however have pencil or pen marks
that seems cliché to me
it also seems like the waste of a good book
studied in a way that allows all the secrets to escape or be missed entirely
also,
underlining or highlighting only means it’s where i’ll rediscover the same thing over and over and i would much rather prefer to find something different, a new line or thought, each time i read.

The book
sits
on the floor now
on your
bra and jeans
and i
have finished
the first morning
ritual
not to say this book won’t be opened again several times before i sleep
but,
the first part of my
day is
complete

‘to discover atlantis, and know the ocean can not hide what man must know to exceed himself’


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