Latest Northography post: Touched

sideways talk and spots of
you
without a drowning beat
of chi-chat yet

we say our words
in digits pressed
writing fingertip messages
against Betelgeuse freckles

on milky way hands
dappled with moles
like black holes,

some things from fingernail
to feeble wrist
are more universal
than the black discoed
ceiling only
chasing faces into
the cupboard corners

and hands into each other.

Paranoia past

The breathing of
my house, labyrinth
of lungs
rasp—brain against
brain, crackle of dry wind
against walnut
wood walls is the clicking
of voices in deserts.
I’m always in my pajamas alone,
until the calamitous moon strides smug
into muggy city scenes, great shines--
the glasses of of men
in homes too small
for tumbleweed children.

Write.

I miss poetry.

ISD 77

Latest Northography post:


1.
dappling the narrow streets on sun bent
afternoons are puddles that disappear before
fire breathing buses thrust down into apricot dells,
watching the big kids toss their cumbersome
backpacks over one pointy
shoulder--shuffling backwards as they say
goodbye to brunette sweethearts that walk in lines.

II.
the sun is a silhouette of permanent inky
doggedness eclipsing chalky palms, dirt under nails
blocking the east through clefts in hands in
trees without leaves it breaches,
my soles scrap the street as toddlers'
feet on playgrounds

when the pernicious rumble of number 21
echoes towards the affable red
topped tower--
we guess though he is always never close.

III.
arriving in a tawny taut myopia
that ends in one hallway begins
in another asking the searing fluorescent
hums of Elysium to shut the hell up or float
me to an asylum of the past.

Excerpt: Reprimanded before spirits fly during the oblivion of after midnight

School has shot my muse. But, Northography helps me console him. Here is an excerpt from my latest post:

the malignant acrimony
of a world without light
is like a winter without words
that comes and goes
ebbs, flows
under the trestle
of cirrus wisps
kissed holding the sun

tell me to leave
tell me to run somewhere
old God
graybeard is
the wrong side of the road
tossing up tires mixed
in with night
too swiftly
sifted

Untitled

corners of
aged lime face men
lumberjack backs
of flannel dirges

puffing cobalt smoke
onward to finer points
in the endless troposphere
of small talk

their faces are red
frivolity shone
to where their fathers

grabbed his pockets
debunked this funk

of bar stool
drunk at the Legion

as the coral moon
sifted his nurse-like
fingers through your
grains of hair

you hear steps of spitfire
alley ways
smug toads
crickets louder than sleep
louder

than autumn chatter box
nighttime
times ahead.

2 o' clock it is sunny

A thought that keeps surfacing:

There are bigger things than love,
but love is too big to comprehend.

I have always found it difficult to write about the mystery of this cocktail, who hasn't. As, I was reading Rimbaud the other day, I realized his quandrary with love. Like myself, he only wrote about occurances with love, this being the only way he could explain love itself. Can the idea of love even be touched by words?
Nope.

Wheeler Park

the swings
they screech
we pass off our
forgotten flip-flops
to early fallen dew
as dead old men

faces defined like skulls
whiskey breath
in gloaming chills
stupors of something more

kisses of turgid talk
of love's astray
that pint is done

twitter padded countenances
construe
as orange butterflies alone
aloft
thoughts unknown

not new
we became
in a meadow of thatch
oblivion

the buzz of orange lights
her beauty
her eyes
her
baby earth-drawn smile
rift of all change
worlds of
nothing but
radiant glow
like a sun without words
she needs these lips
to fill
the verbs
of real
fall, pink ebbs of day

she was too much

Driving Saturdays

Stop signs one to few
bending metal steps
while a breeze of
Saturday traffic

smokes through crevices of
paint-chipped window
frames, and so a
billion grains of light fall
like dust

when the air seems
insipid as daylight dreams

it is not hot enough

the gas station
full moon afternoon
“go faster”
he whispers
like it matters

sunshade mousse
tufts upwards,
“take me somewhere’s
grandma”

pink blouse
bottom in
her wheelchair.