Sunday, August 31, 2014

Sketches - 14 (August 21rst, 2014)


hot humid
of swamp-like
degrees and
mud muck
   in the air

(August 21rst, 2014)

- - - - - - - - - -

Friday, August 29, 2014

Sketches - 13 (August 21rst, 2014)


And outside at midnight thunder
gorgeous rolling distant thunder
follows the hard rain threatening
certain weak spots in ceiling crack
water drip.

The musty smell of rain water
after being filtered through
the crips and million-fold
crannies of an old house
has a musk to it indicative
of actions long since past,
          smells like experience,
          hard haunted come-again

and a passing minor storm at
silence following the front
as opposed to sirens and general
natural disaster chaos noises.

(August 21rst, 2014)

Thursday, August 28, 2014

Sketches - 12 (August 20th, 2014)


Sometimes a murk-glurk
darkness weighs down the
ordinary minutes of
accumulated days -

where as depression is
a state where nothing holds any
         meaning whatsoever
this is more of a dull edged

One of millions of fish
in a vast swirl-ocean
heaving and gasping tearing
away at the shore an inch
every 50 years or 100 years
                  or so.

This slow dull dread feeling
comes as a result of putting
things off, simple things that add
up or one solid THING that
          takes over…

and the truth of accumulated
years is that if I face it head on
I am able to suppress it
having gone through it before
many times...therefore able
to change the way I react.

I watch everyone working
or more or less getting by with
exactly the same low level
certainty of anxiety - yet I have
no desire to be like everyone

Be that as it may, vacuous grocery store fronts
no longer have the old power
of bringing me down to the helplessness
        of a bug on its back, legs
        thrust up in panic twiddle
        at the humidity and dark
        sky dread.

(August 20th, 2014)

- - - - - - - -

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Sketches - 11 (August 17th, 2014)


Child is up at 1 AM wandering
hobbling over the carpeted living
room floor, laundry spins
in the other room - preparations
for Monday - somehow get the
week started right.

          Pop the bone into its
grease the tired wheels.
I can barely keep my eyes open.
Soft cumulus puff comfort bath
and all that darkness out the bathroom

Clean blankets to steal the chill off
Ash’s trembling shoulders as she’s
come down with a brain scrape

My son Jesse keeps making a
bee-line for the aloe-vera plants
those long thick pulpy appendages
with cacti-like needles at the edges
enough for a learned child to be

Nevertheless - my son charges over
there and he’s starting to wine,
grows tired, walks back and forth,
back and forth, and one of his toys
(the play toilet) in the other room goes off suspiciously,
                      probably needs batteries.
                      Perhaps some ghost kid
                      took a shit in there just

Freakish sad things are toys when
left unplayed, still-life, untouched,
Nutcracker suite logics.  Toy soldier
marching in holly-ivy delirium some
white out Christmas, dull bone
haze of cold outside, sweltering  
fires roar within.

My son has got to be ready for bed soon.
Still, I need absolute proof of it.

I don’t think I recall my 18th month
albeit had to be similar to
Jesse’s at least I hope so with
all the rumbling tumbling around he

Outside this ramshackle house’s
picture window is Cuming Street
traffic flashing and roaring past.
And beyond that, large swathes
of prairie and geometric farm fields
like puzzles fitting together snugly
yet hardly a small town to save
anyone’s ass from wandering around
for hours through roll along hills until
your face feels chapped with
road dust, wind and sunlight -
skin as stiff as a pastor’s starched white

(August 17th, 2014)

- - - - - - - -

Monday, August 25, 2014

Sketches - 10 (August 17th, 2014)


I keep seeing shapes of people
where there are none.

The shapes flit around peripherally -
       I glance in that
       direction and the form
       is gone

and I consider - - -
       what’s real and unreal.

Flitting carousing figure past the backyard window
and a strange deja vu grips
whatever in me is sensitive
to such things - meanwhile,
          ‘I’m a rattle snakin’
           sayeth the blues man.

He sings it like silk in some plain nondescript room.
I imagine the wallpaper is crimped, bubbled,
and trembles slightly in an open-door breeze.

Folks, music-folks are gathering
at the Sunday ramshackle house.
Dark alley entrance huffing cars
and oblique flavor of my pipe
ash ploofing into mouth and spit
it out by the back load-in door.

It makes us weep and moan,

ain’t nothing but a hound dog
             sniffin’ sniffin’
               at the door’

(August 17th, 2014)
- - - - - - -