Singing our song in the
kid-filled weekend.
Summer now owns the earth,
America
baked clean by the sun
and humidity,
callused guitar
finger tips - to talk
of it is bullshit
when there is
is so much to
DO,
Barking dogs out back
two year old Izzy stomps
over creak-wood
floor of our old ancient
neighborhood house cool to
the touch inside the guts
of it.
Winking blinking day end
exhaustion after work
and time froths
at the mouth for NEW to
arrive, scribbles and songs
will herald in the NEW.
Blue-final sky above
fronted by puffy thumb clouds
majestical puff white
gray/silver around edges
and time is forward moving
in a circle so vast and
simple it’s impossible to
see it all at once.
Ache in my guts after midnight
Amigos run (Omaha’s Tex-Mex
tacory and burritoville).
Billions of rotting animal bones
in various soils of the North
American continent.
Motionless fossils of after-life
and bubonic heaven, plague of
belief, black dot of supreme
death in deep stink of valleys.
Apocalypse came and went.
No one was tortured.
The lips of God have always been
silent and the only wrath
is time.
No matter, whole family in house
and sinks with dishes ready
for washing, piles of laundry
in need of folding,
tasks for us in the
summer condition.
I’m dreaming
my own song.
When I die
the song
will continue
over my unthinking
bones.
- - - - - - - - -
(June 8th, 2012)
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