Cold rain falls in the river, flows down to the sea, gets into the skyline, circles endlessly. Same old rain on the wind, same old pain in my soul.

Monday, November 29, 2010

Dead Jimmie

So one day i says to God
God, if i die
-could you give me a couple
Hours warning?
-Kinda got some things i need
To clean up

He didnt answer
Rarely does

But you wonder,
You know?
That weird lump
The dizzy spells

So anyways,
There i was
Minding my own business
While i slept
When up walks jimmie

Now Jimmie's a fella
I used to work with
Nice guy, bout my age
But had the diabetes bad

Last i heard they had lopped
Off a foot and were
Thinkin on lessening him some more

Anyhow, he didn't look good, nope,
None too good

But here he was
Wake walking in my sleep
And damned if he didnt look good!
Walked like a guy with two perfectly good feet

I was cleaning a small window
And who knows why and
I say to him
"Jimmie, geez, you're lookin good"
But he just sadly shook his head no

I could tell he came with a purpose
A message perhaps,
Didn't just happen by,
ya know?

And  he just pointed knowingly
To the ground behind me

Then i woke up

Would God send dead Jimmie
And is Jimmie even dead?
Couldn't imagine God sending live Jimmie, but Jimmie is a mormon so he mighta been on a field trip
Baptizing hitler and dead jews
Who knows

Couldnt find Jimmie in the obits
But he really wasnt an obits
Kinda guy,
Never even tucked in his shirt
ya know?

I feel like shit
But no worse than the shit
I felt like yesterday
And hate to clean house
If Jimmie was just gas

But if soon you find
A wreath upon my blog
You can't say I wasnt warned

Monday, November 22, 2010

The Way I Know Her

saw her once in 1973,
she was leanin to the lamp post
when billy fremont came
sauntering past with his
cocky stride.
she was snappin her gum
and never lost a beat as
the corner of her mouth
curled geniusely

her foot snaked out
and whamo!
down goes billy in a heap!
but quick as lightnin
ol billy jumps up and bolts
for that dirty bitch
but weren't no need to hurry
cuz she was already there
with her chin up and
her long hair cherokeed

"whatcha gonna do bout it billy fremont?"
she slung his full name like david's stone
and it sunk deep in his forehead
"well, you'll see. You'll see"
she coughed out a laugh
that echoed through generations
and her gum hit him square in the head as he stomped away

seen her once in a field
splittin wood
all dressed up as a man,
her sleeves rolled tight
to her biceps, and
that axe starting at the heel
never paused for breath
as nature itself  held
hush in the trees

she once sold the worst car
in the lot
to the man who owned the bank
and all he could do
was pretend it wasn't

but she has her soft side

I've seen her walk down
a country lane in May soft
as doves skittered her steps
and sparrows nested
in her locks

she's written poem after poem
to dragonflies who taxied
soft breezes
to her curling fingers

I've seen her stroke
the marigolds gently
and tickle the honey bee's whisker
while the sun caressed
her heaving breast

she has her moods
and they are best avoided
but she has her moments
that should never be sold

those that think themselves
favoured in her charm
shall surely find the draft
of her bared teeth
and her mercies are
more random
than a coin toss

if she were any other way
she would be any other lake
than Superior

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

The Poet Will Die

There are men and women who climb mountains, row great oceans, and rediscover who gives a shit poles. National Geographic is littered with the remains of the many who never returned. They are called explorers.
And they knew the risks.
Many had careers and lives envied of all that knew them, and yet, they trekked., knowing the cost and odds.
See, it's all about vision. Simply put, they could see beyond sales quotas, beyond 401k, beyond the securities of safety and well played. They could see even beyond the mountain, the distant shore, the barren pole. They could see the feel that lies in the doing.
Poets, of which I am not, can see that feel as well, though their range of vision can claim no goal nor know of any great glory.
The K2 that draws them is the life within death, the sorrow in great joy, and the hatred within love. They see the contrast in life and explore it with their blood.
It is never enough for them to love, they must rip the heart from chest and explore the why. And then do it again.
They must get down and dirty with all that plays out before them. Satisfaction in contentment can only mean failure and the beauty of a rose shall not get off so easily while their thorns spill blood.
Therefore, when the hawk soars full of life, the rabbit never dies alone and unseen. When children cry for food and lovers for justice, the poet sees their feel and bleeds their heartache. And a perfect sunrise is only a means to hope for storms.
Bankers shall live to dispense currency to the car mechanic who buys his house to keep his family happy while he repairs the bankers car. It is an age old system of barter that plays out well in love, war and politics. But the poet tumbles free of this circle unable to find purpose or worth in any of it.
And she writes what only she can understand and see, knowing her words will wash away in the clocks of ancient fixture and the speeches of great promise.
Therefore, the poet will die.

in every beast, a hunger grows
to thirst, for tomorrow's fresh dew
and the lover says shall we
in the new fallen rain
and together they walk
but alone

and a flower blooms
wild and true
where politics bled her men dry
in fateful excursion
leaving their passions
in fields of martyrs passed by

the sower seeds
while the painter creates
and the violins
spin blue into gold
but somewhere below
and beyond the turned earth
beyond the white fields of fresh snow
where new borns dredge
the souls of before
they must sing a new song
 of great old

and this story new
it must be told
in a thousand
shades of pain bourne
bled from the prick
she knew in great need
 to balance the weight
of her scorn
the poet will kill her
to die his sweet self
in the murder
that no one shall mourn

so here and now
let's drink to he
and her, and all
that ever they see
for tomorrow, the poet
shall surely die
so tonight
let's just let him be

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Gimme Shelter

Billy Hobart steps gingerly to the porch
as the frightened screen door
screams from his feeble grip
shifting the dog into panic

looking to the pasture,
he spots the chestnut mare
looking back, wild-eyed,
her mane a thousand crazy
kite strings

as the barn door slaps BANG!
on its twisting hinges,
his cap takes flight
chasing Miss Lucy's
shit green garbage can
down the drive

far out to sea,
the fishing has been fair, but now
Tom Patterson stares narrow-eyed
through the helpless wipers
as Jack sits the little stove
two-handing his coffee cup,
leg over knee, on the folding chair

the rollers have grown teeth,
swagger, and two fish
in the water dance wildly
on their cable, saying
as if!

list and wallow?
run and swamp?
or dare to luff?

Jack lifts his filthy cap
to rub his brow
and one-eyes Tom
who can only shrug

Sometimes, a moment too long
is a lifetime too short

I feel it now
as this blow barrel-rolls
across the ridge and
hammers the hollow flat

I feel the burp of
the ocean deep
rising and churning

fences fly
and lights flicker

windows bend
and rain becomes a million shards
of black stained glass

somewhere in my memory
there's a time, a place,
a gentle raft on still waters,
a mountain top of soft powder,
a girl lying upon stained linen
smoking my last cigarrette
in the red candle light

I don't wish the storm away,
wouldn't purchase promise
if it sold two for a quarter

but here
in the midst of the rage,
in the belly
of the storm,
just before I make my last chance run,
for just a moment

gimme shelter