Soothing, Wheezing Stomps

Ahh! You promised me songs.
Songs about heartbreaks; you said
I hope that I don't fall
in love with you and it nestled into my trumpet
and then it's slipping through the front door.

Searing heavily down our roads,
our afternoons have been influenced by those songs
and the arms around faint shoulders
and the kisses happening right there
at the five o'clock hour.

It's been off at times.
I've been off in the country
and the dilemma of how calm
one can be is like a cigarette addiction.

But then when we need laughs
(we need laughs!)
or particularly love the growl
of love pains (Adam bound us, more or less)
we stand round
clapping and stomping all around.

The Stable Climate

Until next time
we say
more tattoos next time
we say.

Ambiguous allusions aside,
this gloomy weather
is straight fucking crisp
and refreshing.

On Their Fingers

I guess we could say
who would have thought
the weeks would unbind
the snakes in our hands.
On the beach/no it was
around the lake/he said
he'd never take back Eugene
or Buffalo/pass the smoke.
The summer went valuably:
he smoked himself sick
and so did I and he took
my girl for a few days
but by that time it didn't matter.
I would perhaps have thought
how can we get away with this?
How can we meet on King Street
and talk about the lake
and sit atop buildings getting high
talking about heroin,
talking the Guten tag!
haven't spoken to you
in so long! ..are you doing..
Leave it on the wall and he'll get it.
For times like these we have campfires
and motorcycle rides to the coast.

Porch-side Hummings

Stranger than any paradise
I've ever known of;
more otherworldly than
pounding skin to skin
and as unlikely as following
Santa Susanna Pass all the way.

This is an evening that breeds
photographs worth holding onto
and harmonica serenades
from a country man
just letting her go.

Screen doors whistling off
and hands up into the hair
as men and women just
let it off.



*STRANGER THAN PARADISE is a film by Jim Jarmusch which I was partially considering when that first line came out.

Crown This

I used to have this
I used to have that
I used to drink gems
and pocket my smokes
up the stairs
and oh do I miss it
oh do I.

and I support true love
my friend, she said.

and Damn, we say.
Sometimes we say
Hey brother this is livin'
and toast and watch the sun
but we're really just
taking it in
and trying to fit the bill.

and usually it passes, but
This is real hard livin'
occasionally we feel
but even then, trembling,
even colossal hands in the air
she says that's where
I get the good stuff.

Cigarettes Down the Lane

When the rain's calming down
on a weekday afternoon
the stuff inside is a cushion
and the blasting attraction
of tasks outside and things
piling up
lets up.

The decisions we're making now
the slidings past and heads down
are what all have done more or less.
From the hours spent in line
to the dollars spent
just in cases
and all the things grinding us down
are just like a child picking up the phone
to father's old friend saying
no he doesn't live here anymore
and Mom covering her face back
in the kitchen corner
no he doesn't live here anymore.

Today's Monday Shines

Thanks at last
I said
to myself,
tripping against a parking sign.

A wave to the people as
a fond gesture for the times:
dancing, smoking, and driving.

Advice to go

Advice on the go

Heavy-scented last-minute pauses
at last,
dark, distorted minutes,
and emphasis in the departure.

Something worked;
it's still there
in the morning.

Monday,
Monday.

Trimming scared
and trimming, angry,
is what we're all up to
and avoiding that which
a friend might notice,
and avoiding them.

Here Are Four Days

Allow yourself the freedom of pursuit.

Settle up with the aspiring young
people that line the strip
as they detail their smiles and indicate
through slipping heels and bad steps
the strains of being born into this.

Days later flashes of sunspots
and of projects in the ranges
of people finding ties
and backyard afternoons
attempting to align
a vow to express caution
for the injuries to come.



*BORN INTO THIS is a Charles Bukowski poem and also the name of a documentary about his life. The "settle up" stanza speaks to Bukowski's Hollywood.

May Showers

My sister's month reminds me of where I used to go to feel at home.