words are stone

words are stone

skipping across the water’s edge

sinking into memory

like a piece of hard coal

stuck in a seam

then found again,

held in hand, examined

before being burned on a hot grill

under the watchful eye of an

curious chef.

it was a sunny morning when i saw my first word

while sitting with my book open to page number

one, and i immediately rose

from the cafe chair to join the

merry prankster for a cup of her breakfast coffee

on the wood bridge which crossed a forest stream.

in the afternoon, the woman with brown eyes was sipping her red wine

while holding a clear crystal glass and

my blue eyes when she suddenly

reached for a smooth white stone

roundly polished by the passing of glacial time.

in the early evening, when we found ourselves in the kitchen reading the recipe,

our words kept skipping back and forth

and the aroma of animal heat made us both hungry.

it was a sunny night when we ate ourselves silly.

the tiny mosquito

the tiny
mosquito
in the bathroom
is no friend of mine
hovering or on the wall
in a state of suspended animation
dreaming of a drop of my blood or more
which i wholeheartedly refuse to donate or have stolen
by the quick penetration of a stealthy proboscis when I’m not
paying attention because there are others things to do in a bathroom!

when the day ended

when the day ended

i felt i was already bended

cut myself in two

wondering how i can ever make it through

without you

torn apart

i’m losing my heart

my blood can’t keep me new

if you only knew

there is so little of me left

i’m running out of breath

every time you cry

i’m about to die

beneath the weight of all the pain

what could i ever gain

without you

it would all be a sham

can you see me for what i am?

i would try to abide

ignoring those who lied

handing you the knife

offering you my life

if you would only try

maybe we wouldn’t wonder why.

walking the line

in the grassy field

under the solitary tree

lacking leaves

the picnic table sat unpainted

and heavy

as was the heart

near where the warm red wine

could be seen spilled on the ground.

a fine crystal goblet laid still

on its’ side

where a crack could be seen spreading

under the afternoon sun,

and alongside was 

a soft piece of homemade bread

with the visible imprint of a once hungry hand.

in the distance,

voices from a close river,

a motor,

ruins which once held a small cabin,

and the faint traces of a natural spring

where a willow hangs slender branches and weeps,

as do many willows.

a child walks past with a quick glance at the table,

and his eyes immediately refocus on a faint trail

which leads into the woods

and there he disappears with an audible sigh.

sticky fingers

tomorrow i'll be far away
the fates will hound me
out of town
into the city
people will smile and hide
pointing their happy fingers
it'll be said i lied
and as for me
in a private garden
reaching for a pardon
with my sticky fingers
tomorrow i'll be far away
like the ghost of a dog
out of town
into the cat fog
climbing up a bean pole
picking out a soul
with my sticky fingers
taking a quick bite
to satisfy my appetite
before i retire
with my sacred fire
into my new studio.

dressed as a fiasco

i can hardly get up and go
dressed as a fiasco
but i had my piano to play
which helped me to stay.
then, i fell on the lawn,
waited for the dawn,
but it proved tough.
i couldn't get enough
and fled the scene
with a fondness for morphine.
in the sky, the lark
still bravely singing in the dark,
meant me no harm
for i used character, charm
and intelligence
along with an extra few cents
of pocket change
to rearrange
the deck chairs to my advantage.

multiple shooters

multiple shooters
like dead-of-night hooters
stealthy and quiet
on the wings of a riot
holding an AK47
dreaming of a virginal Heaven
inside a shopping mall
watching innocent victims fall
in the new toy aisle.
and when the bloody bodies pile
a sullen smile
breaks underneath a black mask
running for a black SUV
from sea to shining sea.

Braque and his wife, Marcelle

A literary table in a Paris cafe
found Picasso on the sidelines
with surprisingly little to say.
Braque and his wife kept sipping their tea,
explaining the concept of ideal harmony:
"it's like poetry on canvas to form a new art;
a metamorphosis of rhythm which springs from the heart."
nearby hung a painting of two men reading from a letter,
arguing in jest about which one was the better,
but Picasso never wished Braque away;
although, in 1921 it certainly seemed that way.
Braque finished his tea and felt quite alive;
he had to break with Picasso is he were to survive,
and so off he went,
as though he were Heaven sent.
his studio was filled with tactile space
where curtains with irony and white lace
fluttered by the open windows.