sunday night spaghetti

4/30/06

twisting the pen
round in round in rolls
makes the time before bed less a chore;
to sort the mess from a brimming pot,
before a night spent chasing the stock

…where minutes pass by like lives

and as my fingers whirl
thoughts wet and locked and stacked too tall
settle down and away
like spaghetti captured by a sink from a colander heap:

the first an oily noodle of a dream, of little right smiles like stars behind clouds
and another of a candle lit by two
and the last, even funny in the cold dark of night
of home

dry

4/25/06

I feel if I may like as they say
“so much butter spread on bread too thinly”
but the times, these days, they go a bit poorly
and even the butter ran out
leaving in its wake no glory;
just toast.

index this, motherfucker

4/25/06

see him
walking
side by side
last one out and first one in; he gets at the cold

hear his name! for no-one would
in the back
of the phantom bus
his awful meal and remains

might as well
name a
frontier the
child

you’d never
be that
in the
dark or anywhere
remember

you’d never!

far from
last week’s end of the deal line door

the kamikaze.

4/25/06

for no-one would remember his name.

child in the back of
the bus,
last one out and first one in (the door);
or at the end of the line
last week’s meal the cold remains
he gets
walking side by side in a frontier deal, dark
and
awful far from anywhere

a phantom; you’d never see him
might as well be that

you’d never hear his name

blah blah blah

4/25/06

rebuild
delete
delete
search
update
post-process
rebuild
delete
delete
and index again.

the alpha and omega of tomorrow

4/22/06

the west is always
so blinding
when you’re subtracting
the distance winding toward a Greeley destiny,
saving lives
manifested
savior
while you glare into the expiring light

but, the light ‘tis gone! late as
it is now

so with rested eyes a little more live perhaps I’ll stay
a bit longer, then
and see the east tomorrow through

you really are a little shit, I hope you know that

4/8/06

you’re really pushing the limits of what I can do;
time after time
I can assemble the pieces and paint the puzzle sunset
with words jointed, fitting perfectly tight
but you, you’ve really got me good this time –
i may as well throw in the towel and call
it a day, for I could never describe
how I still get lost
after all these years
in your eyes when you smile
and how your touch steals my breath;
I could
never
in eternity
give you that in words which you deserve
but in my own eyes and smile it’s yours
now, here

sam I am not for here instead is what I am

4/6/06

shell
husk
wind-blown empty dust
silt on the bottom of the river. darkness
between the skylanterns hangin’ on midnight high
and the glint of noon on the water
the retina burn it leaves in your eye
and the short moment
that it takes
to forget it
as unremarkable and passing
as the leaves in the breeze

it’s sort of like Duncan Sheik’s “Home,” i guess

4/3/06

god, it’s like a cloudy morning, awfully a Sunday
much akin to the ones where you glue yourself in
with no movement except for an exotic
excursion
to the kitchen for cofee
at two

god, it feels this way for I’m tired;
i’ve spent hours
between these sheets for years, never I’ve moved
not even for drink
and oh,
it feels the way heaven must

but, god, even that high place above and holy
must someday become a burden I trust
when you’re burning for what’s beyond, a sky of blue
and earlier coffee, for perhaps not one but maybe two