jam 19

jam 19


he 's the man with hands made made of pyrex.
he likes to fuel fires for his friends

touches flame unscathed, no miracle cuz it's
that all of his burn is within.



and what's at the end of this road my friend
is it that house, yellow glow from within
like bricks made of gold that you put up your nose
so your eyes can catch hold of the fire again



she's the crone becoming a stylus,
playback for all of his ends


diamond patterns bling crusted light
you put down your swords and begin


from a balcony pressed with petals of safety
the bic is a star to the eyes on the road.

he lights a pipe and thinks well maybe
she raises her hand and touches his throat

and voices rise out of cats perched on a saturn
that sits in the drive encrusted with diatom frost

they sound like desire on a leash of welbutrin
stuffed full of all of the things they had lost



and what's at the end of this road my friend
is it that house, yellow glow from within
like bricks made of gold that you put up your nose
so your eyes can catch hold of the fire again






























All alone
She sat up
In her house on
The hill until she became
A strange old lady, one who
You might find running outside
In her bathrobe and making snow
Angels on the snowy ground or
Standing next to the forest by
The side of the road and
Just sniffing at it
For a while.


all her second life she dreamed
of snow, mountain peaks dotted with ice
cream. a promise of a different
kind of statis. tiny
slivers of espresso
carafe that don't stop seeking
flesh to slide into, ice like pine
scent needling her nose.

Edited by: trashpo at: 1/20/08 3:06 am