other things i could cliche.

ox.
butterfly.
flowers on the side of the street.
tiny and purple. a car
hits the ox and folds in on itself
it hits the butterfly and the insect
is crushed. small steps is survivial
butterfly eat the wind.

i wish. and i think how soon
we forget. wishing isn't stumbling
and stumbling along is flying.

the world turns upside down
and no one noticed. the poles flip
oceans sky. these are everyday.
wings stretched on the tip of horn.

not so concerned w/

truth these days
what i mean is truth
is a malleable thing
one man's is another's lie.

evolution vs creationism , i. e.

ya know? no example much starker than that.

i need cigs
no wait.
that's you.

if i were a rich man
then i wouldn't be this brokeass woman
with a melting face saying
goodbye to good company cuz well


good company? listening to the reach
for finances i remember how the jack danny's
cost me fo hunnert $$



and those are my minutes on the phone
paid for by me. and the up in smokes
are almost five a pack now
that's times 2 recently, reverently.

















trute? u can't hannle it.
trooth? i can't believe in it.
truth? etymology:


from oe treuthe

which somehow derives from the indo european root
deru- from which also spracht betroth, drupe, druid.

and that li'l gem meant

wait for it



to be firm solid or steadfast therefore
like a tree. to harden. to endure

wood , trough, tryst, timber,
pitch, duramen.



heartwood

methusela twists
an inch or so a year
slowly gaining
truth into empty air.

prometheus finally died
it wasn't his liver--
that kept growing, cancerous.

she said, i will hate you forever
if you do not do something
with your talents. he doesn't
believe her. she doesn't believe
in truth.

lately the music is tense
he found his voice
he needs but not anything
she's willing to give.
dessication that's how
the duramen forms.

(lol at the spell check
that doesn't know the word
the word was the beginning
and in the beginning was the word)


take it out of context
take it out of the skin
take it and make something
lasting, something that endures
past the petrified bones
a twist away of the light

the old gods are dying
helena and warriors tire
us, revolution in the synagouges
and this rabble breaking starbucks
windows, looting the liquor store
and where do you think i got
this computer from. later into
constantine politicos
converted to christianity on a death
bed against his will to save the empire
a gift to generals and the birth
of nineteen eighty four disappearance.

the fires in alexandria burn
in the squares most nights,
they are dancing demonic
shadows on the minarets
on the juniper
and druped balcony. julius
and salina walk through the libraries
making empty spaces . patrols with torches
and ox fat and flame; burning heresy
and druids, poetry and history
clean this graffiti
from the halls of rome
burn philosophy from the names.

we came home from the fields
tired and hungry. the millet
soaked in water. the quarter pound
hamburger, two for three dollah,
pork fat if we were lucky, and greens.


jesus and saul were working
in the wheat fields during harvest
they thought they'd take
some wheat for this
wedding they were to attend
two friends, a carpenter and merchant's
daughter. childhood sweethearts
and the father, barely getting by
what with the duties to church and taxes
to the emperor, the cost of bag of flour
from the miller. they had been out
of work for a couple of months
since the vessel they'd been hired on
left port without them one morning
it hadn't yet returned. the nets
stowed were their only collateral-`
the loan jesus had taken out
to get maria the curative potion
that hadn't even worked was now
unsecured. and unpayable. this threshing
job was the only thing available
and the pay was piecework. saul knew
a miller in another province
who didn't ask questions. two days before
sabbath, they left for the wedding
with wheat in their sacks.
on the way they stopped at the millers
and had it ground into the finest grade.

the wedding was in full swing
when jesus and saul arrived.
the bride's father appeared drunk
but it turned out that he was having
a panic attack. the cakes were going
to be gone and sundown began shabbat.

when he saw the wedding gifts
he was almost prostate at the good fortune.
as the bread and cakes from the flour
sacks were eaten that night, the father
praised the miracle of jesus and saul.

woah. wait. the bread and loaves of fish story?
man that isn't even the wedding ! jesus turned
water into wine there man. what did yo momma
do to you man.


wow.
it's late.
truth. bark. hardwood. heart and enduring.
mohagany. let out the clutch, real slow.

sun tempered thru finch cloth

there are nevers
that come to be
sort of like inevitable
knock across wood.

a bit of superstition
that keeps the magic alive.

if you miss twenty again
then look in all the pockets

don't move the stove until the last
cookie's baked.

i have done nothing for two days.
my words are on vacation. i'm keeping fine.

there's a bass line building
in my back yard. its undercurrent

like a phantom future hoping
into now. the sun moves brilliantly

outside and i curl under the feathers
you bought. i dreamed of you this morning

you lived in ft. lauderdale with lashes
and long hair. a tow truck pickup to lakeland

where all the new construction halted due
to the falling financial market. i remember

the way the empty shells of concrete and glassless
windows were lined with insulation. sliver with massive

navy blue letters, i want to say GM but that's wrong
you pulled over to the side of the road, got out

confronted me where i rode in the back, talking
to you on the cell. i didn't know it was with you

that i rode. i didn't know why you called
in the first place. the thing about dreams is how

tangible they are when you can recall them, after waking.
we didn't touch and i never found out why. but i didn't ache.

that's something now, isn't it? i told her yesterday
i am a balloon held by an invisible thread. only slight

vibrations reach me so far into this stratosphere. only
the hum of the washer, the swish of the broom. she said

write a poem. i tried but i lost it. it's ok tho, paper
doesn't crash and bits even less. i'm at the verge of ashes

ember is my grey cat's real name. she admits this by curling
into my legs when i sleep. a purr escapes. she's happy i know.

when so many add to the ocean
little drops of used to be/s dissolved

solution of ablution, castaway conclusions.
the way my stomach heaves when hoped.



















*)(&&&












it used to be enough
and although it still could be


i want to wend into no need
like a creek, you know, or to the sea.


you get annoyed with me when everything
becomes a metaphor. including this piping

where the ice cream truck like some soundtrack
from when we woke up in a yellow grazing morning

lamely blares down this street we never saw.
you play oblivion with yourself. you take your kids

to the haunted hayride and swear that you'd phoned
2x.in the comedy i watched this morning she also was buying

the things he said without reason, when it was obvious
he must have just said those things because he didn't want

to talk about what went wrong, about her face
without makeup, about the way he wanted her once but could

not, now, remember why. just an ikea in columbus. that
and a teamster sandwich to make her life a perfect maybe.

and his a goodbye baby. the call that never came
until the next season when he's just gonna hurt her again.

chimera crosstip

giving the slip to underdoggish behemouth
he rallies at the latest installment of johnny get your bootstraps.
price of rice, price of the latest pricelessness
he sighs, imperceptibly, at the interest rate.
what has he bought to lose? a buffet set for bling
the conucopia of a ponzi ring
a mahler inspired minaret and a basket the size
of a king. oh sing
hosannah in the brick a brack, a heart attack, big slacker fact
tyranny's the hottest, when ya got ya gottest, you goddess, yo
walrus the tabuli call us , rasa and
risen to the mound. go to ground
like bachhus, can't leave em a rucus, look folks it's just us
be pullin the strings. dollar by dollar we got to the scholar
who couldn't type anything without his wings. it's rational
reactional, logic less and what a mess, he'd sing
if it would pay the dress and sandals , red and matching
a plot for a hatching, just when you think, natch, ring!
along comes the next line.

after the surrealist's monolog ghazal with no rules

how fast the morning goes
two rosebuds, opening. redder
than lips i'd put to yours
in some other time. the one
when you're here.

caravans of light, firethief
dadaistic entropy.

all good band names.

how do you hate what you love
welling glands and seepage.


arms thick as trees
fingers waving space
steps aside becoming.

use a compass
a variable resistance
the curve of red petal
some map of freedom.


baby's breath, soft whorls
atop fontanelle. a river's bend.

in your pocket a dollar
and a pair of keys.




in that you thought you possessed her
in that you wanted her waiting or gaze


only for you.
only for you.




the skies at night contain
light, perhaps
perhaps the wink out
ravelling across time
to meet us becoming gods
wake up call. a one ness
finding searchlit found




















(



by the bay
pelicans dropped into the water
like stones driving themselves to school.


we collected only visions left
only scars in the sand.

road trip

the roads in america are often caked
with bob's barricaded lanes, interchanges
with signs warning "different traffic pattern
ahead". markers along i 95 up through savannah
name the inlets from the ocean to the marshes
where gators and flat bottom boats
slide over blue sky black mud
looking for fish or radioactivity maybe, finding
mosquitos and broken shoe detritus
plastic bags pulled up from the depths
flaccid and gooey as a giant's condom. there's eighty miles
from jacksonville to savannah, and every time
i drive up to jack's they're working on at least
two thirds of it.


tall trees line the interstate. on the porch that is on the curve
of a rolling hill , you watch the cars travel
to somewhere they're not. inside the cars are my cousins
and step sisters going to visit their aunts this thanksgiving
the smell of pumpkins in the bubblegum she snaps
she hates this flavor she hates this song on the radio da ad
i don't want this song, the princess says so detroit
builds daddy a strong coach, with seperate video display
monitors for each of the two point five kids
and the alpahbet game and the quiet game and i spy
are tall tales no one hears anymore. the green field with horse
the oak that spreads across an acre on the arc of a quiet
glance out the window, past the dairy queen advertisement with ice
cream cone as big as a child's desire, the folding of time
over space, the ribbon of road as open
as never getting there. are we there yet?













she loved the way his sifting
drifted over the stall. she arranges pottery
after a purchase or two, sticks a bamboo
cutting into a sienna glazed round jar.
he's in the back, with the stones, working his hands
into the mass of them kept in the bucket, pulling
up , then filtering through his fingers. in the song
the way she drifted in tidepools on siesta key
a mask and snorkel and waves, breaking gently
over the tiny dead sea shells, the tinkling way
they pulverised into sand. she knows she's
imperfect, lucky, able to bend to the will of the water.
she's moved from side to side, like a fin, being used.












i didn't mind the spotted leopard prints
or the way you thought disco was retro
and the black rim glasses that reminded me
of older brothers and poodle skirts.

it was only that once we'd had each other
there was nothing more to explore

besides you had a book to become
and i had a child to raise. i felt bad
when i heard later that your book also
became a child. some tell me that's weird
priorities but i feel like we all have the freedom
to regret our choices, even while loving
the consequences. thus desire is maintained.













there is popcorn in da house
and butter. there's streaming
tv with laughter or drama or music

news even, if that's your bag. plenty
of diversion to take one's mind off
poetry, the dance from the edge of the fire
that burns in our center.


there's sleep too. diversionary tactics that bear
fruit if you can stick with them. maybe i'll
take up lucid dreaming. feel your vibe on the phone.
don't leave me a message, i dn't listen to them
just keep calling, i 'll write you back.
whatever can be saved, in the time allotted.

chase the red dot

the orangefrosted cat
chases the lazer
across the floor
jake says i love her
reaction when i make it
disappear.

she sits catlike, obesessive she has it
in her sights she nabs she grabs
it slips away in no blink

there one minute gone the next
chased and fleshed and budhapest
a lot like love i tell the nest. we laugh
it's funny, live and guess.

song

no one said you had to love me
destiny's a word for jerks
pulled round by puppet strings
yeah, we know how we'd never work

it's so easy to to forget the pain
when i'm holding you again
but in between there comes a rain
strong as hurricane

i won't chase you this time
we haven't the rhyme
or reason to be in each other's arms

i won't take what's not mine
you haven't the time
and i haven't the need for this harm

look again here come the tears
i'm glad they aren't all gone
you wrestle with all your fears
and i'll write another song

if i can cry then i can feel
at least they're something real
they mean that i can still have hope
go on, get back upon that wheel

and i won't chase you this time
we haven't the rhyme or reason
to be in each in other's arms

we only seem to do harm
it comes out here in songs
and i don't have to love you

no, you, me, we
we don't have to love.

i would cry

but i think i've run out of tears.

sissssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhsssshhhhh

i supPOSE i could clean but
i don't wanna. it's only thursday
after all and i'd rather pout
it's hard being the other woman it feels
like waiting is wailing is wanting
and you dn't wanna do it. or rather i.

listen there's excuses and excuses and since
this is my rolay at the moment well i guess
there are no choices...

smell the wind

around here between
the waste processing plant
the county landfill
the gated community
it can stink.

this morning, gas fumes
as usual. the ped xing red light
with no one crossing takes too long.
we're late again. moon hangs like someone's
idea of decor way above the treetops
in a blue chalk sky. west.

east is where the light comes.

i need nothing
except sleep
and the ability to write
and maybe this li'l sum sum.

open the doors so it cools off
in the other room. cat wanders thru
the snores of the depressed man
on my couch. i wish
there was a way to cure it
all this imperfection
in his head.

chemicals and their residue
scent of what gods we be.


















*************














i gotta kick this boy out
in less than two weeks.
i think he thinks i won't do it.
i think he's wrong.

he doesn't have to be homeless
except he doesn't work at survival
and frankly the herd is saying
he's slowing us down.

gotta hope he's at least trying
to find a sugah momma online.
write a new sob story leaving out
the pertinent details of his lack
of exertion. i dunno what to do
bout that. not my problem he said

don't bug me, i'll take care of it
not my business. so i put my will
into finance's
hands. if the rent isn't in mine
then he has to go. we aint' lovers no mo.






90(-(


listen i'd say to him
if we could talk
like the bff we are
listen happy lunaversery n stuff
but i think we're even now
you gotta find a different milf
or whatever passes
maybe a cougar will rake her claws
across your inertia. you could play
her like you can't me.
i dunno. but the oblivion game
is post secondary education
and your masters is about to expire.




i say this here b/c he's not listening.
even when i speak to his eyes.

















*(___







so the moon. i wanted to say how pearls
almost satisfy the longing
how moving thru the pine
can sometimes be good enough truss
for the space where she belongs.

you could be

dead or dead to me
alone or with
different thoughts
in your head a pattern
emerging, needs
of the one, needs
of too many. how would i
ever find out?

open the blinds

she has yellow
on her mind
words like sun
smile
sad
color of your
last poem. simple.

giddy swim, pole vault
streaming drowned lines

bright as health
shine, win, glimmer
do.

disgruntled optomist

oct 13
the day of reversal
startin blues on the lawn

this was not a rehearsal
so we didn't miss sundown.

the way i clean

, i felt like moving around. so i began by stripping the bed. then in the bathroom i noticed the gloxinia were in very bad shape. close to death. you know, i nurtured them all thru the summer. they bloomed again. i even read up on how to make them perinianl, not seasonal. so i did what they said, but half assed. lost interest n the task. so i decided to see if they survive the winter outside. at the foot of my front door, a bowl of ice cream, melted and dumped on the rug. stepped in it like dog poop. nothing to do but open the door and wipe my foot in the grass. outside, i found what might be a suitable spot for the plant, dug it in. then began to take stock of the ground cover, which one cannot aptly call a lawn. there's grass, yes, but it's relegated to a patch not underneath the oak which spans the this curve
in bayou drive. there's ground cover with tiny white and purple flowers, it's soft and you can walk on it.there's clover too. that's good enough. i wonder what kind of border would go good there? i'd like something woodish, not plastic. even bricky. anything but black plastic.
maybe the indication of a path without it being an actual path. flat stones, yeah. anyway. i pulled some weedish looking flowers, tho i like them. they make wonderful wild bouquets in the grass. reds and purples. maybe they'll grow good in that spot on the side of the house where only sandspurs and orange weed grow. oh, and my one aloe plant. it's doing well, behind the grasses, thick and spiny, it's a desert succulent. so i begin to weed that patch were the daisy seeds i planted a couple springs ago sprouted, where the pot plant began last year. that's my little breeder patch. took out the grasses and the spurs, left the ground cover, spread the last of the seed pods left on the dried out stalks of the daisies. i hope they do well. i spread them all over the yard, wherever i found i a border invaded by sandspurs. i've been battling these fuckers since i moved in.

it's a love hate kinda thing. the very fact i know they're there brings me out into the yard with spade and purpose, then i begin to want to landscape...anyway, i had the idea that i was getting the last of them today, the sun beating down, spotting the stalks with their spiny fruit, the tall bold ones, easy to grab, and even the short ones hiding under the cut grass. i was god, ripping the last of them from their home. i'll show them survival of the fittest! i told them come to me my dears you're nice and healthy ones aren't you? not numerous but doing well. i gather them in bits and pieces, traversing the yard with spotlite sight. sweat runs off my head at the trash can and as i dump them in and secure the lid, my whole world turns black. i'm conscious only of the need to not fall down. to ride out the darkness until i can come to myself. i hang on to the plastic grave, thankfully my knees don't buckle. i'm reminded of a whip it can.


when i come up out of it, i go to the hose, turn it on, douse feet first, then legs, face, head. don't drink from the hose, it has bacteria.
sit in the chair on the porch, recovering. go to the back door, it's locked. huh? walk around to the door i came out thinking the boys are playing a trick on me, i'll have to beg entrance, i'm not in the mood. it's cracked open. they forgot to lock it. step inside the door, right onto the ice cream melt i went out on, full circle.



lol.

the butterfly and the ox , travelling

he was born with nearby
eyes for green
just a step
to the left and sat
his hoof
where sat a zebrafly. she twirls
up and out, finds hoof's zip
flowes to nostril
tip of horn eye
lash of breath.
up ahead his
goal, snatching
clumps along
the way.

he says why should i give you
my secrets. she says because
the wind wants to know.

in his ear her probe
feeds on memory
she dances all around
as he steady so
steadily

but his eyes move
with curves of her wings
a pole or a breeze
around which she sings.

sometimes, he recognises his song.


they move this way for eons
the sun across sky
sun against water
turning the manger autumnal
and gleaming. the amber tree
hangs beside and ablove

under the eaves
his horns a sort of crown
under the leaves
she hangs upside down

sigh

sometimes the cards
are wicked , throw their own
obstacles in the way.
in other words
the reader collapses the meaning
into the symbol. i'm finding out
more about language and signifying
the more i do tarot. too bad i
only have my self to experiment on.
but i think in research of this sort
that's the only way to go.

flesh

what i mean what i tried to say
is that i'm not so numb
as i thought
not so free
as i would like
to believe.

pudding

i only have five minutes
and i want to be late to work
but everything's falling apart
the rollers are missing
shipping's got excess gas
prices and three to five people
line up for my job.
one of them might be you.
so i have to go now.
this gig pays me money
unlike this gig
which only pays me soul.











































8888


under the theme recurring dreams


this time, i was only topless
and instead of school
it was at work.

i just needed to read this again

From: nativedancer
To:trashpo
Sent:April 28, 2008, 3:58 pm

tree with ice, under amber light

it glows
like a van gogh in
frozen
streaks each of its feathered limbs curved gently upward
and i find myself pausing
at the edge of the drive
to stand very still in the fresh needles of freezing rain
as if anchored here too
stretching my arms overhead
like some arthritic unpainted mime
not because i need to make
a statement
about anything just that every now and then
like the silent
unfolding wings of the tree
something stirs within me trying to say
it believes

for lynse

der

The Hermit card affirms that my alter ego today is revealed in the Doubter, whose superpower to reconsider acts as a beacon to a second chance through soul-searching. The truth is out there so leave room for uncertainty. Isolation without aim, or to avoid or linger among past emotional baggage is to navigate by a sign which obscures validation and burdens perspective. It's all catching up, but results to date are not enough. Today I make time to 'go retro' to assess matters or hedge my bet, and let conscience be my guide. It's only by illumination of my failures in this personal quest for truth that I can start to measure success or recognize an opportunity for trusting my heart and stepping back into circulation. Look to past experience for strength or enlightenment, or suffer in silence, or look for trouble, speculating or wandering in the dark until the chance is lost.


so says astrology.com.


i dunno. i just feel lost.
the candle in the lamp
is not enough.



&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&



for suz n nat



what does a chameleon do in a cave?
whose skin does she don, what mask
of reality can she believe in. on the pale
brick wall she feels a statue, she doesnt' know
she's fooling no one until a handswoop informs her.

still, the sun is a jewel.
still the breeze carries her into the next yard
where the green doesn't fit
and the animals there are less cousins
than frustratingly viscious.

she's already gone away from the lizard
because she was too limited. that's a strong
image but it's only interesting until
the escape. you see. i'm not sure bout this
holding on thing anymore. maybe it's preparation
for the big letting go. some things are worth
walking towards, and some things
i frustrate the shit out of myself with.


like age. like living out of the scones of the past.
pale illumination, that. and future? on some valley
i run thru, filled with nasturtiums and beekeeper bonnets
spraying toxides on the yellow masses.

the past and future tho, what else can a writer expect
it's always fantasy or recall when put to the task.
the time of escape is where we dwell.
maybe that's a good place to be in my old age.
dronekrone elastic. the butted out smouldering
ember. how one has to pay for that in some way or other
now that social security is broke and pensions extinct.

we've let our old out in the cold so many generations.
the way the herd thins herself. it's only unfair. it's only
the puritan's work ethic rationale. will we ever evolve
beyond the animal? will we create a machine
to house the soul so eternity is as at last recognised?


i dunno. funny side track/ what if someone wrote a story
about how all thru the eons of the age of the universe
the creator was just trying to find a way to immortality
so eternity could become an experience . you know
how the vedics say we're in kalpas of awakeness and dream?
so this kalpa is a dream trying to wake up in reality
whatever that is. oh man, when the turtles march
they really fracture my head. what does my rationale
or belief matter, really? it's just passage of time thru a node.

so, to the one who could become thru breah , the measuring
of nothings, the somethings exhaled, i welcome you
for as long as the air keeps moving. bring on the wrinkles
and knobby knees, the shopping cart and grand judgement
that is meted by bag ladies everywhere...look, this one
it's a keeper.

too often we say

something's worth fighting for
when what we might mean is some things
are worth working for.

inside the dry volcano

and under the bracken
and slag, color of dried blood
and late night circle jerks

financiers on the loose from their noose
for a nite, it seems almost right
to have the drinks come premature lee.

gate of impasse

i live in an archaeology of tired
an only -ennui -when- i -rise -to -it tired.
song told me to sit up straight
so i unfolded for a moment. when she left
i collapsed again. one must put
on appearances or they
won't go away.

if i made a list of things i'm tired of
but why?
that would give death a means to google me.
i keep telling you death don't need no help.

we talk to each other from
passenger seats, a taylor durden
existence. my ears fill with smoke's sound
my mouth a silenced song.

if i'm going to immolate
why pick a rice paddy away
from the village? make your death mean something
you once told me. i'm still chuckling.


there is no such thing as time.
there's no such thing as elvis.
never was
never will
be


why is it that when in shock
do as the taser does?



still asking questions
like that annoying six year old
i never grew out of. only my
vocabulary is slightly better.
knobs for banging against
protruding tables. this is how i find them.

when the you is me it's hard to tell the difference between us.
i think tho, it's ok to think about things
and let them run the whole river
before asking them to sink into the gulf.
call it the mississippi
call it the sea.
call in to work today
but there's no one else to be.

two tales of told

in one you are flaming red vine and running taled
back under the porch where you dwell where
flesh doesn't matter.
zero. giving up

if you wake from the coma
to find your life falls in around you
like a comfortable halter
leading u home.
if.


in an other you are a floating
lit candle in hall of mirrors

reflections are a maze of identity
and one eye is as good as the rest.

time is suspended one way, then the other.
it contracts, expands, in the rhythm of your lungs.