Swallow in a heat wave

Was it when you were at the docks

That they handed it to you

That which made you look skyward

And saw the flashing of the satellite

Pristine turtles idle on the slippery moss

And I left the sails unfurled

Waiting for the wind to wake her up

But all in all a touch of nothing

To leave the desired mark on my heart

Wasn’t it when you were on the pier?

When they let you go

They, who so wisely saw your grace,

Or just another pretty face?

I saw so many boats at the marina

Across from the Salvador Dali’ museum

You came over, wanted to hold hands

And the forced perspective made you small

It didn’t come out right or come out at all

The stains in the mixture mixed with dye

And the colored sky turned a purple and white

No more room entered here for foot in mouth

Paintings in blossom, tulips fringed edge

I know the cloudy banks riddle us all

And question the query in our souls

The clouds cover the Earth and shadow the bay

Holding on to hope like a child sick with fever

Was this the place where you became ill?

Down by the platform bobbing on its chain

I stepped on the bus and never looked back

Concrete sidewalks pass by like years

And the solemn face left was left in tears

Was this where they found you?

Gave it back in forms of precious stones?

And led you to the grass on the other side

Deep down we know the truth

This is the place where you died

And on this Decoration Day

A carnation I lay near the head stone

I’m so sorry that I left you all alone

Now my head turns away and slowly grows smaller

Like a swallow in a heat wave, I may crash and burn

But for all my life in life I learn

The water you swallowed –

The flood came with ill repute and flashed away

I wish you hadn’t gone sailing on that day

Now then, sun, burn the land dry

And dry the cheeks on which I cry

For people live

And people die

03-29-01

In the beginning II

Listen to Her Cry

Bring to light, showering clovers,

Fields of green, stirring wind

Fragmented, augmented the frosty sky

Sun blooms the shadows cast

Past the bay raining clouds, dancing

Flowers, meadows which sway

Through a lazy day

Thunders clap, lightning’s blaze, cotton

Candy clouds and cornfields maze

Kentucky blue grass, pride in the

Roots. Nobel trees, Brave Lilacs…

Crackling leaves through limber trees

Blow across the cobalt seas

Rolling hills, weeping willows cry so soft

Crows wing stays aloft

Mirrored water reflects sunlight’s gleam

Drifting down a forgotten stream

Mist wallows, fires fall, shifting plates

Mountains call

09-24-99

An age old Argument about CRAMS

   

Crams. (Not pictured above... because they don't exist)

There are no such things as crams. They do not exist. Crams, Crens or Creaons;
None of these exist. You may have noticed that some people in our cultural tend to make words up because they are afraid of actually making sense. This is true. It was in some sort of psychological test that was funded by the Nabisco Corporation; the word in question, however, is Crayons. (Pictured Left)

I have noticed that some people pronounce it crams. This is embarrassing and makes no sense. It also makes me sick to my stomach. What kind of world do we live in where ordinary people are allowed to get away with such atrocities against mankind? How can we insure our children are growing up in a safe environment if we allow these… these PEOPLE to wander around freely without being punished under the full extent of the law? All these questions make me tired, and hungry. Hungry and tired, I had some Taco Bell today. It was okay. But there was a lot of broken glass in my burrito and my gums bled and bled and bled. And blood was pouring out of my mouth and tears were falling down my face. Lots of people laughed at me and some of them didn’t. Some people just pointed and me and said “Look at that sick freak! Let’s get out of here before we do something we might regret!” the people that said that were carrying blowtorches. It made my heart sad and heavy.

When I got home I put a rabbit against my gums to soak up all the blood.

August 8^th 2004

In the beginning

When days last lost bloom once more

(Inspired by Bob Burden)

We see our days passing by…

One by one - Boxcars on the railway…

I pause, on my trip to destiny, to view a scene. … I wander, as a drifter through my old

Hometown, along the paths of orange crackled leaves, on to my house… the old

familiar haunt.

In the house, people move about, but they are not alive. They are the walking dead, the

ghosts of my memories.

Soon they‘ll be gone. Faint whispers in the air

A gust of wind picks up the ash and bones and rolls them down the old alleyways.

The smell of cinnamon and roasted almonds lingers somewhere not far away.

Too many memories, a tear rolls down my cheek and into the cracks of the pavement.

The Creek. Once so large and expansive in my imagination, now nothing more than a

trickling stream and clouds of bothersome mosquitoes… this is where I injured the UPS

driver.

Why do you come here John?

No one is left… Not anymore…

All of this was good. It was all good before the night of youth faded into the dusky hills.

I will leave this place now and I will never return. …Not in a million years…

     I will not cry for my life, but maybe somebody will… Cry, baby, cry. Cry for all its

worth. … … Bawl your eyes out Kiddo’

1995