Saw outside a lonely time
shadow firs are teasing me
breezily. Their scents make pine
every time all kinds, seasoning.
Under skies as pure as opal,
bright night dimmed by grim surroundings,
worse by wind, won’t hush, but yodels.
Houses still for nature’s crowning.
For my birthday, I would like
tons of air a year for life —
swear to heart won’t waste this time.
Sweet or spicy, ¿who can scent
brimstone watercolor flooding
buckets brimmed of pavement meant
bent below the toes of bloody
skullcap shrooms in dusty noon —
{ guess I best bring out the broom } —
tombs so late & all so soon,
cheering chilly autumn gloom?
Colored gray won’t keep me sober;
drink before the season’s over —
To you ghosts, let’s toast October.
Only in the night do I feel full,
where the darkness cuts the light stark clear.
Sparked awake by th’sugar treats:
jangling, cooing, thumping melodies.
* * *
But then the moon must always fall,
revealing all the messiness.
Warped from the ghost with th’world on strings
to choke on millions of inhuman human abstract things.
Falling wind…
weak leaves shake on ends
bright & dim.
Autumn’s winter pale ne’er pales
rosy left ‘hind loneliness
abstract concrete chalky tales
footprint-stained sprained bony limbs.
Autumn’s summer golden blades
shining right through company
grassy seas of brighter days
squirrel away all somethings green.
Green-glowing leaves, tanned brown by angry suns
isn’t what I’m writing ’bout.
How scarlet peckers’ needle beats thy drum.
They can’t; they don’t exist. Neither dost “thou.”
¿& all those tardy sunset conflagrations?
are nothing but your wild imagination.
No, no, no…
I’ll tell you what it’s all ’bout,
I'll tell you what it's all 'bout...
October sugar o’ peanut butter cups
plucked off the vine ripe after ages o’ toil—
& buttery black oil…
No, no, no, stop.
Don't interrupt me.
It is not good for my constitution, you fuck fucker.
There is no autumn,
nor no spring.
There ne'er was,
& there ne'er will be 'gain.
It's o'er, it's done.
We've had an OK run, ¿OK?
No...
Nothing's OK in this throat o' the woods.
Nothing good...
A mushy lump o’ brown fruit bitter with too many months falls with an unheard squish
not in half-rainbow leaves;
not in cool turquoise streams;
not on pine-shaded, moss-brimmed eaves;
not in bowls o’ whipped cream…
There's nowhere for you to flee, my dear.
There is nothing here.
A purple too minty to snatch,
so always it’s fading to black;
& all your strong crescent-shaped curves
are melted to coffee-desk burns.
& the firs disperse…
I tried every setting, but none
would work: neither higher exposure,
nor color enhancements. ¿So what
resource will for once offer closure?
“Photo-taking poser…”
& look, I did try to research…
but all I could find were e’en more
those idiot numbered lists churned
by hit-grabbing narcissist whores.
Straying from the core…
Inside I found mo’ settings &
then went outside to try again,
but found the crescent moon had left.
¿& don’t that just fuck me in th’ass
to death?
¡Ack!
In my attempts to shelter rain,
the sun still sneaks inside through blind spots,
stretching stark nights wide awake
& making mornings gorgeous vine clots.
(Thanks.)
O, ¿will I miss another bus
on sidewalks paved with flashing chills?
Why, yes, I will—all because o’ the sun,
who never has to pay the bills.
(What a bum.)
Hey.
Stop cutting up my meters, son—
I must walk 10 to reach my destination.
¿Or was that 8?… Fuck…
“To wait this line you must have patience.”
(¿What?)
But I don’t want to end, my friend—
to leave my friend, the cheddar oak.
¿Who needs birdseed when I could tend
to pinecones pancaked under spokes?
(Shut up—it makes perfect sense.)
2 doves on
creaky branches called
a couplet
departing—
branches sing no more,
“O, fuck it.”
with the scent o’ berries, too;
smudged on smoky sidewalk chalk.
Chalk it up to moonlit blues,
choking me up harshly soft.
Chatter dead is better than dead
silence wand’ring wolfen streets on
urban hills that never bend &
shatters into icy neon.
Moonlight full o’ foggy capes,
follow me through thin-black japes’
scarecrow boughs that ease me blank.
Note: I was going to “celebrate” Marxmas by posting an article wherein I shit on Marxism & it’s stupid “Dictatorship of the Proletariat” bullshit, ’cause, as predicted, 2015 was a bad year, & that’s what you do on years without a warm future. But I’m sick to death o’ politics (& don’t have the time to revise it to coherency), so enjoy this superior, relaxing sonnet ‘stead.
I can feel your yellow heart
piping spice in frozen nights,
where your sturdy metal starts
bending in such smoke so tight,
snuggled up with razor noise,
which is where the fireworks bloom,
showing off your rusty toys,
like your gurgling cauldron plume.
Though I rest in cotton caves,
your gears’ll never wane,
even when I’m in my grave.
Light that leads me through the blizzard,
white in flakes, such snuggled blankets.
Tangy sugar never withers,
though this season never bakes it,
only baked so long ago,
you remind me o’ soft bread,
warm tan crescents made o’ snow.
Noses itch in strong, fresh scents.
Red lights warn you: stop & breathe,
drown the death in breakfast tea,
touch the crystals on the leaves.
