Fruits Falling From a Tree
Fruits falling from a tree
mimic that way blood oozes from men left simple and alone
by knives and silver-hearted song too cruel to sleep with words
falling from the lips of queens who stood among brothers,
my yearning their music-starved bodies would not be as red as I would've hoped,
given how long this war has been, wars are like fruit that falls in others' gardens,
and they do not look at the face of love,
they're servants to a dream of swelling garbage cans and dotted bones
rotting my love for Fall-time, screeching leaves, brown and sugary out in the desert,
that yellow year the prophet of the old world
fired darkness from his stinking guitar.
The girls mutter their shoo-bop-a-loo-las
plugging holes that apples and popping plums leave behind,
when tower block tenants fill up their bins and we're dealing with square one -
guns at the ready, and the pristine pervert of poetry retcons the wildest scriptures
Fail-Safe Switch of the Soul
I'm guest of my bed 49 minutes (checking watch) and not some livid boy
you'd expect you to take a chance on an expensive hat bought by any one of the five families
who could make existential matter
a wholesome challenge for rubes and greenhorns.
To increase (or decrease) chances
to evolve into another night, muse upon these first :
(a) leave cheese by the table, (disinterested, no specials this week in Aldi),
(b) a Joe Henderson LP (Martin in work recommends, I'm in agreement, 1973 Henderson, of course)
(c) those Dusseldorf dissidents trapped like itching rats in the careless tv’s stomach bones.
These things in a lifetime,
happen in a night. I abhor sleep. Thinking's a thing I'll grace a pisspot with,
feel Chronos' dirty finger
pluck his dirge on my tuneless skeleton. Sleep, there's no escape
Brownstown Girl
He got shot in the back
in a flick called The Omen
she was kind enough to share,
finishing a song
I don't think I'd ever let come to an end
just like the Devil's end
would make these Curragh's edges
too smooth to waste rusty raindrops on,
if I had a guitar and a place to hide my car,
so I could see these lexicons of spent bullets
up real close. I couldn’t let it end even when I’d nearly ran out of gas
is all I can say in reply,
imagining that red barracks wall
is painted from the devil’s blood
after he got caught in a crossfire, Sammy and Bob and a bible’s worth of bullets
jangling
down the railroad track
to the County Laois border,
Brownstown girl chasing me with an invisible shotgun
and four-hundred and three dollars worth of pretty much nothing
her Uncle Bill saved up to make him look like her step-Uncle Mary
Sunday Morning Church Bells in a Small Sardinian Town
Prayer begins me.
That I appear as glass near water, mountain under snow
completes nothing - ends nothing which desires no being.
I believe in unseen things,
God, Ghost, death minus gun-ushered blood a depth orphaned screen holds Friday ransom to:
fear has made my chess-move equal to God makes me animal equal to water
makes me mirror to witch-buried coal-crushed void,
ordained casket in which I cannot be buried. Prayer begins my freedom,
alpha freedom, no sun no moon no crooked-knuckle guitar string building
I swindle my corpse from : desire this moment, boy!
I sink my ankles' swell beneath and know I've reasons to be :
to be but light electrically meandering finite staircase around - God around me,
kissing me, being me,
me being
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