Summer’s Salts

There was nothing but summer there,
daydreams and miracles in ragged hills strewn like teddy bears 
with seams ripped open wide, thunderhead cotton exploding out
thistle in the sky, songs in our mouths.
Every inch of river new as I
carving curves in banks like exercise
The sun hid behind the moon
bashful it’s radiance could not compete
with eclipse-red lips, sundresses
breeze brought kisses and big sunglasses…
And hitting high in the afternoon, there
were we, strings, vibrating
and still,
nothing could touch what was
so full; 
humidity so thick
and bosoms
and souls, how we beamed
in the half light of the interrupted sun
we came undone and back again
and saw ellipses in holes by pins
the friends,
they know 
how slow summer feels,
with drips beading and falling from behind knees
and bits of cotton that drifts from tree to tree
and me, I was completely taken, and given back
so I could do it all again with similar results:
riding green sloping hills on river’s edge
and sweating summer’s salts.
Published in: on June 11, 2012 at 1:21 am  Comments (6)  
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What makes people tick?

We’re all unique in pulse, pattern
syncopated ticks
in cacophony,
wild metronomes
pushing blood around
to the sound
of thumps in the night
to slow the rhythm
we can’t manage,
clocks to give us unreachable regularity
at such a steady pace
that impairs our confident and independent stride.
Tame tempos that suit your temperament:
largo, presto, adagio, allegro.
You’ll grow in cadence,
with licks of ocean tides,
join the crickets,
find the choir bellowing
tones in your bpm,
dance with winds
that make barn doors rattle and clap,
laugh until you’re out of sync,
ride the brink of gasps
fluttering and trembling
your throbbing core.
That cardiac pause looms,
eternities of pendulums
hanging still like retired drumsticks,
eminent windless dark…
Time does not stop at death.
It endures without a beat
to move with,
a paralysis of pulses,
no sound
to measure
breaths drawn.
So at dawn, arise!
March to your drum,
inflect and step 
into your OWN time.
Published in: on February 29, 2012 at 12:27 am  Comments (2)  
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in perfect sync

with the quiver

of my cells

every pluck

my heart swells

guitars, harps,

ukes, violins

banjos, cellos,


they all sing

with their entrancing strings

matching the pulse in me



Published in: on November 25, 2011 at 10:24 pm  Comments (2)  
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when you touch those strings
for hours after it reverberates,
adrenaline shaking me delirious
like holy spirit epileptic manifestations
in the aisles of your rhythmic temple
romantically cleansed in the murkiest of baptisms
you sing,
and it carves me hollow,
scraped clean, empty,
guts and seeds, stripped bare to the rind and lit up smiling
every note
standing hairs on end till I’m a forest
lost in the bewildering wilderness you croon
these heart wrenching choral confessions
that unfurl in wooden ribbons
from your oaken diaphragm roots,
rising up and out, scratching and grabbing air
growing into every open ear,
holding attention boa tight
your gnarling lyric branches
weaving through every orifice
choking the sun with sweet darkness
 just keep me captive
tethered and chained to your next word,
my lungs asphyxiating
in the black ink lagoon
you’ve spelled your lines and measures with
I’ve got it bad, this malady of your ballads
I want to manifest all your everythings
tie myself in strings
and set myself between your knees
the devil will believe me
I want to zip the flesh down from my neck
peel back my ribs and beg for another hit
your bow, in viscera slicing strokes
each horse hair cut, gut weeping enchantments
you play and we offer blood
I’m not sure who’s sacrificing
but I’ll give anything for more
there is no coming back to real life after this
this narcotic need to feed on
more scores
Published in: on July 7, 2011 at 11:28 pm  Comments (4)  
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Dazzle Drive

Headlights dance on the diamond shoulders

a sparkling jewel encrusted belt parallel the interstate

an epitaph of accidents

of rear-ends who have seen too much action and torn rubber

of lives shook empty of their glitter

How this tragic twinkle makes a dazzling spectacle

perfect in unison with the concertos in my car

Published in: on November 26, 2010 at 1:10 am  Leave a Comment  
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Meet-her and Rhyt-him

That song in my head

was your whisper in my ear

that started a quickening beat

in my chest

foot on the bass pedal

thump thump thump

tap the hi-hat

wait for the pause

then a swell,


of strumming guitar

an ambient eddy of liquid velvet

suspending me sideways

rustling my strings

into sublime vibrato,

my keys,

pulsed into rhythmic refrain

pound the chorus of angelic proclaims

the stick, drumming the taut-skinned head

with rapid licks

and pounds like bricks

your fingers on that neck dancing wild,

every extremity, defiled

with harmonic tingles

carrying every tender decibel deep inside

Published in: on June 17, 2010 at 12:21 am  Comments (6)  
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I want to feel the effervescent foam of a symphonic tide crawling up my toes





I want to be a fluffy tuft of dandelion, carried to the heights of foreign landmarks

I want my ears on a string that I can cast into a quiet room and let them bob on the silence until tranquility takes hold and pulls them under

I want to be possessed by the ghost of effortless decorum

I want to be a crescendo in history’s most astonishing symphony; the one where hearts hit the ceiling and the well within the listener is spilling over with awe

I want to be a flock of blackbirds that fly above farmland, darting uniformly in multifarious directions. I want to be the whole of the flock, scattering myself  into pieces to briefly rest in branches.

I want to live in a prodigious towering city inhabited with bright minds that are employed by Common Sense, inc.


I want to be bound and strung up at the gates of the city with barbed wire wrapped in baby’s breath and cherry blossoms

I want to inhale gravity and excrete it until I’m weightless.

I want to be the prognosticator of white lies and summon bees to sting the tongues of the tellers

I want to burn memories into the climes of my mind until embers fly, so that when I wake, perspiring, the scent of romantic ash fills my panting lungs.

Published in: on February 11, 2010 at 12:14 am  Leave a Comment  
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