secret drummer

He is enigmatic
famous in his day
but gone now
to what?
producing and writing
occasional background singing
genius lost
keeping to himself.
But occasionally,
every once in awhile
he talks to me.
No one knows.
But he does.
Hopefully, he never sees this.

cafes, byways, and highways

I have flown from bus stop to rest stop
to dark highway to gravel road,
from your mouth
to my grave and back again.
Lies in my back pocket, promises
clutched in hand.
Ribbons to once-was
worn in my hair.
Back to the front and around to the
shore, clockwise and frontwise
never quite getting free with my notions.
Picking up along the way, such scavengers
as lust and greed
love and need.
Leaving behind a trail of myopic bread crumbs.
Morsels of mistakes.
Truthfully,
no matter where my soul is
my not so discreet looks and thoughts
are cast in your far away direction.
I just want a good cup of coffee
and an artful exchange.

guitar times.

Casting notes into the air
the most clumsy guitar player
this river city has ever seen
is locked in her cave.
But it serves as a distraction I tell you
This genius mind,
Miss 155,
learns four or five chords a day
but the brain power doesn't translate
to finger power
and I can't hold the damn strings down
or switch fast enough.
It's frustrating
and oh so therapeutic.
Give me awhile,
I'll play for you.
Perhaps I'll even sing.

writer's block

In one of my more emotional times, words are escaping me. The little bastards. Nothing will come out...I'm just sitting here, pent up and frustrated.

sacrosanct angel

He's found
another
sacrosanct angel.

She is fiery
and without remorse.
Her every predestined
movement
in his direction
seems to be
cloud like
fluid like,
as though she floats
her way into his soul.

Ethereal, whimsical,
all of the above.
How can he
make her come home?
Buried in his twisted wet pillow,
he cries for her in
the night.
Cries for her creamy
skin that is
so soft and
atrocious.
Her heated shell,
that leaves his fingertips
blistered from just a
slight caress.

Yet another villainous
wicked
vicious
captivating
celestial being
has invaded his blood
muscle.

moth to a flame

She is sadness
personified.
Goodness of the heart,
but badness of the way.
Gone is the family
once held together
with green bills and smiles.
Tonight it's chardonnay
from a box,
ice cubes tinkling the
tumbler.
He can yell from upstairs all
he wants,
she still misses her daughter.
It was just them in the beginning
now her girl is miles away,
sleeping soundly in bed
dreaming of her own future children.
Her blues aren't allowed here.
Not allowed to even
see her own mother
on her own terms.
28 years ago in a one
room apartment
they laughed over Big Bird.
She cried as she held her girl
then.
Told herself the meth wasn't
worth losing this.
The man beating them wasn't
worth losing this.
She remembered those fateful words
that she spoke from a pay phone
on Central Avenue.
Mother and daughter,
hand in hand,
rushing traffic in the background,
"If you still want us, we're here.
Come pick us up."

obviously boys and girls, this is pure therapy - nothing too special to the outside eye, but it's just coming out how ever it wants.

amy cakes

Delicate wind floats from the west,
carrying soft scents of jasmine
and salt
from ocean 150 miles away.
Waves kissing sand find me,
even here in my bed; awake.
Head to the footboard.
Feet to the headboard.
A midnight breeze
is a welcome friend to the
sleepless weepless women
of this central region.
Teeth can clench,
lips can curl to mask pain
of so much amassed over
these wayward years.
Mouth can crave
the cupcake that was handfed
to it. The brilliant
little morsel that made
all so believable.
It's a recipe of flour, salt,
sugar, butter
something to make it rise and
wish. Something toothsome to frost
the cake with.
Candles burn not to bring in
another year, but to fend off
greedy digits, looking for a lick.
Sweet sweet whipped up icing
with a sea salt glaze.
So fine and choice on
tongue tip,
(but the after taste,
the film,
leaves something to be desired.)
Besides, the bed is no place
for a cupcake.

My friends Charlie and Jason...

They're both incredible poets. Much better than me....please be sure to check them out:

Charlie - http://dominickontherun.blogspot.com/

Jason - http://thejasontm.blogspot.com/

shelter

You don't quite realize
how often your nose
chances upon
the Autumn smell of
ripening apples.
Not until it reminds you of something
comfortable and dear,
and stops you in your tracks.

sidewalk ending

This old town sidewalk reeks of memories and yesterdays.
My stomach knots when I observe
so many people crossing this street
without pondering who was here before.

If I stop and squint
real quick,
just for a slight second,
I can see bird flight in cobblestone.
Ear to cement, I can hear
newly birthed babies crying for air.

I should have told you how to get here,
to my cobblestone;
the one with a forever blue tear
scorched to its surface.

heart stoppage

Last night I woke up in the middle of the night; it was total nightmare movie style. I shot up from a deep sleep, just sat up and looked around. I was convinced my heart had stopped. It was so bizarre...I literally clutched at my chest trying to feel my heart beat...and I couldn't. So I felt my pulse, it was there. I felt my chest - no heartbeat. I was half asleep and my heart seemed to have stopped, so naturally I had like a panic attack. I rolled over and threw my arms around Keith, he was still there, and he was breathing. Then I found my cat curled on my pillow, put my ear to his fur and heard his purring.

Then I felt my chest and I swear to you, no heartbeat.

I can feel it now just fine.

I'm convinced my heart stopped beating last night.

daddy issues

Cheeks pressed to cool dirt floors,
hope found in spiders webs
(cloaking the outside whores.)
Tomorrows promises cloud todays,
todays hurtful slaps and swallows
bury yesterday.

Oh yes, it's dark and seedy.
Smiles and laughter inside
the dank house
persuade even the greedy
to take a peek, take a shot,
it could be your lucky day.
Even with the tinge of rot
it's hard not to want to play.

There's no reason to this.
No rhyme for you to hang on.
No moment that's forgivable.
No time for it to be sing song.

Hug me, prince.
Ignore the precious youth,
(cast your eyes away from the door.)
No, the sun's not out today.
Why do you keep wanting more?
Let it go, let it go, green earth.
Keep all the kids from going under.
Fatherly kisses are overvalued,
the eyes of youth
find their own wonder.

Am I wrong?

It's strange to me that I have given the address to this blog to the most important people in my life.

So, does that mean those who check it regularly, are those who truly care for me?

Because not many people do....

mermaid

As if foamy wavelets lapping sand
unveiled shining shells and jewels;
she remembers me
from moons past.

magnolia in exile

Otherworldly magnolia in the desert;
fallen blue drops on white petals.

Don’t die on me.
We came this far, my archangelic blossom.
Let the sand scratch my pupils,
clearing my eyes means letting go for too long.
You can have my shade,
ravishing white,
I don’t need it.

Ultimately,
when the collapse (metamorphosis) happens
use my desiccated body (cocoon) as a shield
from the sand storm.

White against sand
is the loveliest sight I’ve ever seen.
Burn it to my lids,
my last look.


***I don't so much like the title. I'm not sure it's done, we'll see.