I have not been what I could- no, I have been washed away.

Light
spills surreptitious
from where the lightning and the thunder
reign inscrutable-
gifts no car stereo could pronounce,
no prim suit could bless forth-
the weight and worth of which the strongest ink
could not shoulder
(catch me!).

Slick and intense,

it turns so quickly gray.

Mashed and muddled and rendered invisible.

(It’s us.  it’s all us.)

It is darkness, here,
that flows-
that runs in drains.
Sparked and shimmered
purple silver
that collects and whirls in pools
on the parched, pocked, and dusty concrete
and on our desiccated skin
(we are so thirsty! who brush aside,
and hide from the rain!).

Prayer

May we never relegate Love to youthful exuberance.

And dream of days that are not this day.

May we never consign;

Love does not consign.

Sing-songs to circle skies!

Wheel and laugh!

If life is a series of circles,

May we

elucidate the

loop-the-loop

loudly!

May we ever dig our hearts,

may we mine passion!

Priceless passion mine!

West

I.
In the afternoon
she came to me.

Red wine and summer spirit-
strawberries and citronella.

We talked then, the trees and I,
on sacred things like shadows and symmetry-
of caffeine and buzzing insects and quiet.

In the 4:00 lull,
the trees rested their myriad tongues
and decided, instead, to think for a while
on whatever it is tress have to think about.

I think a tree's only thoughts
must be ancient songs of praise,
and when they sing,
the song is a patient one-
and when they are tired,
they must dream of summers past.

Trees are largely unconcerned.
Trees are never bored.

II.
("The cool of the evening." I've always loved that phrase.)

When the sacred shadows began their tired push for dominance,
she brushed my cheek and departed.

She again became wind,
and with the prolonged thunder of a 747,
above,
west,
she was gone.

I was me again, and not my best.

The trees stirred, fitfully dreaming
whatever it is trees have to dream about,
or to be fitful of.

The contrail of a 747 going west
became a streaking comet
in the light of a sun
that seemed larger on the horizon.

Spokes

The cards of all the world's houses sometimes
flutter and sink around me.
I put them in my bicycle spokes
and jump like rain.

I sometimes know the names
of the spirit I invoke,
but most times, I'm just plain.

New Photos

New photos posted on my Shutterfly site.  See the album "Downtown Memphis 2011".  Enjoy.

Sorry for the lack...

but apparently I am like the winter sunlight. I am shorter during the day, weaker, and more temperamental when it's cold. Simply speaking, I hate everything I've been putting on paper lately. However, I have been trying to focus on some other mediums- photography mainly, but also trying my hand at sketching and watercolors. I'm even brewing my own beer.

Some recent photos will be up soon on the Shutterfly site, as soon as I can get them properly transferred- and in the meantime, I have been finding inspiration in some of my older poems. To wit: see the upcoming couple of poems, written a couple of summers ago when my disposition was literally a bit sunnier.

Stop trying to live in the moment. The moment is just part of time, and time, by definition, moves. Break out your surfboard.