birth pangs
in woe we reckon
that it’s good enough
to survive Summer’s
birth pangs, bearing
both tribulation and
the stillborn cool
of Autumn’s morning
in woe we reckon
that it’s good enough
to survive Summer’s
birth pangs, bearing
both tribulation and
the stillborn cool
of Autumn’s morning
i got the good Lord in me
i got beer in me
i got strife in me
i got weed in me
i got hate in me
i got whiskey in me
i got words in me
i got a soul in me
i got laughter in me
i got tears in me
i got love in me
but i ain’t got you.
her beauty
is in the shape
of night
hips and cosmos
bend around the
light of stars
burning sentinels,
bearing this bridegroom
to her, unblemished.
In a W Craven
Flick I’d do
Fine to be
By myself
(contrary to the common idea:
safety in numbers)
I’m monster
Enough for
Us all
on a casual Thursday
sometime after lunch
in the vibrant hum
of some city
you die
you’re buried
dirt eats you
worms drink you
earth digests you
seeds fall
you fertilize
germinate
sprouts grow
plants grow
flowers bloom
bees buzz and
brush fuzzy underbellies
against your
pollen
they carry
you and mingle with
others, no chatting
only existance
you procreate
you ovulate
you blossom
you fruit
caterpillars eat you
birds eat you
squirrels eat you
you feed them
become them
under the same steady stars
you tend to furry legs
and bushy tails
you scamper up trees
hoarding nuts and berries
you run after dark
foxes hunt and consume you
your blood warms theirs
you mingle with them
you flow through their
beating hearts
your brood is born in dark
dank caverns
you nurse, you clean
you sleep
they sleep
we sleep
and die…
and start again from dirt
your spirit leaves this world
your life remains
Heaven is for the dead.
at ten i lost a dog
fucker ran away
despite the good
intentions of the fence
and the chain run
and the nightly feeding
and the treats.
the boy had to run
and he did
half malamute, half husky
we strolled the neighborhoods
hung posters
called
prayed
no dog
weeks later
i’d nearly forgotten about him.
spent alot of time in the woods then.
one cool afternoon i hiked to
the nearby ruins of an
old house
as i climbed through
the piles of wood and
debris an uncommon flash
of gray and white caught
the corner of my eye
it was my dog.
fast asleep on the
freshly fallen leaves.
crying his name i moved
closer.
he did not move
he was dead, and half eaten
his insides, hollow
his face, serene
i stared for some time,
thinking his strong body might
just reanimate…
but it never did.
the earth was taking him back
as it will take me
as it will take you
Now that summer’s
Moon has turned away
And left her
Desolate
She bids farewell,
With a quip
And a song
And a blissful
Moment of
Love gone wrong.
Sing to me ladies
Sing to me pure
With voices low
‘n a brazen lure
And I’ll succumb
To your summer moon
Your summer swelt
Your summer gloom
When riverbanks flood
And fat stoves sink
And old ladies pray
And old ladies pray
The desolate shall rise.
there are days when
the love eats me
alive
when storms do not
buffet my charity
when arrows do not
split me apart
there are days when
the beauty of love, indeed
eats me alive
& yet others when we both
starve
the poems
ain’t
gettin’ shorter
b’cause
i’m gettin’
smarter;
it’s b’cause
i’m gettin’
lazier
(as the sapidity of words
slowly loses its savor)
A lil doodlin.
Like sex
Is sloppy
In execution
And honored
By fuzzy
Images remembered
Over coffee
Or daytime
T. V.
It collapses
On itself
Forming
Enchanted
Ruins of regret
“Why, Harris,
Why did I
Write that?”
“It’s no more
Poetry than
It is
Fucking.”
you are the
end
of my
unjustifiable
means.
the aroma of
sandalwood
and lavender
seeps beneath my
hotel room
door.
like the
guttural
tug of
North to
cobalt,
you pull me
constantly
and i obey.
it was
years in
the making
fastened
together
with awkward
backseat
fumbling
&
late night
darkened
corridors
hewn without
care or cause
save to
adorn
your face
one day
with it’s
gentle
pressure
and moist
surprises
some nights
i kiss you
with my
eyes opened
& remember.
the battle outside
my window under
smokey July
moon smirkin
crickets n katydids
drown the night
in buzzy chorus
comfort, sweet whiskey
hummus of midnight
marks on it’s otherwise
empty parchment
of silence
in all the noise
i doubt you’ll
even notice
if i die
it was a miracle
when five thousand or
more ate with twelve
baskets left over.
if only it’d been
twelve billion.
but there are so many
Galaxies to
attend to.
you know what you do-
in the way you
walk,
hum,
breathe,
acquiesce.
you cast hope to
the hopeless,
without the
understanding
that they
don’t need hope.
they need bread.
you ain’t
retarded, baby,
the
Universe
is.
it was a
passionate
display.
ribald
convolutions
etched in
the shadowy
midnight
atmosphere
of the room.
images stained
against comely
walls, penumbras
that Time
won’t soon
forget.
and arrested
by your apt
attention, i’ll
lie in a sordid
solitude
for.
unlawful.
carnal.
knowledge.
life has
requested more
than her
fair share
and from
writing, stolen,
my will
to care
A flub here and there, but oh so sweet a melody. It’s music you can taste.
i ain’t some
psychopathic
Cambodian warlord.
i’m just a
pair o’ boots
lookin’ to
slide a little
closer to a
pair o’ pumps.
