getting home

i see a lit up neon sign

grocery, liquor mart, drug store symbol

from across the park it glows red,

burning an old memory anew in my brain

nights of churning stomachs and banal cravings

prompting a swift removal of self proclaimed royalties

a prize derived from

the right to survive

not to get ahead and thrive

but merely to get by

in this city of endless brake lights


wild and busting to get back home

i'll lead the way

weaving in a zig zag pattern

through denver's empty streets

toward the baker district's sunken ruins

i nearly plummet off the edge of colfax st.

i nearly kill a new friend

cheating in a game of mother may i

with the flashing red hands of the crosswalk man


darting across colfax

over the black and white keys on the road,

we are barely missed by a speeding taxi

in a sudden burst of fury,

we'll take off after it

like a cyclone, all limbs flailing

to push the night air aside and ride

like the fatal taxi that almost took our lives


finally we'll cruise

down the familiar path home

winding down the sidewalk along speer

past the sprinklers that spit on my glasses

in defense of their dry brown patches of land

gliding automatically through the turns

we'll dart through the green and blue shadows

hunched over our handlebars

phantom limbs of the trees brushing our cheeks


we're making good time

and breathing freely of the summer's last warm breath

her unseen hands guide our every move

and i feel like some new born spirit

of the ancient pavement we ride upon

**********************************************

i've got my hands in a new hole

you've got you're old soul

blow out your candles

thirsty for woodland

there's nothing like a fuzz and crackle

to my throat, tongue, and voice box mangled

in a whiskey drink concoction sipped slowly

on a a porch in a north denver neighborhood

there's nobody to send signals to my brooding ears

barred but for your hand to mouth melodies.

in a mystical way you're making no sense

but for the sense of well being that i'm swimming in

check out the sky on this day full of empty hours,

blue as the deep end of pools full of children

i pass with lingering fingers on the fence,

my eyes diving in to a distant summer memory

ahmadi

roaring fountains spew poisons

ignited by invaders.

the dark drizzle stains the midmorning sun.

twisting heads explore the trees

as a ghost craving light reaches for fruit.

we spill, covering the sea,

the air, and the land.

the true cost of oil is a demon

who rode a black horse,

body glistening in acid rain.

he will ride far beyond the night

into the black snows of our flattened cities.

increasing carcinogens contend with bureaucracy,

under the control room,

where sunday was blown to smithereens

within earshot of 17 children.

how do you get them clean?

we try.

still we are never clean.

11 minutes remaining

oh how well i hide

between the wind and the tide

clockwork inside my skull

keeps moving my parts

but some godless women

know how to crush a heart

it's familiar to me, so i flip the page

twisting for days in your crysalis, your flower


the librarians must be crazy

to go about all day with no sun

and save people time

by the way they stack books


they must know the pencil

and the blank page

and the cold concrete

of numbers

they must know it like home

i would trade my songs

for a moment of clarity

to know anything like that

to know i'm home

surprise snow

it's beautiful here when it snows. the ice and snow fill all the empty spaces with a glittering carpet. it gets caught in my hair and drops of water form on my glasses, turning every light into a squirming kaleidoscope of color. there's a steady sound, as if thousands of ghostly hands are tapping out long letters to people they miss on thousands of tiny toy typewriters, broken only by the occasional hiss of a lonely car on colorado blvd.

i went up onto the roof to smoke a cigarette but now that i'm up here, i don't know what i'm doing. i'm enjoying the beautiful snow as it blows all around me and the tobacco in my hand is a familiar friend. my only regret is that i have no one at 3:30 in the morning to enjoy this with; there is no laughter bouncing between two souls, no warm familiar face to gaze into, and no one to make this tumbling snow globe of a night into a memory.

i am comforted by the thought of home. i'm going there very soon and things will happen. perhaps i will arrive a stranger like a draft in an old home. or maybe a great host of angelic faces will greet me at the borderline. no matter what the reception is like, i expect to discover more about myself and the next turn in this road i'm on.

my heart is tired and i hope that this time away from the maze of faces in denver will help it slow down and burn for what is good and true. there's a lot of potential in the summer for healthy personal growth. i want to spend it with the people that i love, and the people that i love are the ones planting gardens, sharing good food and wine, making beautiful things with their hands and minds, or biking everywhere at all hours of the day and night.

i will see my dad this week. i will see my mom, and even my honorary sister. i miss my brother and might try to see him before i hitch a ride out of town. i really want to spend more time with him and his fiance' but i'm not sure how easily or naturally that will happen. he's terribly busy with a lot of projects and meetings, not to mention a quickly approaching wedding. i'm proud of his tenacity and gumption but do not envy his daily routine. he get's up at the crack of dawn more that most farmers do, and he's surgically attached to a blackberry. tis the life of a modern day minister.

snow is no longer drifting past the window and the wet footprints i left on the wooden kitchen floor are almost completely gone. i am tired and have some things to pack up for this trip out to kansas city. after that it's one more cigarette up on the roof and then straight to bed!

divine inspiration

i see the promise of death in every inch of your beauty. the sweet fruit of your flesh hangs low on the branch. triumphant and trembling, your thin skin holds a deeply drawn design. i can only imagine it's as sweet as it is dark. burning a fiery red, your hair mirrors my desire for you and what i'm sure will be the color of the flames in hell.

the philistine's bane told me he sees the same thing every day. told me he could pick your fruit very easily if he wanted to. i couldn't get any of the words out at the time, but i wanted to shout, "stay away from her if you can! she'll remain on your lips and tugging at your gut forever"

i feel a tug on my sleeve; i turn to see my best man digging a grave. he bums a smoke from me, lights it, and then asks, "but aren't you still looking upon the tree's fruit with fear? this is a pleasure unlike any other, this amber prize! even YOU do not know her sting; not YET at least."

curling up in my pew, i clutch the wooden arm rest, for i would surely float away if it were not there. i turn my eyes slowly, a rusted door hinge back to the front of the sanctuary. my voice escapes violently and sounds strangely like a falling missile. "i grOW more hesITAnt to APPRoaCH thEM, thE mORE THEy APPEAR. i've always been told to chop them down but they keep springing up."

"what if you only kept the ones that grew closest to your window?" a stream of hot acid from the black mouth of romance boils in my ear. "you're always crawling back to the comfortable roots of those dead trees"

i would kick her out if she didn't pay most of the rent, so i patiently reply, "they have ceased to feed me but stand as monuments to my failure...if they were gone, i might forget it all." i watched the window pane shake with the invisible force of the spirit. it blows the few remaining dry leaves off the brittle branches and across the pulpit that stands in the corner. there stands the foreman, in his clean white suit, pointing a fat finger at me.

"take all of that dry memorabilia and burn it, you fool! it's useless nostalgic rubbish, all of it! if you throw yourself on the fire you might even be refined by its flame."

i cannot do anything with these characters shouting in my ear.

what can i do? they're no longer here to help me...

so i walk up to you; the cursed fruit with the skin and the hair and the fiery core, and i take the first bite.

lazy

cut it out now; you're lazy.

you sit when you're not sleeping.

you stare when you're not sitting.

you like to look busy when somebody's watching.

you call your ex and your brother and a complete stranger

to tell them how great you're life's shaping up to be,

but you're really just hiding a big secret...

you're lazy, and not looking.

can't see a job to be done or the tools in your hand.

you stare when you're not moving,

way way off, into that bright distant future of yours.

even if it's not the light at the end of the tunnel,

couldn't you slow down for a little bit?

just stare with me into the darkness for a spell

deep wells of mystery are being hollowed out,

and you might thinks it's hell,

but there's no hell here;

it's just you,

and you're too busy to notice.