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Poetry 3

Like mentioned on the other poetry pages, it's James Dickey-inspired poetry. Not sure why these five ended up on yet another separate page. It seemed necessary to break up the uploads of dazzling, brilliant prose. (heh, heh)

NOTE: None of these are repeated in the new digital poetry book, Brief Tales of Compromised Solutions



Take your fatherís gun

And meet me at the ringing shore

Into the ocean we go

Holding hands and losing bullets


Take another car

Come down through the winding valley

Into the forest floor

Laughing hysterically on burning gasoline


Light air raids

Flying higher than christ on the cross

Broken bombs litter the hill

Itís all gotten mixed up in the people factories


It was there it came fast and change in the waters and waves they hustle and simmer under moons and stars both blue and black sparking deep countless blinking eyes of lights through the depths a melancholic splashing a thunderous sea god roars these things happens everyday and the films never show the projectors just yawn and go home the size kisses our minds away

The crashing waves are the ends of them and the beginnings of us


Nowhere to run

Flipper and gills are all the rage

The music moves down to my hands

Sinks with the weight of the waves


Catching up with the road and castles

Taking violent hills in neutral

Believing in asterisk fruit and technical sores

Brandish the whip with countless dripping grins


Bubbles and surf at the edges of the mouth

My teeth touch beyond the horizon

Swallowing it all like a thimble of water

Size breathes in the palm of my hand


Tipping the scales into our favour

A pearl of wisdom in a roll of the dice

Everything of ours has to end on the sand

But turn around and you find you are always at the beginning



It was a washout

A washout


In the cellar

Your cellar


Buzzing in the rain

A black rat rain


We all agreed on the details and clashed on the sharper points on the overall arch of the trajectory of our conjoined idiot host

In times against the fall and for the coming of the winter and a dull cold spring is all we can jump for in a town where little is most

There were two minds and instead of coming together with a warm handshake we got stuck with pieces of misbegotten glass

Rolling down an embankment slick with headlines and harmless anecdotes that pierce the quaking soul as we fall upon the grass

I smelled disaster in the air before I opened the folder I could feel the horrid vines of endless questions slithering up my legs

The stories dumped into the ocean and spawned with fish who traded free range bargaining chips for a diplomat who always begs

A series of crushing canes and umbrellas gather together in secret in the moments before the storm of the century

Our helpful trinkets head for the hills and all the theories betray our morals and no one suggests whatís left for me


Nothing but a washout

Right down the hill


Cracked basement concrete

Itís on your soul now


In a churning black rat rain

The sun retreats to mythology


Sometimes we think so

Sometimes we think so

Itís just sits there

And doesnít really do anything

Just the shadow stretching across the room

Cross legged source resting body and soul

Mind in absent neutral


I dug the escape route

A hole with a proper ending


The time shits away with light cloud fluttering

Fades beyond light and dark


I can feel your change of pace


You donít scheme

I scheme

Youíre just going through the motions

Miming wall silhouettes and grinning like a noble puppet

Turn your teeth dirty

For once get caught in the drag

Give someone a chance to laugh down at you

No one minds the muck if you come to it honestly


These arenít things that sit on corners with cigarettes and hours

The reasons are drinking your good fortune away


What did you do with your time theyíll whistle and hoot

From cliffs above

Out of nothing but curiousity

What lined your breathing days?


Mired in cheap glossy thoughts

That paled and rotted in the winter sun


Here I Am

Here I am! Said the writer joyously and picked up his pen with fervour. A sick fervour. Dying of giddy imaginations. Imaginary men live and die for me.

Instead she makes him put down his instrument and beckons him to the window to witness a small bit of nonsense in the garden across the road.

Stunning isnít it isnít it isnít it yes I suppose so the green grass smells like well grass which should be good enough for us says the people upon people.

Uncle Felix will never say nothing about this patch of land itís no problem will always be ours and no one elseís no sense worrying about the lingering future.

He listens with a bent ear and she smiles as she watches him try to fit these very real people into his very cardboard world full of other makeshift caricatures.

He tries to think of a rhythm on a piano that can be overturned and injected into key phrases while their turns and their meanings shivers fitfully on every next page.

She disarms him sweetly and with an honest move that brings the night to the day and empties the garbage from his head and brings blessed quiet to his soul.

Ha! Itís all coming out of the sides of the words because the strong tongues are filled with water. We separate in time and for nothing else.


I May Have Met This Person in an Empty Room 

Talking when itís too late

Beating around a thousand bushes

These were little flicks of light that he brushed off his shoulder several times a day

A proper type of decoy means a quick and timely rescue of the prospective wicked

There was once a measure for me

But when everything turned to look and see

The numbers came apart under the blue sky

And the units fought against their suburban commanders

So by the time the squeal and peel of tires came to a head

We were counting wounds with kindling and making fires with drenched rags


They cut out the portal

Placed it on its side and add a grey tablecloth

You were there at one end

Sipping coffee that would never cool

Clutching a mug full of lost soulsí fingerprints

Trying to forget something Iíd never understand

I saw it all in your ancient brow

A great family history weighing heavy on your back

Whispering guidance through the pores on your skin

Competing with the maw of the world outside still banging down the door


Not exactly you drawled to my assessment

People are bigger than history and your pretty but pigeonholed words

This is all well and good for shadows and bent photographs

But you drive literary pins through my shoulder blades

Crucifying me with ideal situations and proper flicks of the wrist

Iím not made of even the most sparkling ink or live solely for posterityís sake

You change in ways your tongue cannot follow

I replied that I could put the pieces back together

And make a ghost of you that could fool your parents

The more you offer up to a maker the more they have to work with




one of the many brilliant lines from Infinite Jest: 'sure I'm paranoid, but am I paranoid enough?'