to catch a feather

inside a fading world
staving off the desperate grab
at time and money
with a few more illusions
pounding away at the forge
that a lifetime of hard work
could not grow
and it would snap me like a twig
and there are so many hands
I dont even know
holding them out


tv tower for a warrior poet

was a call to arms
in a den of snakes
but when ive shed enough skins
and gathered careful flowers
chasing the child around
for children make the best bouquets
of untouched perfection
and its silver and magenta
darkness and disco
salt and storm trail
my stomach starts to turn
my fingers grow electric
frightened to let go
but its already alive
im already not


the time bind

of many courses
she doesnt age well
isnt the jewel of the morning light
or a beacon of any hopes
except contrived anomaly
the echoes of motors past
her will her hand
wrinkle and fade
her tongue loud as
saw on metal
without charm even in this age
of the seeker
her ceiling is glass
her cradle is glass
a constant sparkles
down her every path


the unbearable likeness of being

in a rational sort of way
with love and compassion
for the fellow creature
floating hope with laughter
huggings and beautiful things
comfort and conversation
family and friends
forget I lost a mate, a father
this slow and rapid aging
the lightning flashes
of roofs, paths, plans, people
of walking through a cloud
with a child by the hand
projecting occasional veneers
of success and belonging
with a deadly fear
of slipping


grim fandango

moonlit branches of the gallows tree
that fanned a storm of limbs
showered leaves like green fireworks
a tremulous memory of sunshine
guarding squares of chain link tennis court
memories of flow on common ground
faster than descent and gathering
holding hands and dusty stars
warm and motionless


among variegated sadnesses
raised like cash crop
season after season
with care and water
I often forget
how quickly they grow
how much of me
has grown with them
how wretched I am
to go on planting