HOT TEA

The gulf of mexico lets out

a loud “YELP” & it hangs

in the thick warm air

like a question

 

I could spend all my spent

in southern mississippi  & still

never wanna leave— 

          HOT TEA, 

               a titty sock, 

                    all-you-can-eat

 

That time after dusk

when the sky is a deep backlit

blue (simmering) 

wanders easily through

 

At night the whole damn world

SHINES—flashes bright red— 

 & dances in wild tilt-a-whirl color

          them old boys

               on 38th

                    never miss a beat

 

This same song goes on&on&on:

haze-filled, fucked-up, carried-on

 & with all its sweaty dancing

alive

 

Returning Late

When evening has fallen

     hard and weighted

     across this small town

And Main Street silent

     except for few trucks

     along the state highway

When the air grows damp

     and wraps its whispy fingers

     around my cold bare skin

I stand in the middle of the road

     ponder the day and night alike

     and watch— 

 

the old yellow farmhouse, 

window panes with chipping paint

and birds nest in the space

     just above the front porch

(rocking chairs swag in the night breeze) 

 

the ancient black oak, 

a giant towering slightly to the right

and threatening mother

     with the same regular nightmares

(branches stiff and stubbornly unmoved) 

 

the great wide open sky,

filled with brightest watching stars

keeping their glowing vigil

     constant across this small place

(down on my home) 

 

 

In Maine

I have watched the greatest of my days from a distance in Maine.  

I remember each one vivid with color. 

I have seen the arch of mortality from the summit of Bald Rock Mountain.

Disgracing the godliness of my mother, this earth. 

 

The clouds talk to me in Maine, and I listen back with trust.

They are always telling me that the sky is about to fall.

The only thing left holding it up are the branches of the trees. 

And soon they will be gone too. 

 

Everything dies in Maine. 

This time of year, everything dies. 

seasons changing

in every time & every place
there is a reason to efface
certain names & pretty faces
seasons changing

the sea bids me farewell today
shimmering waters of coastal maine
glass tide questions remain the same
seasons changing

back to chilled autumn air
hay bale tombstones everywhere
harvest offerings like a prayer
seasons changing

the world is on fire in revery
old men whistling sad melodies
still i weep for what is happening
seasons changing

Portland

Sea sick Portland

in the quite early morning

& this city just sits

 

Filled with dharma bums

(blankets over heads on Congress)

coffee shops & rubbish trucks

used bookstores with beatnik junkies

 

Angel-headed hipsters, come home

Where are you, starry dynamo?

 

Cradled brick streets scream restless

crazy old man: "genocidal & racist"

while park children chase pigeons

 

Portland, you look good in vintage

(I won't hold it against you either)

Woman--

whose fragil silhouette

reflects a salt&pepper reality

freight train mind

               with incredible beauty

(mission towards civilization) 

this is the young speaking; 

different ways towards love&life  

all the while keeping

               in the back of

                     your mind

                           reality

world without end

morning coughs
& songbirds wake
(damn, my head aches)

one more day & I'm gone--
they're all gone, too
children
& prep school boys
& old women gossip
& my friend is the fag
& "hello dear?"
all these (I'm sick)

here time is not important,
never ending but occasionally
stopping, lingering through veins
& pulsing towards heartmind

junkie thoughts: I can't
stop!
everybody dies--why shouldn't I?
junkie thoughts cloudy sky
& my head aches

the dog drags in a rodent
the street dog found him
along the shoreway--drags him in
"what did he die from?"
everybody dies, must've died
from END.

there are many voices &
many faces of this island
(graceful maladies)
it's truly the only thing
still breathing, slow steady...

glory be to the water,
& to the sun
& to the holy coast.
amen!

Lullaby

we wait for the rain to fall

(same rain that falls over

     Gulfport, 

          Monteagle, 

               Portland) 

your hair of white petals & fingers of roots--

the water softly washing away

                              insecurity

at night the dreams of you & I(roots grown into blossoms)together

roots of earth & rain

     sustaining 1000 secrets

 

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