November 2013

	November 2013 Tangerine in Tears - 1935 Stark Prospects Not So Chile these Days Hunter's Moon Chords that Inquire Skychasms Vessels for this Moment I'll Be to Bed Soon Hello Skies Too Low to Fly	Tangerine in Tears - 1935 I climbed the faded pine stairs. A goldilocks light tossed against the wall in casual splashes - like the trash in the alley, a used and shabby light, like the tar paper torn at the sill of your door. You greeted me dressed in sleepy eyes and tangerine, incense lingering, sandlewood, stale, mingling with last spring’s air swirling in the silk of your robe. I kissed you good-bye and turned away, never to forget you, not bearing the look on your face. ever hearing you cry… “What did I do?
Hunter's Moon The blood moon will rise tonight, the swollen eye of October matching the rust from the wast as the day has just fallen. It is as if they pass the baton. ‘tis the Hunter’s Moon, extra time to track our prey, its sanguine gaze extending the reach of our day. Thoughts turn from the vine, from last harvest stragglers, to huge skeins of hay and first frosts. The squash are in, the pumpkins are gone. The hillsides are fire, auric, and saffron dreams laid upon skies of dark azure. The blood moon will rise tonight. Take my hand my love. Let us walk these moments home.	Not So Chile these Days These skies, like washboards, silvered, Crenelated with butter rimmed drapes, soon Softening, definition torn in the high jet winds. Bracing, breezes off the floes, ice kissed, Musty steam, released from an ancient cold. High in the passes, the glaciers grind, Their payload of ice and rock, Caught in a morass of violent slow motion, Crevasses slick with glistening turquoise Sun-blessed, chosen to curry the gods of blue. The rocks are dead teeth, ragged and black in the shadow, Volcanic dentures, risen to grind the ice as it passes, Exposed as their enamel melts. Racing in skin numbing streams Whitewater tumbles, cooling the throats Of these global warmed seas. No so Chile these days. Patagonia growls wherever you gaze, Its snowpacks lessened, its ice river tongues Wagging, gossiping in crackled throats, In tortured groans, whispering to the condors: “Get away, flee while you can. Fly!”	Stark Prospects The darkness… seeds, crawling neath my mental dermis, the emotional fabric of next month’s highs. An urban sprawl, grimy, A neuro-suburban decay. I have polled the daiquiris and the stoic Black Russians. I have interrogated the Morgans and Cokes, the rieslings, and the Sinsemilla. No one is more disappointed than I. The cooties, the crud, creeps the pathways, crawling the circuits, spelunking each synaptic crevasse, pole vaulting mighty dendrites in they quest to quell my light. I have asked the Oracle, sought an audience with the Dali, Salvator is dead, the Lama wasn’t home. I consulted with of The Rorschach Order. no sanity unturned, nothing blew up my skirt. Bridge to Engineering… All stop!
Chords that Inquire Once more she will come, teasing. No label, no ABACAB, no C minor 7, no keys that can be made at the Western Auto or Kresge’s five and dime. Twice she will come round, another dance on your heart, chords that inquire, requiring attention. Gravelly Marlboro altos, a dissonant velvet, her layers, oiled, painted in metaphor and harmony. A dancing jive to a jukebox in Maidstone bobby socks. Twice more round, two dances for our hearts. Those chords that inquire… inviting us in, after once more teasing our boho to drink of romance, prodding our memories for one more synaptic dance.	Skychasms Out upon this mesa The spirit wind blows, Cold caresses Ice milk sweet. A saxophone’s crystal breath Cooling my sweat slick copper skin From the inside out. Storm wall coming. A sprawling carnival Of cloud churning plum, Spilt from a chin with blueberry stain. An earth-tongue speaking in light, Agitating flickers into fervid sparks And annoyance into furious grumble. Skychasms of echo Conducting through my bones. I stand here humbled, stupid with smiles Reveling in the grandeur And power of it all.	Vessels for this Moment Lay your blanket at my feet. Its protective cliches, its maxims, Its fears… left to scurry for weaker shoulders to burden. Face me raw, no dogma nor doctrine dragging the hope from this moment. Lift the veil of crutches, unwrap the gauze, walk naked, stripped of the rules. Take my hand, no right or wrong no He woulds, no scripture says. Let me hold you, quiet and true as vessels for this moment, virgin and new.
I'll Be to Bed Soon A life of open coffins. Which one will lie you down, which one will soothe you to peace, to relief? I will choose a lid painted with a fitting sunset of you. You will see endless color from its satin cocoon. You will see how I loved you as we dance in your blue, amidst a spilled sugar of stars. I will listen to your Joplin sing, you will feel how my face can break in joy… in love’s grief. Finally you are free… I’ll be to bed soon.	Hello I thread your temples with my fingers as I kiss you, your face in the cradle of my palms. I watch the gold flecks in your eyes swirl as they close, I kiss your lids and furrowed brow. I hold you fiercely as a mother might clench her cub, then tenderly, kneading slowly, passion curling in my fingertips pulling you closer, deeper over me… Yes… there you are! Hello.	Skies Too Low to Fly The shadows are too pale for this glass of reminiscence. The is sky too low for a flight so far. Some of us run, some of us wander. In the end we run back to what was poured into our heads. Your heart is too callow for the likes of my tears. Your mind is too filled with penance and guilt, pulled ever more to the questing for your divine. This light is voracious, digesting my days, yet leaves me in shadows, too pale, too dry. I’ll be expelled without you from skies too low to fly.