Blanking the Stream

A poetic work abandoned earlier this year

fragile

it seems

but these lines

never seem fulfilling

as my heart taps

to fast rhythms

with what I hope

is your rate

please

give me

more

than the doves that fly

wings spread, protecting

your strings against the

weathered drops

more

than birds have accompanied

the natural noise of our

orchestral world

--perhaps these all sum our, no

your summer’s desire--

need of the acoustic strings

of whipped guitars to

provide the instrumental

motions of our waves

but what really is it you need?

the past

forgotten as it needs to be

seems to linger like the puddled

milk after a cold morning and

some lost lucky charms

But

Perhaps

this one night allows

the mind a glimpse through

a mahogany door at one

moment, one smile

worth bleeding for

as my chest pounds

and imagine the men

that Past has sung into

immortal history

About

smoking Cuba’s best

under Georgia’s steamy swamp

and anchored byways

And I was

seeming to stumble

between my cotton bed

and the silk clothed couch

while you race faster than

an order of your favorite BLT

and fries in the corner diner

but wait

How the voices of the past

sing of glory and beauty

as the painter presses

a thistled brush to Helen’s

golden waves

But

fools they played of not knowing

of the glowing her skin shines

into the depths of my brown eyes

that continue echoing a forbidden

need to see your piano kiss

souls as your mellowed fingers

pulsate into desires

To love

uncanny Boston beats singing of

the contained pain in the veins

of my very spirit that resists

drunkenness at levels that chemists

cannot find variables in order to

describe the very lines of

consciousness that blank verse

provides

we are not afraid to die

which drives our harmony

beyond the black abyss

of recognition and perhaps

moans from our dark side of

the moon will scramble into

the high hopes that eagles

intervene to fly but the eclipse

of your eyes shelter me from

brain damage in such a time

can’t be seen by any colour

you like among the bongos and petty

collegiate beats of a traveling mind.

Friend. One. just

one in the buddy lists of Pink Floyd’s

heart, but yet this epic seems distant from

my heat and its intent to cry the scream

my voice refuses to sing. It is the family

love which restricts chemicals to bleed

onto the paper’d surface of experienced love

Leave

But

Don’t

Leave

Me

If what we touch is all we see, then

when is our work done? Or is it

the racing breath of cloning our

closest friend in deep January

when snow forgets those wishing

for the loneliness flakes can provide

like synthesized machines of society

in the great 3 by 5 revealed genius

Care

Love the Lines You’ve Lost

but always be in search of sunsets

in the minefields of Britain’s pushovers

and plumped New York bullshit phrases

to the antisexed apparitions in a teacher’s

droned search for their chalkboard

Travel on whisp and whim

and as always, throw tangerines and

maple leaves who persistently drip

the sap of anarchy and explosions

of social disorder into a fielded

--Time dies but