Unbruised, these lips still ache With intent. The fingers my own Trace the places you would kiss Had I said yes, instead of no. My arms embrace the night, Their clasp an empty tremble, Beneath my head the pillow Cradles dreams remembered Long after the door was closed. -m 2003 |
Dreams of Things |
I was there, In a quiet corner Of the poem. Folded over like A secret, As if the poet Could not bear To have it know. -M 2003 |
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Unbruised, these lips still ache With intent. The fingers my own Trace the places you would kiss Had I said yes, instead of no. My arms embrace the night, Their clasp an empty tremble, Beneath my head the pillow Cradles dreams remembered Long after the door was closed. -m 2003 |
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The Lowman :Poems: Mincemeat The Lowman has a hand in the pie; and winks when we catch him pinching plums, or poking grapes with an overgrown thumbnail. And we don't know why he grins at the wince when his prick and prod at the gist-- between the soft fruit, spice and animal suet-- reveals that the only real chunks of flesh in the mix are our own soft mince. And there is something unwholesome in the way he starts smakng his lips; but, still, we ask if he'd take a lick. And when he whispers exactly how he plans to crumble our crust we begin to understand our folly. -m 2006 |
Above Me The Lowman doesn't know that he's standing five feet, and then some, standing above me. With one hand extended downward, he's up there; and my had is stuck in this pocket where the lint and gum-wrappers are too thick with the grime of fingers that keep rubbing the sweat of ambivalence amongst them. And for some damn reason he's smiling; and I think he knows what I've got in my pocket. -m 2005 |
Winning The Lowman plays chess with his eyes closed because he knows that he's never going to win if the pawns reveal their faces; or he falls in love with the queen before she's lost value to the knight with all the right moves; and as the king is rooked-- safe and assuming-- his last bishop comes to know the absolute beauty of sacrifice. And with that, the Lowman smiles with eyes closed. -m 2006 |
Fishing The Lowman doesn't want to hunt his meat. Instead, he rips it raw from the screaming flesh of fish-- pulled from the river on flexable sticks which strung with the lines and bait of other men is easy pickin''s. And when the bones and skin pile 'round him, and thin blood congeals between his teeth, and his stinking breath betrays him-- he'll angle off on down the bank where the gettin's good; and unwitting men won't miss a fish, or two. -m 2005 |
Hitchhiking The Lowman, hitchhiking in December found he didn't like getting his socks wet. -m 2005 |
James (February 9, 1965 --- December 25, 2006) In this poem you are present; but you aren't a shade or vision dancing aimlessly to spooky musiic on quivery stirings; nor a fleeting phantom revealed like strands of cut-glass shards simmering through wisps of Jasmine and Patchouli ascending a wistful wind's whispery mein. Because I don't know how to conjure ghosts, or how to compose you back to being. Though, I've filled my lips with ink and blown spells-- imaginations and figments of you-- but these shadows refuse to be anything but sullen steaks and somber smudges. Things that aren't you. But I can remember Jimmy, James, brother, friend faded blue-jean eyes that would shine impishly whenever you smiled; and curly hair-- the color of mine-- that grew so long and wild it required bindings and hats to keep it in line. You loved chocolate-coffee, cigarettes, bandanas, tie-dye, Indian blankets trippy music, party lights, wind-chimes, barbeque, summer nights; friends and family, a dog named Cinder, unconventional women, and Nevada in the winter. With random treasure found along your way you constructed a curious stage; and authored eccentric plays depicting a life less plain; but made believable because as you would often say "It's who I AM, man." -m 2007 |