thirty summer

carving words out of willows

Potato Soup

Potato soup heats in a crock pot
in the kitchen
and Monday is lazy.
The sun hangs like a shadow
in the early skies of May
as we watch reality TV stream
over Netflix
and I am nervous anxious silly.

We waste the day away
and plans fall through and
we owe money to the movie store
and the library
and no one knows Bukowski.
This is the law of Canyon, Tx-
to not know how to fall over the words.

A show about a married couple is on.
“His sperm count went back up”
My wife, remarked.
I can only think of all the countless lines
i wasted on past love
and what an honor it
would have been to share all
those words
for her instead.

I have missed all the good moments
until now.
We watch tv tonight,
and I write on the couch
The apartment smells like potato soup
and the world turns and the world turns and the world turns.

My love is thoughts of her
in words that never quite rhyme.
It is a shame really,
that I ignored them until now.

Advertisements

Jazz in May #3

Nothing new
across the radio waves
stuck in a loop, trying to
find
that one good sound
but nothing plays well
with my brain.

Jazz for the insane
is better then Metal and Rock
but maybe not Classical.
Maybe I’m getting old.
Maybe I’m trying to get it all out right
this time.

Better than last time-
booze to get that rhyme
and hands tuned the song just right
to make everything wrong
and allow my ears to bleed.

Screams sounded better,
trumpets too damn bright,
splashing words on canvas
trying to position it just right.
High on the page
like musical war we wage
forging chaos into melody
like every verse is your own obituary
and you think to yourself
“On the contrary.

This isn’t music.
There are no words.
How can I enjoy this when it doesn’t narrate?”
And I assume you are the one
at a loss-
You are the asshole.

Jazz for the insane
is an animal that crawls into corners
of your world
that you try to hold control of
and
it dies and stinks and rots
and you can’t do anything about it.

You are forced to
take in the stench
like a warm embrace
of plastic flowers
and paper cuts between your fingers.

Jazz in May is thoughts on paper.