thirty summer

carving words out of willows

The trumpeter (circa 2006)

the trumpeter
seems to be playing
my song.
the one of a recluse.

I am not alone n this
but that’s what I enjoy,
being able to
find the moment
here and there
to be with my thoughts
and a keyboard
and of course
the stereo
for the man
behind the trumpet.

there’s the lonely
of my mind
and the serenade
the air.

the solitude.

there is no room
here for the
of the city
or the hustle and bustle
of crowded streets
or the lines and lines
for food or a movie ticket.

no room here for televangelists.
no room for family
or friends.
no room for the government
or war.
just me and my thoughts
and that trumpeter
knows what I am talking about.


King of nothing (circa 2004)

he wears a crown
of shadows
and carries a sword
with the blood
of angels
on its blade,
the hilt made of the remains
of his family.
he is a volatile creature
with a smile
curved into words
that don’t make sense.
he remembers
the ants
tasting the sugar
and the vultures
tasting things sweeter.
he remembers the waifs
grinning sinfully
just before
he burned them all.
tomorrow will be better,
he thought
to himself,
tomorrow will be better.

Like rain on an unfinished dream (circa 2003)

he smokes clove cigarettes
and sips on his rum and ice
on a windy, lonely night
with Charlie Hunter
playing on the radio.
he lets the night take him away
and scars himself
with his poetry.
he is a beast
sitting there in the desert
eating his own heart
and tasting his own flesh
before the world has a chance
to dismember him
because of his idea of a cantos.
he is lost in his own world
and he enjoys the company of his poisons.
he screams with the only voice
that he has ever known
and reads with the only eyes
that he has ever had.
this is not only his soul
but the very essence of soul,
this is just one more night
to elude death
and he creeps through the emptiness,
the grey fog of his proclaimed wasteland
and makes Picasso sing instead of paint.
he makes a juggernaut
out of an imbecile
and watches the blood
run from his veins like rain
on an unfinished dream.
he is death with a face like a doll
and his heart is beating
slowly in the cold, creeping room that is him.

Within all the darkness (circa 2001)

the most beautiful thing
about the night
is that smooth, justified lack of beauty
within all the darkness.

the ambiance above
all the noises —
the crickets and their
drunken what-nots,
the barking dogs
always chasing the moon,
the cars creeping by my window,
making their dusty rambling
down my ancient country road,
the wind yelling at
the blanket of shear emptiness and silence
that shushes the night —
the ambiance
sounds the best,
when you’ve been typing
aimlessly for hours
and the tiredness is
finally starting
to eat at your head
like a pack
of rabid coyotes.

the tundra of noise
smashing and ripping
the void of the long hours —
the silent symphonies
of sweet, sweet ambiance
has always
sounded the best
to me.

Alone in a cell (circa 2003)

alone in a cell,
a man sat humbled and maniacal,
staring into the abyssal night
with broken eyes
and tattered skin.

under a beaten brow
his eyes
told of many years,
and his mouth was a silent laceration.

his eyes
a million

the moon was a halo.

reaping in the night’s fatigued sermon
of some forgotten,
remembered progression
he fell cold and uncompassionate.

he sat alone.

his breath became slower, colder.
he wore his eyes like
a canopy
for the procession of a failing clock.

he sat alone
with tattered skin
and his eyes were a million demons.

and the moon was a halo.

and he died,

his eyes mirrored by his mouth.
his eyes became
his mouth.


If I could
I would paint you
the sunsets of Madagascar
and the Auroras
of Alaska.
I’d write you a love
song with metaphors
of your beauty.
I’d build you a boat
out of oak and sail
away with you into the west
as the world dies.

I don’t tell you enough
that I love you,
and I don’t always smile
at your eyes,
your skin, your hair
or your heart.

Sometimes we have fights
and sometimes
we spend nights on the couch
watching tv shows
and I’ll nod off
and you will knit.

Sometimes we sleep in too late
on Sundays
and never make it to
church like we should.

Sometimes we agree
on philosophies
and religious informalities.

And sometimes things are alright.

I don’t tell you enough
that I love you
but I will this time.

I love you


and forever.

You are my wife
and for that
I am humble.