Hands like dirt
Cracking in sunlight
where weeping willows grow and glow
burning in the snow
freeze-dried
tied below and pulled into a flash fire
your art dies you write the words
"right before they kissed"
with the "i"s undotted
time unalloted
the crime has been spotted
your hands are covered in dirt
wash them in the fire
wash them dry
watch them die
with all your worst ideas
with your eyes
wash them dry
they're not worth your tears
watch them die
with your eyes
wash them dry
they're not worth my tears
watch them die
with all your worst ideas
watch them
but don't wash them
just throw them in the fire
watch them dry up
close your nose
and drown it in dirt
until the smoke can't fly
watch the smoke
eat it up and leave the dirt behind
wash them in the fire
wash them dry
watch them die
with all your worst ideas
with your eyes
wash them die
they're not worth your tears
close your eyes
so you can't see their cries
close your nose so your can't smell their lies
close your ears
so you won't hear them disappear
The raspy rustling of freeze-dried multicolored leaves
Rush past my raised windows and open door as the soft breeze
Gathers its strength and sprays them haphazardly along
The leaf cluttered sidewalk and shadowed lined street.
Fall is rushing past me, Massaging my ears,
Delighting my senses. Raising my awareness
Of another passing year.
Another Season coming into its own,
Of which I must rise in unison to capture
The play of its vibrant life colors
To experience its fully clothed glory
Trees are giving up their spring and summer growth
To the nudging of cooler nights and coming winter snows,
Only to rise again with next year’s budding.
Each Season expresses a new and different story.
So soars by us each brief life through its Seasons,
One with the cycles of the Creator,
Loving the magnificent moments of brightness and joy
It's lingering beauty swept away
In the next season of liberation.
In between a wand and a warded space
lies an old Book Of Shadows to embrace;
Fee fried foe thumbs,
throw them in as the guitar strums;
Picked over hair follicles and toenails,
A few fast words followed by quick inhales;
Freeze dried pho crumbs,
throw them in as the harp hums;
Now toss in the vibrato of a ghost,
that sound is the recipe’s binding host;
Free fly fall mums!
Fester rich color to smack drums;
Add to that something so easily missed,
subtle allows magic to come undressed;
Fae, fire cauldrons!
manifest the desired outcomes;
In between a wand and the hand it takes,
lies an old Book Of Shadows to embrace.
Every last one of my thoughts
Is begged, borrowed or stolen
Somewhere in memory
They are freeze-dried or frozen
I want to chip at the edifice
Want to recognize what's real
Is it some second-hand artifact
Or a thing I can call real?
Every last one of my friends
Is there because I put them
In some sub-cavernous lair
Like a pre-ancestral cushion
I want to loose my tethers
Get back to a primal state
Take some peyote and howl in the wind
At the village doctor's gate
Is there a demon in the sky
A malevolent presence in the cosmos
Willing it all in a masquerade
And playing off my base illusions?
No wonder we live
No wonder we live
In a state of unbridled confusion
Death’s Less Than Nothing!
Death’s less than nothing, a frail, not one welcomes or offers a cold one /
a glass of fine wine. Death is nobody’s friend one might meet on this plane.
Death is tasteless and dull as a weather-stripped billboard. Its smell incon-
clusive and vapid at best, or a snowfield past freeze-dried. Death’s poem
whose meter sports seventeen syllables, flip-flopping logic, ghost fish
rot on boundaries, shadows ignored (with but little / no consequence).
Death’s less than nothing and wrapped in conundrum, its glacier’s penguin
that’s desert these days, and fine grit of a dust storm deluded it’s rain!
Death is stingless, can’t win, for no victim feels loss, life’s pain’s touch, long gone,
starlight’s blurred shadows eye’s rods can’t detect, Death’s the blush of a blossom
whose pistil wants pollen, a virgin whose daydreams fall short of a wish.
Death’s the fool of tomorrow (it loathes doors), a pauper to eloquence.
Long Tooth
May 7th in 2021
When the sky crashes down onto your weary soul remember
It’s a lot of thin air and you are never closer to nutritious clouds
When your world falls into a hole of paramount proportions
Consider being down to earth and adjacent to togetherness
When shadows cast emptiness and freeze dried revelations
Appraise the shade approach contours of opaque silhouettes
When rainbows hallucinate your vision review erroneous projections
Embrace your doubts and dreams as you settle for the night
You are the Sky the World the Sun and Moon the wise old Jester
And if you wish to be the Shadow of your Rainbow
03rd June 2019
Grown Up
I weep
now and then
simple things
a song lyric or
an old photo
touching me
in raw places
sliding past
thinking parts
that used to be
sentries at the gate
protecting me
from hot-wired
exposure to myself
instead
defenseless in the
heat of contemplation
glacial walls melt
frozen anguish and
freeze-dried pleasures
transform
set in motion
once again
animated
newly weightless and
simply passing through...
12/28/18
I just received a gift from my {step}mother.
Only three days late this year.
It's a Santa Claus soap dispenser... with a twirl and a twist.
I used to own it, well over twenty years ago.
It has yellow soap still clogging the spigot...
*****, that you've treated old Saint Nick like a {step},
How true to your form and fitting that is.
{Step} Santa was more of a message than a gift.
After all, I've been a half-assed {step}son at best.
But {step}mother, you must admit, I was always your third-class citizen.
From the brackish affection, impish rags you stapled to my rear,
Minor infractions, met with a strap called; I'll reduce you to tears.
You were the metal-toothed snapper in the pond of my youth.
Mother, if you deny this, you're just another abuser of truth!
For the most part, I've freeze-dried your slipperiness,
I think {step} is glacier cold, but a most accurate prefix.
Can you tell me my friend
How long has it been
At least 30 years or more
I still think of you
Being one in their youth
As I have yet to pull that cord
Pictures inside my mind
Are stuck in that time
Freeze dried yet warm to the soul
Friends from the past
In a die have been cast
Where they never grow old
Those that we see
In our world of daily
Gray with us toe to toe
Though it may be
Done gradually
A fact that we all know
There is never a need
For a mirror to see
The season in life that we comb
But it's the one's that we miss
Still inside of our heads
That never seem to grow old
The good part about this
Is we still exist
In their minds for all that we know
Running footloose and free
Through their memories
The way we were before time took its toll
Where days became years
Turning our age old fears
From our does into our don'ts
If we hold tight to that
With the time we have left
Perhaps like them we'll never grow old
Thinking of friends from the past that I've lost touch with and realized they're still young in my memories... They've never aged.
Walking through a grove of maple trees,
I saunter amongst swaying giants.
And musky smells assault my nostrils
with odors of damp, decaying leaves:
Nature's scent, in perfect harmony;
nurturing and invigorating.
Sunlight pierces the bare canopy
with flickering rays of its splendor.
And a crisp carpet of freeze-dried leaves
forms a mosaic of abstract art:
a magnificent patchwork quilt, stitched
with burnt-orange and magenta threads.
Twigs tap a melodic, rhythmic sound,
their mantra, heard in lofty branches.
And a gentle breeze tickles each leaf
until they all laugh in unison:
applauding newly fallen brethren,
lazily fluttering to the ground.
In Autumn's scheme, green is restricted
to grasses and mosses hardly seen.
And awaiting Winter's frigid breath,
a rusty golden-speckled mantle:
painted with flames of searing scarlet,
forms a fitting shroud: for Summer's dead.
I remember that night
Shattered by your demon glare
Burning my soul as you stare
Freeze dried on the road
There goes all hope,
suffocated by your black soul
Road kill on the interstate
Tears spewing from my eyes
Images of the past, flashing
before my eyes. All the fights
Every hateful word,
Hell is all you deserve.
-Food for thought...-
Distributed freeze-dried nutrition,
a consumers dietary attrition?
Constitutional, by institutional
conglomerate corporate ambition.
Do our politicians convictions
mandate our "home-style" traditions?
It's the consumption, of faux production,
that decays our human condition.
-Anonymously youRs-
(Copyrighted to DigitallyDefectiveArt)
The Monkey's Uncle
I'm french fried
freeze dried
pour tabasco on top
if you think I lied
if I look your way
I will go astray
pat the monkey's head
every night and day
you drive me mad
with your beautiful smile
for one of your kisses
I would walk a mile
sometimes sassy
with a sharp wit
work the fancy words
rub your hands with spit
a pound of clay
a box of sand
I can spank that monkey
with either hand
hair of gold
hot and cold
motorcycle mama
but it's been sold
likes to dance
when given a chance
has a frequent fire
inside her pants
keeps my head
in constant flux
spinning in circles
that sure sucks
it's my own fault
I'm a carbuncle
stay where you belong
I'm the Monkey's uncle
Gomer LePoet ....
A bleak and wintry cold
invades and takes a hold of
this heart and hostage mind
gripping emotion’s buried shrapnel,
twisting hard and fast,
wreaking vengeance of a kind.
Yet still there is control
of this dark and personal soul where
the past is held repressed
subjugated by denial’s tyranny,
tethered out of reach
fear and anger bare suppressed.
The tears I have shed
in mind’s eye were always red,
dusty and freeze-dried,
behind a stonewall resolve
where no other eyes could see
they were always shed inside.
Hanging numb in this despair,
making out I do not care and
you watch but do not see,
rendered sightless by snow blindness,
oblivious to my internal tears
flowed silently and free...
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