Walking in the Wind

We carry our homes in our hearts,
no matter the pain.


True, 
we may 
wander to find greater inspiration
in the wide open-
far from
familiar corners 
and childhood windows,
but the grit beneath our nails will never lie,
for native soil lies deeper.


And while it may be undesired,
never spoken of again-
and hidden away to spare the judgement
of
city boy
or country bumpkin,


Home will always remain steadfast.

It is a secret,
unavoidable,
truth.

It Comes From The Air

Lines on a page,
blue and red,
create a sensation-
a light touch,
a hand on my forearm;
scratching,
scraping,
pulling and
willing me on.


Fingers at the top of my spine;
eyes seeing through my own-
as a camera
through a blinking television.


"Perhaps this has happened before."
words hanging in the air for a moment...


the TV goes blank


the fingers recoil into black


and I'm truly alone-


staring at familiar lines on a page as they slowly fill
with words that are somehow
my
own.

Bourbon Sweat

Choices,
mistakes.


Words
written out on a beach
on a sunny day
in the back of your mind-
words that
never quite washed away
when the weather
turned cold.


You will never stop hearing the echo,
you will never stop feeling that certain pain,
you will never stop reaching for another,
then another,
and another.


You will never stop shivering when a cigarette is
snubbed out
beneath a tall
black
heel.


You will always think of those glasses-
that musty car
and the smear of make-up.


You were the one that made them cry,
but you never remember it that way.


They left you,
they abandoned you like some spoiled thing
like some festering boil
like some unwanted child.


They called you 'too much work'
and somehow
you were indifferent.


We are often defined by such stupid things
moments of insanity,
moments that were once so clear-
so cut and dry.
Now they seem like
any
other
outcome
would have been better.


So many nights of staring into mirrors and
splashing cold water onto warm, red faces
over and over,
and over.


This is where you should be
here and now,
and we know it,
but that will never assuage that certain pain
and the thought of how much time has passed will never
muffle the echo.


You will always reach out for another
and no matter now strong the tide,
that message way,
way back,
in the sands of your mind
will never wash away.


It all sounds so depressing
so dire,
so in need of a stiff drink;
but it amounts to little more than
one
more
night
splashing cold water
onto a hot,
red,
face.

Bluegrass

The clouds are faster here
or perhaps the earth is moving
that much slower or
steadier than in the metropolises I've known.


Nature declares herself unabashedly, not through
cracks in the concrete
but in in the marbled atmosphere swirling
with the changing seasons and in
the emerald colored life, further spread
than the industry of man.


There is a different beauty found in the
tremble of thunder out here.
The unobstructed sound of unearthly light
tearing it's way from the heavens to the soil.
I can only wonder if rainstorms on the great central plains
are this stunning.


This land is so different from
my own. I feel ashamed to think that I knew better,
that I wasn't going to find a new world
but there is magic here in the fireflies and the
burning piles of leaves.


I have known the sound of cicadas to be synonymous with the heat
of summer, their song so prominent in films of the humid south; but now-
now that I hear their call and feel the muggy air I can't help but think myself deep
in a foreign land.


This place is older,
the trees all have deeper scars that have
healed over long ago-
their branches darker,
more knarled
just as the knotted, callused hands of the
people; seventh generation workers with
the minerals of the earth in their veins.


I am breathing better now.

Breaking Point

Old Matchbooks
worn and empty.
Thick green glass ashtrays,
spotless
and smelling of bleach.


The man I once knew is
hiding from me
pacing in the back of my mind.


I find myself trying to reason
with hallucination
debating with a sickness.


There is no secret pack,
there are no more cigarettes dancing
in the bottom of some deep desk drawer.


There is no flask in a hollowed dictionary
there are no answers in bottles.


There is only some bizarre faith
in the next
word.

Highway

You were warm once
back when I was.


Now you are a sheet of lace
floating on an incandescent ray and
a pair of crimson lips
on a lifeless face
staring back at me through
a golden polaroid.


I feel you in the damp concrete during
a summer storm;
I hear you in the cadence of a sweet hymn,
in the caress of a country bow and
in the crackle of decades-worn vinyl.


And now I press on,
and now I press on.


I have to press on.

Weight

I have spent thus far
staring out of frosted sills
watching empty streets
in the dead of night
waiting for car crashes
muggings
prostitution
or the off-handed,
in car,
tryst.


I have sat in still rooms
dissecting florid wallpapers and
picked at crumbling walls.
I've imagined myself asleep-
sweating into corduroy couch cushions,
waiting for the sun to rise
and then hating it's arrival.


I have watched the play of sex.
I have watched her lipstick fade as it all progressed,
I have watched her come and
I have seen her walk away;
frame by frame.


I've been sick
hugging stained porcelain
and thinking of when my throat didn't burn.
I've sobbed from that tile floor
eyes blurring at the halo of an incandescent god
and begged it for forgiveness.


I've stared into the crevasse of
a darkened bathroom mirror
and imagined that I was different
or just not there.


I've watched her from afar
I've fumbled over coffee
wondering how to look into her eyes
choking on words that were never so thick
and I will always remember
the picture of her with him.




I will keep watching
I will keep sobbing
and perhaps,


just perhaps;


I'll smile
at all of my
good
fortune.

Smoking is Sexy

Lucky Strike promises.


Eternal health.


Masculine appeal.


Cowboys.


Motorcycles
and detectives in black and white.


Blues bars- formerly 
choking with atmosphere.
Cigarettes stuck in the strings of
Gibson
Gretch and
Fender.


Embers glowing in
Dylan's shades


Then there was disease-
black lungs in elementary school jars and
holes in the throats of 
ancient puffers speaking with
robotic tongues.


Denial 
Repression
what should be believed
what is inside them?
what is inside of us?
we know
we don't care
we should.


Bogart and Bacall
sharp eyes through hazy air


HS Thompson, pulling through a filter.


Dean eternal,
McQueen eternal-


cool.




Where is masculinity?
What is it?
Where has it gone?


Where is my pipe?
my violin?
my revolver?
or my faithful horse?


Gone they say;
consumed in 
a grey cloud of cancer.


Bitter betterment
at the hands of
lollypops
toothpicks
medicated patches
and electronic
handheld
flavored
fog machines.


Habits die hard
cultures die hard


Nothing for coffee but pastry
nothing for behind the wheel but the radio
nothing to make the throat singe after sex
nothing to complete the image.


ghost limbs
reaching out of celluloid
reaching out of every smoking area
reaching out of the back of your mind


ghost limbs of
identity

I Never Wanted You Dead

Looking to inspiration
and seeing only a match struck
in a dark bathroom mirror.


Huge eyes were cast upon you
and the world swallowed your soul
now you are a sticker,
a scratched vinyl,
an echoing voice
calling forward-
from when you mattered.


Tears won't do a damn thing;
choruses of
Bravo!
Encore!
Encore!
no more
we don't call anymore
and you can't answer.


Questioning beliefs
lead to new questions,
new realizations.
You were never God,
you were never a god-
you were a conduit for grace
talent and
majesty.


As your flesh decays
and your eyes gloss over with grey


I'll stand here
inheriting the spirit
hoping that younger generations
don't move as fast.

Claws

Skin folds neatly-
well defined creases,
pre-existing 
signs.


The brow draws lines
sweat beads
and the lizard aches.


I forget where the light was
but I remember every curve


highlights-
soft
and sharply defined-
places I've only seen in magazines
or perhaps 
in the back of my mind.


Singed flesh
at the back of the neck
a dream
a thought
a desire
passing by in the night


its breath


gone with the sun.

16 Watt

Calluses.


Fleshy shields
born from repetition,
born from overuse.


Lips never callus
and a heart,
while it may grow harder,
is always a sponge
sopping pain and
beating stories of
regret.
The realizations of the past
are recounted with each
thump, and
every pump is a step closer
to scarlet tears.


A slow burn.


The pain of living.

Signs of Misuse

The cigarettes of my youth
are floating in the puddles of Los Angeles


They have long since been drained and yellowed.




Acid still creeps
and sleep never comes- no matter the pill.
It all builds against,
mocking the adult version of 
a once 'old-soul'
now just a commonplace fellow
brushing shoulders with
a world that is moving
entirely too fast.


An old clock radio clicks on,
the morning news plays
and dust dances in the first rays of the morning sun.


Books all feel old now


their pages are deteriorating
dog ears drooping ever further.


I remember when I hadn't muddied the waters
I remember tree houses floating above Siverlake
I remember,
I remember.


Orange trees crept in through security bars, glare through dirty windows
and bitter coffee; never a clean cup.


I miss the filth and unease, 
I miss the daring of it all.


I miss my legs.