Night Kicking Dice Across Blacktop
She likes to think her shadow is stitched
to a façade, a façade dissolved by
her hot embrace of this moon’s eclipse.
Angers rivulet into her newly-dug trench,
ashes and seed planted along the loam edge.
A name drawn in wet sand, the undertow
inhaled broken shells as she reached
for sunset glints inside agates.
Her dry skin drank in the cold beads strung
along a driftwood branch, brush-tip just now
reaching canvas with its load of dark blue
as jazz sax bevels edge into oar. Thoughts
like bone chips clatter against the nest
where her faith sits, that lit mecca close
to spine, her eyes born of sought dream.
Pushed by needs closer to canvas,
she chants an old prayer, hunger
scraping the layers of a mask away.
She browns her father’s eyes, dusk
shuffling around the corner behind him.
Joe’s Cellar Bar & Grill in neon red and blue,
his work-knotted shoulders pushing through
the plate glass door, his just
visible co-workers raising a toast.
-
Hawk Cry Wedding City Jazz
Held by habitual love, men of dusk
raise oak batons into deft subito,
the blue notes of jazz sax and trumpet
rising above brick, asphalt and pulse.
Men of dust raise oak batons into deft subito,
conducting current swirl as a seeled falcon
climbs, rounding on columns of heat and sweat.
Homing in on the blue notes of flute and trumpet,
men of dusk grasp at sedge beside the current
as men of dust raise oak batons, sensing
pain in the serrated glaze of stars.
Hawk cry wedding city jazz, held by
habitual love, men of dusk, men of dust
dance and stride through the convoluted air,
raising oak batons into deft subito, breath of cougar,
blood of bighorn, bones of whale, sight of osprey,
flesh within flesh. These lovers of twilight lean
into its liquid flutter, discovering new pain,
sweet pain, in the serrated glaze of stars.
Hawk cry wedding city jazz, men of dust,
men of dusk homing in on blue notes, true eyes
opening in songs of love, anointing the new wings
arriving laden. Oak branched surprises of clarity crest
beside the current as a large falcon wheels and dips
into our dark blue sky, thousands turn at the peal
of its cry. Edging down into green, these lovers
of twilight lean through the birdsong swept air.
Men of dust, men of dusk raise oak baton
into deft subito. Blue notes rising from dry benches,
rising into a liquid flutter, current pulling
marrow as the ragged heel into their waltz
of hungers, hawk cry wedding city jazz.
Waking in April
Wave-crests
like the faces
of sleeping poets
bisect my soul.
Dream’s warm shirt
unbuttoned
and coaxed off my shoulders
below pre-dawn birdsongs,
her scent rivers inside
my tongue
and floods my chest.
-
Night Rivers
She sees vaccines and illusions
riding downtown curbs,
city night balanced
along the edge of a duotone slant,
moon pulling shadows across current,
spotlights revolving below a dome
capped with silvered contrails. Loss
tattooed on the wing of a dream
let to fly. She walks beside a river wall
to the peace garden, haiku in stone
rooted in nuclear war.
A tug boat plies upriver, lone deckhand
near the bow, incurable eyes sweeping
a rectangle of sky as trucks throttle
down bridge slopes.
Bridge legs collecting shadows
as she traces carved letters a mile
beyond the work-week’s spinal taps.
Tough to be solo amid these weekend couples.
Flaring colors across fresh canvas after
a wreck in the same town is hard work,
the promises given in that dream
echo inside memory.
She pivots away from laughter,
dank cloth of hot summer on her arms
and legs, gaze snagged
on an initialed bench.
As the city hums
[Ekphrasis, after Artiste Robert Tomlinson's "Basin 3"]
Night emerges from
the dried blue husks of day
to stutter out stars.
Inkwells of darkness spout
plumes transfiguring
each concrete equation,
your daily mask imprinting marrow
as you forage along the seams
of memories, tongue gathering
vowels like agates
that can be tumbled
into greater beauty, given light.
Dream’s right foot tremors a pedal
bone edge held to stone wheel
umbrellas of sparks cast over rust
and kindling hand-swept
from the median
between twilight and sleep.
Moon coaxing a rhinestone blouse
on to the night’s shoulders,
lines of lit Braille
ink across cement
and into alley mouth.
All that you perceive
becomes driftwood fed to a kiln.
She likes to think her shadow is stitched
to a façade, a façade dissolved by
her hot embrace of this moon’s eclipse.
Angers rivulet into her newly-dug trench,
ashes and seed planted along the loam edge.
A name drawn in wet sand, the undertow
inhaled broken shells as she reached
for sunset glints inside agates.
Her dry skin drank in the cold beads strung
along a driftwood branch, brush-tip just now
reaching canvas with its load of dark blue
as jazz sax bevels edge into oar. Thoughts
like bone chips clatter against the nest
where her faith sits, that lit mecca close
to spine, her eyes born of sought dream.
Pushed by needs closer to canvas,
she chants an old prayer, hunger
scraping the layers of a mask away.
She browns her father’s eyes, dusk
shuffling around the corner behind him.
Joe’s Cellar Bar & Grill in neon red and blue,
his work-knotted shoulders pushing through
the plate glass door, his just
visible co-workers raising a toast.
-
Hawk Cry Wedding City Jazz
Held by habitual love, men of dusk
raise oak batons into deft subito,
the blue notes of jazz sax and trumpet
rising above brick, asphalt and pulse.
Men of dust raise oak batons into deft subito,
conducting current swirl as a seeled falcon
climbs, rounding on columns of heat and sweat.
Homing in on the blue notes of flute and trumpet,
men of dusk grasp at sedge beside the current
as men of dust raise oak batons, sensing
pain in the serrated glaze of stars.
Hawk cry wedding city jazz, held by
habitual love, men of dusk, men of dust
dance and stride through the convoluted air,
raising oak batons into deft subito, breath of cougar,
blood of bighorn, bones of whale, sight of osprey,
flesh within flesh. These lovers of twilight lean
into its liquid flutter, discovering new pain,
sweet pain, in the serrated glaze of stars.
Hawk cry wedding city jazz, men of dust,
men of dusk homing in on blue notes, true eyes
opening in songs of love, anointing the new wings
arriving laden. Oak branched surprises of clarity crest
beside the current as a large falcon wheels and dips
into our dark blue sky, thousands turn at the peal
of its cry. Edging down into green, these lovers
of twilight lean through the birdsong swept air.
Men of dust, men of dusk raise oak baton
into deft subito. Blue notes rising from dry benches,
rising into a liquid flutter, current pulling
marrow as the ragged heel into their waltz
of hungers, hawk cry wedding city jazz.
-
Waking in April
Wave-crests
like the faces
of sleeping poets
bisect my soul.
Dream’s warm shirt
unbuttoned
and coaxed off my shoulders
below pre-dawn birdsongs,
her scent rivers inside
my tongue
and floods my chest.
-
Night Rivers
She sees vaccines and illusions
riding downtown curbs,
city night balanced
along the edge of a duotone slant,
moon pulling shadows across current,
spotlights revolving below a dome
capped with silvered contrails. Loss
tattooed on the wing of a dream
let to fly. She walks beside a river wall
to the peace garden, haiku in stone
rooted in nuclear war.
A tug boat plies upriver, lone deckhand
near the bow, incurable eyes sweeping
a rectangle of sky as trucks throttle
down bridge slopes.
Bridge legs collecting shadows
as she traces carved letters a mile
beyond the work-week’s spinal taps.
Tough to be solo amid these weekend couples.
Flaring colors across fresh canvas after
a wreck in the same town is hard work,
the promises given in that dream
echo inside memory.
She pivots away from laughter,
dank cloth of hot summer on her arms
and legs, gaze snagged
on an initialed bench.
As the city hums
[Ekphrasis, after Artiste Robert Tomlinson's "Basin 3"]
Night emerges from
the dried blue husks of day
to stutter out stars.
Inkwells of darkness spout
plumes transfiguring
each concrete equation,
your daily mask imprinting marrow
as you forage along the seams
of memories, tongue gathering
vowels like agates
that can be tumbled
into greater beauty, given light.
Dream’s right foot tremors a pedal
bone edge held to stone wheel
umbrellas of sparks cast over rust
and kindling hand-swept
from the median
between twilight and sleep.
Moon coaxing a rhinestone blouse
on to the night’s shoulders,
lines of lit Braille
ink across cement
and into alley mouth.
All that you perceive
becomes driftwood fed to a kiln.
