stormchaser

the season melts to a crawl like a
good book and i meander in the
footnotes

in the summer of language
in the clutch of warm throats
words spread spring and unease
speaking lewd colors
unable to draw near
distanced by
stumbles dares me closer to

silence when the daylight
leans hinting of a portal
in time where a warm night shuffles
bold reso- & revo- & convo-
lutions luscious in the
graceful outlines where
you might ask me to remain

minutes beg for hours and time
snakes hungrily for more moments more
real feeling more elaborate confirmation that
this is the path of the bled discordant
struggling mad souls suffering slow
dull paycheck death and enacting
intimate skirmishes we are

counting the days

silver

london burns and other cliched headlines mark
the death of a young Mark Duggan and
resting in peace is obviously not
in the cards so across the water
we refresh news sites and
watch for riot footage the way
we always wait for changes and
weird smells in the wind what

we
do
know
is

he thought the feds were following
he was strapped and on his way home
he was slaughtered with the H&K MP5 and
it
is
all
happen
-ing
again
and

people loot because they are robbed and
communities rooted in forgotten soil reap
screaming ghosts in the afterglow and the
cops wait until they are unafraid and experience
leaks the resolve into twisting hands and the
sidewalks will always
grow dangerous
and always grow hazardous
burning blooms

the family hasn't seen him yet

lapser

at 10am it's hard to muster
sensibility in the
face of injury

and in the doorways of this
scramble to sensibility from
dulled inoperative
anesthesia hands
test the air for rain
making sloped
sensitive
movements in the humidity and
hover
waiting

in a cold private moment a
sweetly drawn agreement
becomes a heady
compromise and
dances with Shakti a
gathered moment feels
like rain a
young oath expires
ravaged at the
tide of
a strange smile

it's a free country

on some days there are
the daggereyed
the impatient creatures
waiting for equipment and moving
benches around molesting grinning
trainers and stank-ass accomplices run eager trains
on pullup bar fonts and spend fifteen minutes or
more on flavor of the month ab machines or grunters lift
right at the barbell stand leaving crumbtrails
of dropped dumbbells or the
encircling characters mortgaging the chest press and
it's right there stuck in my headphone universe
dodging the pulldown cult and draping
a towel over my shoulder polite and
secure and
insecure dodging the bolder strident fucks
and fuck you

charging out of the locker room and fuck your
weight dropping and fuck your
friday night genetics and get the

fuck

out of my way

quietly

sometimes it is as if and
never and later on always and
in the secret heart down the
bannister of sloppy ideals in
rare hours of bravery it is as
if it used to be and maybe
in a little while longer it is
self-composed and then in the
minutes or years that follow it is
as a cruel shadow some
fragment of a whole and
while it compels it is
complete and then it is
shattered and sometimes
it is as if it was
always
silent

stray

dust particles make it hard to make it out
the lopsided memories the
leopards recycle paradise
the recall is a recital of lost years and we -
paralyzed by self-projected miracles &
tricky distances -
recline mockingly suave, coolly surveying these disguises

in the ten eyeblinks when we are
absentmindedly rearranging
personal elements like a
favorite writing desk or a
bingo table or a
love letter we find
excuses to undo the foundations and
cruelly deconstruct
the fossils of old flames until we are
writing
new
stories and encounters as if
to do so was akin to being an organized person as if
to not do so was akin to being an organized person and

far past the horizon on chilly bored evenings the strays collect with
thumbs sticking out of pockets
murmuring like spent machines maybe
walking their dog or an old bad habit
bumping into their equals like tokens on a board
aging and bearing pained expressions and
scuttling their ambitions into the moonlit grass

i remember pages
warm from multiple reads
and pink-night sky and streetlights and
bagels at 3 in the morning and
freezing early hours and the infinite tongue of a life endlessly
extending almost
boring in its length and
looking for engravings or mottled signatures anywhere to mark my
passing by the moored ghosts of others and finding microscopic
traces that could have as easily been mirages or even my
own stimulated handprints and in their presence feeling
some stupid fulfillment or amusement

it moves so timidly slowly now and yet strangely brutally
emotionally beautifully and the insecurities die so frequently in the
next daylight the ones that were felt so deeply they defined every
motion now cringe into pockets of understanding like
crickets under leaves and
populate who i find myself as and with
what hands and poisons i
draw the
rest
to
view

rumble

strands of perspective melt around the sunrise and we
wake like reporters, journalists of
war, riders of the bad weather thinking
it's a good day to

dice rolling cross the street in manhattan when
i retrace my steps to the the daily duress and i
humm to myself appearing cheerful but
it's surgical distraction from the bad
songs fucking with

you share victories
minutes outside the cafe
curls of smoke punctuating what amounts to escape
returning to the cyclical cache
no drama but the ones that

separating molecules of time in a rented hole
bartering curious misery
envies cascade like clumsy chess moves and
pondering the patterns why not just

walking with chaos she's got
tight jeans serene voice wavers when
it's haunting your dreams
over too quick rocking the visine
an obvious scene but you