Thursday, July 31, 2008

Stars on Your Shoulder

These mornings
bring me
the stars on your shoulder
and soft murmurs of protest
as we rise.
With you
the gentle things
come upon me,
funny things too.
You become batgirl,
catwoman.
What??
I smile
even right now.
Do you know
I watch you cross
Third Avenue
every morning
you get off
this bus?
I see you
studying your
rose red phone
for news
from
antebellum
ancestors
way back,
roped in
stands of kudzu,
drinking Pims
and dancing.
These mornings
bring me you
and the day
is just waiting
for the hour
when I see
your smile
coming down my street.

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Blue Dress

She's going
to look for
a blue dress
downtown.
I'm heading
into the basement
to wrestle
with
crow black ribbons
of feedback.
El-King will
apply rhinoceros tonic
to the open wound
on the side of
the passenger whale-shark.
J-squared
has the double kick drum podium
to expound the absurd
with wobbling plastic eyes
and crumbling monster cookie
crumbs.
She's going
to meet me there.
My heart is filled with helium
when I think about her
walking down Second Avenue
through the Rendezvous door
and into my arms.

360/12 Bells Of Rhymney

This is for
the twelve string
who makes
my ears ring.
I loved you
the moment
I heard your compressed
sheets of church bells
pealing from
grey grill cloth
across the years,
across the room,
under illuminated
manuscript curtains
from 1965
to a dull decade
decayed.
Which one?
Four or five?
"I gotta know, babe
all about my fortune
down along my
restless palm..."
You still root me
to the spot and still,
watching the chimes
gurgle and wink
down winding
streams of mercury
in permanent,
warm smiling
sun.

Monday, July 28, 2008

It's So Same

The green bus is white
and runs on money.
It catapillar crawls
a winding track
through the homes
of our petty
nobility
to the bank
and the jail.
It's so same.
I am a rabbit
covered in soot
with
a cigar box banjo
and a book of jokes
I can't read.
Every morning,
I come up from
the rabbit hole
and take my seat
on the express
to the ant hill.
It's so same.
They hold their noses
and stare.
The muffled whispers
of groaning grown ups,
younger
and older
translated from
a queen's english
to rabbit
sing fascinated disgust.
I'm sorry everybody.
My parents were human,
this I swear.
I am this way
because I've
never done
a good thing right.
We ride along
the currencied rapids
to the mill.
It's so same.
Half of this town
can buy me,
sell me,
skin and eat me
before they're
toilet trained.
What difference
does anything make?
A rabbit is not
predator.
A rabbit is prey.
It's so same.

Sunday, July 27, 2008

In Good Company


The young, old fool
shadowboxing the rain
says he's lost 
everything he never had.
He stole a book
full of aristocrat's words
and fed his bad seed
to the birds.
When in good company
his holy bucket 
can't hold an ear.
Idiot tongue untied
and true.
He sings off chroma key
and blue.
The rest come in 
the wrong places.
What else can he do?
An organ grinder's
monkey  
fell off 
the midway wagon. 
Now he's outside 
the dining room window
playing the fool
for cigarette butts
and shots
of embalming fluid.
He shakes his head
and claims it's all a mistake.
Says he can reason
and wear a tie
but his card house
is held together
with wishes 
and scotch tape.
When the summer ends
and the organ 
goes to storage
he sleeps in a doorway
and eats 
in the alley
studying 
cat philosophy.
The billboards shout;
everybody's going on vacation,
everybody's having them,
everyone's nobility,
in the movie version of
the surprised fighter's 
autobiography.
He could never accept
that it took 
10 seconds
to make 
a decision.  
He lost his title.
He lost his girl.
He left this town.
Now he paints
crushed beer cans
on the side of
broken bottles
in the desert.
Every night,
he tells the dial-tone
on his unpaid phone
about the stars in the sky
and shame 
and lies.






 

Rise


Look at your game,
girl.
Warm nights, 
open windows,
the mouths of homes
gape blankly.
The stilled street
dyed sodium vapor sepia,
casts black speck shadows
of hedge leaves
swaying at the stale
breeze of our passing.
Creepy crawling
through 
spaces, 
assumed to be private,
assumed to to be safe.
"Leave a sign,
something witchy."

 

Her Caliphate


Lie down darkness. 

With me

warm

under majlis sheet,

imperial purple,

curtained,

under Abbasid moon,

sky wrinkled dark

with ghost edged clouds

moon kissed 

with dead

sunlight.

Crawl through my veins,

you are a growing

warm glow.

You are

spikes of poppies

and 

spikes of saffron.

Come the darkness

I fill my eyes

with burned black sand

and lie down

for you.

So many nights,

so many thousand nights.

I will lie down.

I will always lie down

for you.

Saturday, July 26, 2008

Swale Channel Chariot

I am Phaethon
of Victory Heights.
Two dogs
on the leash
and
a red skateboard
bear me through
the suburban swale streets
back between the lake
and the highway.
In the morning quiet
the sun is still yawning.
On the dewed asphalt
the rusty trucks gargle
ball bearingly
to the ride cymbal ting
of dog license clapping.
The falcon chicks 
in the hollow top fir
have fledged
and flown.
They whistle-chirp
stinging notes
in the treetops.
Maybe I'm Thor
on rubber tired chariot,
goat driven
by Ava Tanngisnir
and
Shirley Tanngnjostr
Varg! Varg! Argawarga!
Something small is moving
in the swale channel
and I'm 
coming down
on one 
and a half
knees.
Now I'm more
creaky achy
Nestor
and just 
a tad bit 
embarrassed.

Friday, July 25, 2008

We're a Railbird

We switch mounts.
Ride for another barn.
Go out for a finish
in the money
on
a stalker/closer
running off the pace.
In this sport
things change.
The sprinter
we used to sit atop
in goggles and silks
has gone east,
to pasture and stud.
The trainer's stopwatch
stopped;
paramutual leavings
couldn't keep clothes
on his wife and child.
He threw his fedora
in the trash
on the backstretch
and left the track
for good.
But we're a railbird,
always here,
hustling another mount,
looking to get back
into the starting gate
and race.
We do it
for the love of the game.
Our first works
on the new mount
weren't bullets
but through two turns
a familiar rhythm
bind us tight
and our fractions
start
to hum,
sting,
sparkle
and jangle.
We'll be up there
coming into the stretch,
looking for an opening
where we
can put on the whip
and gun it.
Win, place or show.
We're a railbird.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Lawyer Mill

A droogie o' mine once said
"All I do is work, feeling glum."
Yes, yes.
Oh, what a thrill.
I need the terror.
Sometimes it's like
the dreams of Rommel
or Montgomery of El Alamein
played out in the pushing of paper
and
sometimes
it's like
humping a cheese grater
that's been occulted
for several years
in a glacier.
Attached are PDF files
of supporting documentation.
RBQ drew the study of our
visages under internal and external pressures.
The second piece
explores
the Lacanian jouissance
one experiences while
resolving client issues over the phone.
Rabbit on, my dear children.
Rabbit on...







Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Brute Rebirth



Greek fire fountains

over the vine twines,

scatter the scalar

and vector the scalers.

I Cluniac 

reformate 

and 

formation

do grab 

the sheaves of stars,

hung on party lines,

bundled in fasci,

paled of settlement,

lockstep lost

and prove their points

through your pierced side

on nights of broken glass.

In contrapasto 

and Franco Falang

we

red and blacked 

the wine soaked 

hills at the foot 

of elephant trailed

peaks.

Our night does

strain to the strength

and breaking cubist

filaments,

in monochromed manger

from the wings 

of proud condor legion 

do 17 E-1 into 

sleepy market days.

What fire and catastrophe

do threaten the ship of state

stove in 

bicameral division?

Under the eye

of the arch autarch

who urges action,

in acrolith image 

we point to the sky

and in the name

of the general will,

stoke the boilers

with bones 

exacted from 

the atomized,

one by one

in total embrace. 

Look Around

Get up
under the sheet metal sky
and get moving.
Every day peels
a vellum page
out of
a book of seasons
and throws it
on the fire.
Can't get
that one back.
Can't get
any of them back.
Let them go
and find another.
Every tomorrow
meets its end in yesterday.
Take more time
because that's the only
thing you've got
to take for your own.
Let go
of the hooks
that rope you down
in soul draining struggle.
Look around.
You are moving
in the constant swirl
of an unfathomable gyre,
an exploding lotus bloom
that never starts beginning
and cannot end.



Monday, July 21, 2008

Local Buoy Does Good (Locally)

Hey cats und kittens!

Lookit here:
http://seattle-powerpop.blogspot.com/2008/07/doll-test-mosque-alarm-clock.html

They like the Doll Test Mosque Alarm Clock thingie we made.
They said "Scott Five has come into his own..." we over here know I've
been doing that since puberty.

tee hee hee...

We Walk

Let's see.
Summer Sunday
we walked from
Wallingford on the hill
overlooking Lake Union
and sky scrappered downtown
through the neighborhoods
of Ballard
to
Salmon Bay.
When we walk
we hold hands
and think of stupid songs
to plant in our thoughts.
From Fisherman's Terminal
we walked north
over the drawbridge
to the Locks
and further along
to Shilshole.
One fine day
I can report.
We had a beer
in the sun
and salt breeze
overlooking the water
at Ray's Boathouse.
It's was a pretty white affair
full of bleached, capped teeth
and money.
Good for a laugh.
Then
we started back
from Shilshole
up Market Street
with stops
at
a bookstore
and
a grocery store.
Our haul;
a book on Medieval History
and that Flashman book
with some
Coronas and crab.
Back homeways
we caught the
Sunday wrap up
from Emerald Downs
and Del Mar
making a fairly substantial
mess
with our pototo chips
and crab.
We walk
and talk
and then
I feel good.

Easement

Drawn lines
bread lines
lay lines
fine lines
bow lines
dots and lines
lay 'em out there
and let 'em say
who you are,
where you're
coming from,
what you want
and what you
can't take.
When they get crossed
make sure
they know it.
Then,
little by little
things go softly
and sure.
A certain smile
can drop by
and stay awhile.

Friday, July 18, 2008

Locked Up / Away and Racing



I'm leaving

the clown factory

and

going to

the track.

I Can Hear the Boo Birds Singing

Sexson, Yankees reach deal
Struggling slugger gives New York right-handed bat

Don't Join

How strange.
The angry man leans forward
into the summershine sidewalk
looking oh so Mark David Chapman.
He looks like he's stateside
but inside
he's permanently
patroling the streets
of Ur,
between Tigris
and Euphrates.
He's been cultivated
to maximize
third party potential
at the expense
of his own.
All the waste
is all the wasted.
Does he know why?
Probably not.
When he got flag fever
it wasn't his problem
because that's the
true gift of freedom;
the freedom
to defect,
to stay outside.
Don't join.
When the gates
of the temple
were knocked down,
it wasn't his problem.
Now it is.
Now it is.
Does he know why?
Probably not.
Dollar Bill
and King Capital
sent him overseas
to rake the land
for milk and honey
to fuel
the binge
that can never stop
until everything stops.
It's not my problem.
Is it yours?

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Dreams of School

Lately
I've been
going through
a series
of dreams
about school.
Dreams of high school
except
I'm me
now;
two score
and one.
I'm me now,
in the
back then,
but
just as
alienated
and lost
as the earlier
version of me
was
in the past-present.
They
steal my books.
They
spit in my food.
The now me
couldn't do anything
about it
except don robes
of blanketing dread
and panic.
Just like back then.
It wasn't a happy time,
Then.
It's not really a happy time
now.
I didn't learn much
in school.
I had to do it all
starting at two score
and ten.
I'm behind you.
All of you.
I don't care though.
Little by little
understanding is coming
to me.
They.
Me.
They
Me.
It was there
so early.
Cleaving the universe
in two
when there isn't
really a two
there.
They.
Me.
They.
Me.
This binary
isn't doing me
a lot of good
in the present present.
I've got to try
harder
to find the
reasons
why
I made the world
into my own
false image.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

San Vitale in Ravenna; Apse Detail








I want to be lost


one of a myriad


gold flake tile


bringing the liturgy


to life


in timelessness


here...


Low Function

Low function
leaves you
flying too close
to the ground,
where gravity binds
a struggling flyer
to the coral reef shred
of each passing tree,
and the promise
of dashed dreams
on the unfolding
landscape of rocks
anticipating
the absolute certainty
of a fall.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

American Exceptionalism

James Jimmy told me,
"It's all about way of life.
It's all about freedom."
Yes it is,
and we invented Way Of Life,
and we invented Freedom,
and
we
are just like the wolf
who dips the first
flesh lusted maw
into the kill,
and the little boy
who was never told
the word "no."
I hope
the rest of you
know how much
we enjoyed
the first
and best
of this world.
It makes us
hard on hard
to know
we got there first
and you should
probably wake up
to the fact
that we
will make you
eat shit
and say
it tasted good
before
we ever
nightmare dream
of coming down
off corporate
cum-stained pillows
of speculation
and usury
to
remotely entertain
any shred of an idea
about sharing
the husks of nothing
left
to live on
with you.



She Sleeps

I often wake up
at night
and just watch you
sleep.
Your eyes closed
and mouth graced
with a serene smile,
the sad struggles
of the day flung
far from your peaceful face.
I just watch you.
For me
the night has always brought
processions of regret
and dread
but every time I jolt awake
fresh from a terrible dream
I see you,
so beautiful
so calm
and near.

Monday, July 14, 2008

A Friend of a Friend of the Working Class


"he like the french perfume / he like to sleep 'till noon"

It's Just a Ride

Friday, July 11, 2008

Mantra


Get one.

Do it.

Ditchie Suxson


Yer out, "Big Sexy."

Thursday, July 10, 2008

Split Finger and Knuckle

My two favorite pitches
in all of baseball
are
the split finger fastball
and
the knuckleball.
The split finger
rushes up to the plate
hard and then
dies like a springtime robin
pellet gun shot out of the sky,
wings stilled
and falling in a mirrored arc
of the earth's curvature.
This is a favorite pitch
of the set up man
and the closer
who work late in
the game
and want to make
death sure
the lid stays shut.
The knuckleball is my favorite
though.
It's drunken trajectory
can render a bat
dumbstruck and shouldered
like a oar hoisted out of the waves.
It doesn't spin.
The seams are motionless
as the ball creeps off the mound
and stumbles into the
arrest of the catcher's mit.
There used to be more
knuckleballers kicking
the rubber up on the hill.
Charlie Hough
Phil Niekro
Tim Wakefield
Jim Boughton
all played with
the drag of the wind
and threw pitches
that looked like
moths square dancing.
It doesn't have to be thrown hard.
Rotator cuffs don't have to be shredded
and a knuckler
can go longer on the hill
and further down the calendar
without going under.
R.A. Dickey is a knuckler
maybe Richie Sexson
would still have a job
if he knew how to float
them
instead of stand at the plate
or first base
like a wooden dime store indian.

Analytical Comments

Enthroned on the porch and lit up, the critics have put down their opera glasses and have held forth on this blaugh and it's contents. Prithee, mark this well...

"I went there and read some of your shit. It's like some kind of fuckin' poetry for girls. I don't wanna be readin' shit like that and feelin' all funny."

"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!!!! What the fuck are you sayin' dude! You're not gay, are you?"

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

Nilsson Schmilsson

Idol is not an icon

so begone 
your judging stare
and your jury sun.
I've only just begun
to begun,
and it's all
a silly dumbshow
that adds up 
to none.

Don't you want 
to show me to see,
the way I have to act,
the way I have to be?
Don't you want 
to show me the way?
The way I should talk,
the way I should say?

Early in the mourning
we ain't got nothing
we ain't got nothing
we ain't got nothing 
but 
the blues.

Mercy Mercy

Holy gold glitter
mother and son.
Theotokos,
saints
and angels,
transfigure the black firmament's
starshine
into new light.
There you are
bathed in radiance
shining up at me
cradled in my palm.
I can take you
into the darkness,
into the unbelieving
and senseless world.
Your forgiveness
and love
shield me from
the hammering stares
and serrated words
of so many others.
On this uncertain pilgrimage
you are always there.
Icon in my hand.
I must not make
you an idol.
You hold no magic
or dilute the nature
of the divine.
No.
You are
a slender thread
to a singularity
beyond words,
thought
and time.


Monday, July 7, 2008

The Catcher On The Mound

Fingers hurt and cracked.
Ears ring and burn.
Throat strangled and raw
but
I'm still smiling,
friends, brothers and sisters.
It's good.
It's good to see you smile.
It's good to see you shake
and bounce
up and down
in unrestrained joy
to our toybox music
leaving every
graying doubt
and fretful memory
out on the street
amongst the ashes
of fallen fireworks.
Thank you.
I'll keep this with mine.
I'll keep this
for when I need it.
For when things go wrong
like when the birds
stop singing to
streaks of dawn
or when
my meaning and my words
don't meet
and
for when
the catcher
is the pitcher.

Sunday, July 6, 2008

AmericaDay

We did it up right - you, me n everybody...




"All you girls are all the same/you think you can do anything..."