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POEM: Skipping with a rope in Pa

Soft whispers and the cure of moonlight/ Fade into what might have been/ A waking dream foretold perhaps/ Amongst popcorn and a silent movie

Skipping with a rope in Pa

(and if eye listen closely
a song by Shuggie Ottis
–outa ma head—
comes to cradle ma mind)


30 years past forward
Half zoned in bed with a love I claim life.

Eat your heart out miller whispers baby
Did you know that’s why I’m so restless?

We hold saturated and spent
ready for so much more and this text.
Where’s Papa?
Is everything ok?

Next door.
Yes that is why we hold each other close

Hands nestled illuminated in moonlight
Reflect I was Baptized by my own blood

Gorgeous dammit.
This actually went down.
In front of all the wisdom we squirrel away.
Accumulated from sitting at tables
(No perhaps here.)
Saturated in love

A constant child with a kiss on the head
Born awkward we can yes
We can

Exist with something perhaps.
(There’s that word again.)
We are all capable of a shot at
filling in the blanks….

Sharp edges keep my hands
Ready and able
In the lower ninth
You mean the candles I’m lighting for souls in Pa
No baby
The kibbutz
Bombed yesterday.


Note to self.
Text David and Trent.
Bits left of me
resemble splinters of glass
or worse
cowards with guns.


Cypress splinters
Now that’s a pain for you
Right there

Next door.

Being as simple as it gets
On a porch I want to torch
Dare I dare say pushed back into a polished piece of coal.
Unthinkable wounds are yet to be cured
By Shrapnel
Articulated and formulated by a dossier
Commonly filed under known in all shapes and forms.

Babe where’s Danny Klein?
That prankster needs a hug
Fuck the parking lot.
Right about now.

Repeat after me
Hate is a coward’s toy.

In our borrows of jewels and stocks
I guess Christians have a point.

I dance today.
Fully loaded
With whoever will and can.

Words under the skin
Etch me
Like a tattoo needle
Almost out of ink.

Fully loaded
With a
These daze glow of
Never coming back.

If you can get this close again
She whispers
Prayer might have a purpose after all.

Both in tears
With reverence
The complete
Total and utter waste.

At least that’s the idea.
Next time.
We are capable of finding you.

Bottle tops.
Videoed snippets instragrammed
(spell check)
fabricated for sure
into something sinister beyond a Steven King vision
Crawls in and out
Over and back in
My body today.

Like being inside a Van Goth painting?
You remark.

I accept I reject.
Missing if anything right now
Some vague squirt of sympathy.

Laughed and dined
We born again heathens
Have the capacity (obviously)
to repeat the same mistakes
over and over again.

Cash and Trex.
The rest of you can go f*ck off!
You think I want to be
Scratching out this sh*t?

Love roars
As our tears roll.
I ask you
Asleep in halves beside me

Can you place your fingertips on my bones
And catch one of these?

Taste the salt?
After all, I’m a Pikie I protest.
Gypsy to you.

It’s what we call good luck.


No gravestones or rope here

Greater than any dropping sun burnt leaf
I can remember the first time
As well as you

And there I was comfortable with Blake or Neitzhce
Until this came along.

When love cries
Who listens?

We toast ourselves
Back at work
This is the south after all
And yes Bloody Mary’s make breakfast.

Ever found before you fall off she laughs.
So before what?
Kick off.
Yep this is LSU.


Waking without refreshment
(This is the third edit before pressing send.)

Soft whispers and the cure of moonlight
Fade into what might have been

A waking dream foretold perhaps
Amongst popcorn and a silent movie

As a cherished sense of self buckles
Yet belongs and clings with shadows
Silently gravitating towards a star.


So here goes
Skipping with a rope in Pa.


Silence on a back porch
Well-watered and feed.

Beside ancient daises and newly planted thyme
Broken sweat absorbs into alternative facts.

With tinctures of prescribed madness
Veins mirror spray painted dew drops.

Fake news apparently is flowing
Amidst admit it
Roots of wasted weeds.

A child dressed in Sunday blues
Skips with a rope across this busy street.

Her concern for pipelines
Slashing the sacred
Resembles the progress of railroads
Weekend Cyclists
I repeat
With no hands on the bars.

These city streets feel a tad giddy today.
I’m riddled in a belief of a rolling stone and moss.

The car next door has a broken window.
Nothing stolen as of yet.

Glass smog billowing from chimney top to chimney top
Smudges a wall saturated in words

Yet it seems

(there’s that word again)
Yet to be

Translated in a child’s sacred belief
They too

Have a future.


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