~~~


do not go
far

past pale
mountains
where
shadows lurk

for you
have further
to go
you have more
time
you have more
work

all
have bones
with
cracks and
poison
shards

dying is
easy
grief work
is
HARD

we
press
our faces
to the
rotting
glass

and
only hope
and
wonder if
this too
shall pass

is the
boulder's press
on the
shoulder blade

better
than clotted
earth
from
spades
~?~

but tho
the world
be a
gloss
and
painted black

the
colors
still
GLOW
benieth
shellac

take
the knife
you'd use
in vain
to

faint

scratch
the surface
PEEL
the
PAINT

there's
a
RAINBOW
beneath
dark rust

you can find it
in
lunar
dust

finally
through
all the
shifting sands
of years

you'll find
it was
reflecting

through

your

TEARS




soulsurvivor


~~~­

for Kitty Prr*

there is no boundary,
Mason Dixon Line, 49th parallel,
uptown, downtown grooves,
separating human from poetry,
but there is living, daily scorekeeping,
push/pull of taking each breath
in a right mannered way

sometime you gotta dig a ditch
to learn to climb a mountain,
pay dues and even get paid back
for living in a wrong mannered way,
which requires laying down of the pen,
doing shovel ready projects
needy for completion,
yet-to-be plans needy for
formulating details,
forethought and caring, putting the
poetry aside,
on top of the dusty piano

sometime you gotta drink it black,
pass on the milk, cream and the sugar,
even if the waitress just brings it,
pour ice water on top.of your head
just for yourself alone
the how-to-cleanse the eyes and head,
sometimes you got to let the
poetry stand aside

sometime you have to open that
black briefcase^ treasure hoard of
all things soured and soliloquy of
missteps and judgement errors,
letting the
poetry stand aside

sometime you gotta do the laundry,
rediscover the bottom of the sink,
watch the washing machine movie screen
picture making,
asking for its very own poem,
but you know this day,
gotta let the
poetry stand aside
and you stand up
and climb,
straighten up,
back creaking,
joints cracking,
first find the place to rest the body safely,
and when the chores of living crossed off,
then only
ready and somewhat good,
dust the piano,
dig out pen and paper
from the kitchen drawer of miscellania,
and let the reign of poetry
rekindle the Phoenix's ashes

if I manage to step barefoot
in a large enough pile of dog dung,
I might be able to find a metaphor, either in the tracks
I left or in the cracks between my toes

if I sniff with enough finesse,
a simile may sift its way upward
from the ambitious heap, like grandiose molecules
ascending to heaven,
or at least to my nose

if my ears are keenly tuned,
the squishing sound may be sibilantly sublime,
or be alive with rhyme, or paint pious pictures  
if synesthesia suddenly ensues

what was the question again?
creativity? I yet need a different  pile of dung,
from perhaps another beast, for the canine
is likely tired of my verbose purloining  
from the gift he left eagerly
on the greedy ground