Poem #70

His riff ate rained on shelf stable mourning milk,
Fingers picked strings in Hebrides temple rooms while the moon came too close and broke a glass of whiskey on the table.
We yearned for his special brand of humor in these dark times but somewhere it had turned south toward the devil and the grave.

Kinetic rudders worn for decades on rocky bottoms, no steering is possible without breakage.
Uzbek assassins took out our buster keaton savior with TV dinner coldness.
We breeze now cross the lives hopelessly awaiting a new one to come between 9 and 3 like the cable man.

Induced airbag rebirth riffed an arpeggio for deaf shrug shouldered admins.
Keaton Jesus swam through our thoughts, kicked off the other side, swam back to search out vending machine last supper.
Everyone knows the cable man is a promise breaker.

Random thoughts 6

There’re peoples in the walls of my asylum aching to breathe heroine breath
Other exhalations of desire end on empty silver tea cup saucers
Those breaths never make the way into mouths gaping like birds waiting for food
My people wait for star shine in glass cathedrals
My people wait for emptiness to fill
My people long for lasting hills of fresh mown grass and trees laden with new fruits
My people wait like Casablanca expats
Forever in these walls and never able to fly