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.

Advertisements

Poem #69

Uncertain that shore waits beyond wave after wave after wave,
This end likely to no end, instead begging strangers in dark cavern academies for proof and purpose,
Wishing in one hand, shitting in the other, and wearing the one that fills fastest.
We have wanted the dawn, been drowned, downed and damned scrambling out of the dark toward it.
Uneducated kin to sickened rabbi vocal coaches, we Athens when we should Pompeii, risk the lasting memory of simple human life.
Airborne scrimshawed hieroglyphs, I never discerned your garbled jib jab.