13 degrees

skim of sweat.
 
blackbird on a black line,
line on wall
 
facade for a crack.
 
13 degrees,
she required
 
no wrap in a listless
breeze
 
she, lack of urgency,
lay on a wall top
 
glass scanning bed 
scans her
 
emotions
 
prints the truth.
 
no shoe soles, crystallizes
a thought into a poem
 
but throws away the ink,
throws away the
 
paper.
 
avalanche of gray clouds,
she digs out to 
 
waste a day
 
seeks more numbness 
in an alcohol
 
drink,
 
ordinary sensations,
 
washes dirty dishes by hand,
 
in a pot on an old stove,
boils up some
 
mischief.
 
her ex scrapes off his life onto
old automobiles,
 
pushes them into a bottomless
quarry,
 
they sink like apologies in 
a cold sea.
 
station wagon backs up on 
a highway
 
she climbs in with her blackbird,
 
her once husband puts his
hand between
 
her satin legs,
 
she surrenders her desire,
 
degrading need
but still
 
hungry for each other.
 
“I saw this beautiful woman
on a wall…”
 
 
Copyright © 05/16/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®
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steampunk scraper

plaster cobblestone

street

 

invading tenants

 

the homeless

meander like

creeks;

 

rusting rivets leak

like a sieve into

 

the scraper’s water

supply,

 

black and white

brain memories

like

 

a

bad newspaper headline…

 

flatfoots on the take,

they seem like a theater with unseen

marionetters

 

crouched behind tin trashcans…

 

scraper top shadows casted

on passing dirigibles

 

spyglasses look through

broken panes of glass,

 

riders of the clouds

contemplate their

own absence;

 

inhabitants pull down

plastic shades,

plastic memories.

 

but,

 

hold onto a thousand

imaginations,

 

in a sweaty palm, one,

 

a tattered bus ticket

out…

 

sound and smell of an

old bus

 

pulls up,

 

hugs the curve

 

like a Jesuit priest

hugs a

 

collection plate.

 

tenants stand in

‘out−of−order’

elevators,

 

free fall like rain

on a Coney Island

 

arcade roof;

 

pour out onto

a desolate

street corner,

 

bus door half

opens,

 

potential passengers

wear the life name

tag given

 

at birth…

 

bus exits,

windows

down,

 

numb to the stench…

 

Copyright © 05/10/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®

Image

the fenced wide field level

frozen ground swell pushes unsplit rail
upwards to grasp a cold sun
 
barbed wire black as coal to sew 
unruly clouds, as one 
 
does to nuns yardsticked knuckles
 
grass ladened hills painted by amateur
artist hand skill 
 
gets an art show recognition as one
does in a gallery
 
hunters diminish  baa baa black sheep wool,
 
have not left one stone on one stone
unturned;
 
cattle rancher mends the fence along a
parallel line, 
 
like a french ‘ligne marginal’, stays on his
side of the wall perhaps,
 
but listens for the sheep rancher’s mending,
listens for the yelping dogs;
 
sheep farmer grasps one stone firmly,
comes through a wood,
comes through a dark
 
lifts up a kitchen window, like lifting
up the hood of ’57 ford pickup
 
mud and sweat on linoleum, on 
bedroom carpet
 
old stone armed, damage done,
two deceased,
 
now in a deep, steady sleep,
 
he gets confused in shadowy moon,
becomes impaled like 
 
pikers on a stingy bet;
 
barbed wire black as coal to sew 
wounds with lockjaw
 
he doesn’t understand his rights
like black sheep didn’t
 
understand gunshot wounds,
 
barbed wire black as coal to sew…
 
 
Copyright © 04/29/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®
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a deeper silence

sawed off a section by the railroad committee 

sawed off like a .12 gauge barrel 
 
sawed off, rolled to the ground
saw horse galloped off
 
(searching for frank l. baum),
 
handful of sawdust taken by termites
to feed their young
 
railroad tie no longer eating the tree bark,
 
stack of corded wood eating a fireplace fire;
 
big pieces of forest trees used to make
tables for poor houses
 
others, used as railroad ties to transport them,
 
clothes given them at birth already tattered,
already ragged
 
much like black and white prison stripes,
 
like forests, dwellers in a make believe wood,
hoping, hoping;
 
they touch the tree like a blind man touches
his face with a razor
 
when tree cutters come, they crash through
saplings like hounds do a fox
 
masses do not have a soul, was sold for clothing
 
kindling burns for railroad hobos like old
frying pans on wood stoves,
 
have to fight boxcar space with children’s dirty
faces, with dirty tears;
 
poor house bound, corner quick, slick rain track,
derails into a swamp
 
metal and creosote twisted wreckage, carpentry
on trains obsolete like new growth forests
 
survivors. too poor to die. but, one railroad tie
lies motionless
 
cannot emerge, is not rescued, marsh crane
to land on…
 
 
Copyright © 04/22/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®
Image