Shots Fired from a Loaded Brain
9 Short Poems (written by and for an imaginary acquaintance) 1. Good morning, Mr. Rawboots Thank you for me light-lay For me dog-birth For me sun-spray For me foot-warmth It’s been a brutifully wondrous way. For me forest-fur For me rust-phase For me time-patter For me soul- gaze It’s been a dutifully righteous day. Like passion. 2. So, speaking of fashion, Mr. Rawboots From where? These things? Rested, run-down Like old towels Worn, wistful Like dead socks Made from “spinners’ legs?” Or knitted by careless hands? In thumb-heavy mittens? Thought-ridden Aleatory pulses Waves of diary Serious, but simple Complex, but nothing like sense. 3. Taking the plunge, Mr. Rawboots? Catch the cumulus waves Ride the surging surfs Straddle from here to now From then to when it sails The fate divide. Prompted and parted Lifted and left alone Pontoons, impulsive, imparted marooned Lured and inched along The salty screed. The sunburned deck The dry throat of age Blistered and blind The floating thirst Of living alive. 4. Seize and resist, Mr. Rawboots! Holding hard To the bridle Clever the leather To weather the tether Never to sever Seeming Ever to ride. Until that wreckoned day That focus of less Than a second of bliss. When locus and bridle Go idle. And destiny’s ride Will end. 5. Quietly, Mr. R Drips of silence Accumulate In the corner Behind the bookcase Seeping out Into the sleepless space Where a choice is made Wakeful, Or not. 6. Oh Rawest of boots, Crack the air Dare to clench Wrench the flight Write the holiest flail. Some soul Tastes the remittance A pittance of air Daring to lift Gifted and spare. An exercise in meant What was What is Went before and followed after Never quits Never quite coherent, Closed or captured. 7. Again, Rawboots Stab the space of white Bleed it into shapes Stain the page with senses glimpsed, And let the meaning trickle and coagulate. 8. Consistency spares no one. 9. Shoot the boot, my friend. It’s your landing grace. Stand with a man’s face In the ending space And take apace the plans in place. They are no more shameful than they are real. On the Teapoy. Set the cupper down. Your final lunge, A pungent prayer, A spot of upper lip, A drip of drawn, And fraught despair. Its presence deigns To alarm, To remind what remains When drained Of life’s spittle. It steeps, Seeping into the answerless riddle. Cutlery bares Its skin’splitting edge. Wedges of lemon, Unaware And sitting aloof, Pledging their Inanimate carelessness. And so you dare. How Does a Poem Poem? A dance of lines Tracking the times A rack of rhymes Spaces and slimes. On to the screen-test Seeping and a-steeping Raking and leaf taking Morphing into questions imbued. Poems poem in solitude. Those that speak And those that cease to be spoke of too. A Remorsal The blade on track above The bucket below awaits The hatred and the love Create illusionary tales. This, ever and a fore. Suspense in each endeavor. Container on the floor. Razor, high in heaven. Repeat and remorse The course grows. Nose knows. Knows nose. No’s show Onto the flow Below. Repeat and remorse The coarse crime Rime rhymes Rhymes rime Grime climbs Thru time. Silly Toast To all breakfast tins, Yolks embroiled, Shells unbroken, And foiled stabs of Range-fed grease. For those that speak And those that cease to be spoke of. For those that long And short of will Look at each other With coffee dripped Tight lipped chins Have For silent me For silent you (For silent e and all the constables too!) By The Erratic Her shirt lay resting in the sun Out of touch with It’s meaning. The dirt beneath supported. The air swam thickly by. My illusive transport Tugged insistent at my tight sex. I plotted the path down Potholes of dried mud and hoary brush Pricked and driven By the old pain. And the sun embraced Her heart, Her face, Her unloosed skin, While mine dissolved in desiccant flame.