The Psalms

Narcoleptic yokel coming to know humility and regret.

is it in-between, where I am?

nowhere at all?

is it blessed, where I am?

ragged, thoroughly chaste?

do you think it's beautiful? I can't decide.

can it be truthful, if all manner of friend insist that it's hiding?

I am Here, at least. speaks and walks

Present, for the time being.

#poetry

Mississippi Queen (Eryn Trudell)

eighteen dollars will buy you an hour's passage on the worn & weary Mark Twain

the same stretch under Lover's Leap, an idle paddle wheel dragged cyclically, on and on by her diesels

costumed so long, moored not far from horrid wax figures, similarly fated who bare old Sam's names with the rest of them, the Hannibilians assuredly assuaged by their sounds, so heard

the ambiance of the little town, shrill with tourists' wonder, depression of the damned, envisaged waterborne toxins

despite it all, I departed her as a newfound touchstone, knowing she's just up twenty four, eighteen dollars away, no time soon to break her jaded rhythm as a forgotten timepiece, buried in a rank cellar

supposing she'd ease most crisis that could ever befall me she and her unsalted captain, who has not aged (truthfully, I do remember.)

#poetry

I must hold on to glad to be home

Returning. now, let go of the wood

to the thunderclouds we're under, always apart

to omission.

to new meanings to the feeling I've only been able to find on one short strip just East of Kansas City that I am small in a dirty daunting

to coverage of the Be Beat

to frontiers of periphery and the Knowns we never see the wicker bowler atop the landscaper who's trimmed every week, the yard across the street which I've canvased in every imaginable state which's since Mrs. Tanzay's first grade, Remained.

to Inherently Exhaustible Knowledge

#poetry

horns down June's gulley were the Wicca of my little abdomen, predominant of age

ever I dreaded the wait's weight so crushing on that island of a lot that is really amany, but my memory…

how many times would little me imagine me now, remembering?

how would we - before the gulley - become so bleak as to miss completely the words spoken to stay so long?

the fear of impermanence the visceral reality the simple notion:

nothing is forever nor can it be nor should it

Scapabobididdy-widdily-doobapbapba-phobia

clever in sharp through it all my holy communion my reference tradition now sometimes witnessed and lamented if only all these had been told shut out! shut up! just listen

my companion met me two nights in a row in front of the Heidelberg and said twice she loves me and of course it's like me to begin to read in but when nobody else does, she loves me I don't quite note his particular personification

more impressively trained, definitively with a stack of charts – some his – on his noggin but when he'd finally play, I'd pity because he must ask first and his fingers are well-read but they must ask first and every little passerby draws away his eye so delicate, his attention for she that loves him

Lupus Missouri, Weathermatic Dual 35 I am as far away as one can get from seabreeze and sun in between greencliff and saltwater and cycling sound, regular static but brushed by a flag of soft curls

I am so long from brief downtime moments of contented overwatching of the familial you only know, then

Perhaps I've even permanently shunned myself from smelling comfort in a study haven, occasionally pinning silly smiles to friend or lover

Certainly, I am now to be given up on and delegatorly relegated to Strangest Smuck of Locale

As to the girls, I am either blowing or falling away from any expectation of reciprocity, perhaps its only remarkable because of the contact my body is detecting deficit of with the mess of Her-related sensory input my brain continues to withdraw from without healing, like a standing retreat

or defiant creed that I can still convince most of us of enough that they fall in love with me and realize that It is for Her and are broken by it to varying degrees while I watch and know that I would be disgusted wth myself utterly, if I could feel anything

But when I do, it is GAPING wide for some reason always dramatized as a vacant bar graph in my mind

#poetry

Enter your email to subscribe to updates.