unease o'ercome
ocean well-dial
You'll unravel I'll be calmer than
a thin white lightstream
I file through blades of grass
and find you a little peace,
I share mine with you.

Old Bricks

Grey and wet and nearly slept,
down by the waters where I wept
and watched the sunset,
killing all my summer days.
I was born into a hazy autumn under that bridge.
And alas, the city is wet with colour
and dead with candlelight,
and we're only now relearning what love is,

and dipping our feet into the fragile waters of society.

Light trickles in again,
subtle as the summer wind
off the industry's metal horizon
and the discoloured portions of the railway section,
and the piles of rocks and glass.

The power lost, the dark
threw caution lighting like a stylized rhyme
and there's no reason you'll be seeing
she's just waiting, blooming, seething*
(held hands in the morning mist
held her eyes open when she kissed)

The park rising in the freezing wind from the port
small trucks rolling past a party of three
with the drugs and the rocks and the glass and the sea
along the shores of rain dog beach.

The trail stretched cuts the woods in two
and throws our passage by the wayside, far out
The children taken aback
taking it back
looking with giant eyes
at the giant pupils
of a stange man's gaze
(coffee on the rocks
cold beer under the dock.)

The winter, having crept in
will soon be ashes again and
along the shores the ice will gather
like dinner plates tossed into a backyard dump. Shattered.
The metaphors abound,
the dying city; listless, void.

She's a dream when she goes walking
by our shores and calls our name.

The name's change but the city's standing still
With the illness of an old man lost
whose sons have set
and closed their eyes.

I dreamt I was in Baltimore
smashing the windows out of an abandoned town house
reminds me of the south end eviction parties,
smashing the lights out fuck it.

And then these fucking university kids came in
and the air changed
but this is really fucking important,

YOU DONT KNOW ANYTHING.

It's not unusually cold here,
that good pain and the sad rain,
and king st at dusk,
and the old burying ground.
Wrought iron fences rotting defenceless
the the grasping cold,
the silver day.
Every fall she whispers,
'Were you a dog on a short chain,
or just sitting there tapping the noose?'

Young man's got chains aplenty
shallowly limping through the cracks in the north end,
like his clothes are melting,
ready to shed a baggy buy a rim or something,
I don't mean to sound callous or anything,
but there's something too obvious about this
shabby form,
texting.
Good tattoos though, quality work.

'Journals'

Well shit, alright,

another winter put to bed kicking bricks

put her in a position to defend

and if I keep thinking of that summer

I'm liable to start growing my hair wearing dress shoes

that I'd never ever shine,

and shitty flowers on my lapel

singing Doherty writing poetry.

Since when were you the brightest one?

the prodigal son at the beat poet slam

weak poets meeting their angry minds stretching metaphors

thrown at the paper like a Pollock painting somewhat redundant

and no descriptive edge;

stark and vivid like torture porn

describing old bricks til the words have no meaning

and you start to miss pictures,

but shit, everyone's a photographer these days

and I'm feeling pretty old.

Jesus, if I could just chop wood and smoke cigarettes

and play guitar at the bingo hall

with the houses that share my well

and a well-kept woodpile rarely toppling,

I'd still mope post-modern and remember now

tomorrow's time describing today cause you were barely there.

Dismal men and women you depress me

that way you dress and how you address me

and those times you didn't say anything

cause you were so scared of humility and sincerity,

killing all the romance, scared to be wrong.

I'm in love!

a shadow of my father's former self,

picking flowers on the hill for Debbie Sherman's cold heart.

Ode to a Lily

I like mine when yours

yours for mine for you

mine for you and two

from a blurry bird's nest view

of a rocky southwest Belladonna

charmed, I think. this devoted moralist

(slumberous tears like mists of blue o'er the Sea of Galilee

though my lips shall praise her without cease

I am not so bold under wings of awe)

I hope she sees the daisies grow Wild

under my fingers for her,

so she likes hers with mine.