a seedlings grave

You presented
this spring
like flowers in season
bold to all the senses
but harsh
to sensibility
we meant more than this
not an anual bloom
of romance
or lust
being more than this
is all we hope for.
full bloom.

Far out

A star is far away
life spent
heavin is a place
hope being just a feeling
none the less
we wait
tell us there is more than this
looking out broken windows
on to a shatterd social scene
our hope lies in them
those who tend to
run amok
be uncuth
and generally fail
to recognize
gentelmen still exist
cigarette dangles from lips
a slight nod
an understanding
hope you had a good night.

MUCHO PASSION

Laughs exchange
strangers drunk
stumble about this much
Not for the right reason though
if this could be one
my funny valentine
twists around
in a dance of balance
of many kinds
in many ways
two tango though
like the smoke lingers
on our breath
tomorrow
we remember
that this is alive.

For jordan

This haze
is lost
between four concrete walls
30 years of dust
and your lack of understanding.
tomorrow we are born anew
slimy, bloody, breathing
a hundred years of your mistakes.
we sit on roof tops
climbing endless stairs
to immortality.

drip, dropped.

Drip/drop
leaking through my ceiling.
The princess
and the pea.
This princes bed
full of sand,
and wet none the less
The sound of shattering glass
as my lullaby
sing me to sleep.
Guide my fingers
to swift keyed justice.
The sound of sex.
Rough and unloving.
Disenchanted
and
disconnected.
In a clearing,
of voice
it is all it will ever be.
Black holes/black outs
we owe thanks.
Invoke something,
anything.

1889

I clung to rusted metal with broken dreams. Stories above the stories you hear about I looked through the safety cage surrounding a ladder to disappointment realizing the story might be all we have. Caught in the 30 seconds of shutter, a moment can not be described, printed, painted or told. Heads hung in a less than arrogant manner lent to low spots. A crack in a window may only be that to you, to us it is a portal to immortality in an instant. Clatter of metal, the passing of a torch so to say via crowbar. This steel serpent sleeps no more, for tonight adventure has set us upon a tangled web of flickering lights, winding metal stairs, corroded floors. Death around every corner, life in every breath. Slowly winding upwards towards the reality of freedom. Legs burning we emerge from a tiny door to bask in the neon glow of a hundred years of blood, sweat and tears. you were born in 1889,the year of a total solar eclipse. Under a full moon we howl with life coursing through veins. Point. Shoot. Never able to capture this feeling. With this writing. Or his photos. We were there. Some day that will be all we have.

Callin the cavalry

riding a dead horse
to your pale face
big littlehorn
clearly apache
arrowheads deep wounds
GUNSLINGERS
ride into the sunset
muchacho
dust clouds obscure
arrows in a bear
holy land
sacred red cabin
let the loon cry
for it is a lonely
song.

For days. Four days.

Mixing up medicine
gutter water and spit
bothering with
nothing but the worst
the last
now first
sunglassy eyed
drip drop dried drool
dreams done gone past
this cowboys first rodeo
left scars.

Zen and the 83rd year.

His face is wrinkled
his eyes worn.
hearing is a lackluster attempt
at understanding the known
all to well.
Kind and gentle
a mountain now a hill
a voice that carried dreams
raised a family
and is fading slowly.
If you wake to early
there is dew on the grass
and you cant mow the lawn.


Happy 83rd birthday to my grandfather. I love him. Robert James Helgeson

rebel rebel

This jet
over head
led to over heard
dragged this there
for you to hear
But you cant listen
sitting still
and are right here
lost on open water
in ways
in calm seas.
On a path
we share
as strangers
in an even stranger
smaller, flatter world.