Where did we put us?

Beat the drum with a hammer made of goldenrod

and settle the score, the ridges that run along my skin,

bright and blue, dark and cool.

Simple days were these, dear, when we had no one

but the two of us, callous but bittersweet struggles

right and true, smooth and full.

Dated pasts, in and out of me and you, know us not

here in the cordoned-off reality, dimpled satin faces

fight and bruise, soft like wool.

One and two and three and four, pit and pat on my brain

a solitary, painless drumbeat.

One and two and three and four, tear my fears away

this very last time.

My own angry birds

Fingers like laquer spindles tap

on the murky, wooden bench

of my life consumed of penalty.

Patterns of moldy bread and butter

spread before me in flatlines on

the poorest, ochre-colored floorboards.

Melody turned dirge and driftwood

pierce the cottage of my slumber,

waking me with a gentle nod and dagger.

Judge me not, for there is no crime

and no reason for commutation

here in the pastime of envy and ego.

Frame me like a strangled Montague

so that language and reason meander

but never collide on time.

Leave me here, not knowing or caring

where I am or what where means or

why solemn moments stream and

why angry birds scream.

The yard singer

There is not a single stepping stone

left in the yard that you swept and cleaned.

There remains no coat of fallen leaves

blaming the wind that deceived them so.

Permit the last breath to anchor you

as the frail whirlwind stacks the weeds.

Submit to the weak strain of temptation

bottled in the corner of the abbey walls.

Hesitate no more for the crude air rebounds,

chases you up from the yard to me.

Run, run fast and fierce through my hollow,

to my cradle of sinewy arms, pallid skin.

Here, in the measured pace of building yarns,

We dream of a chaster, soulful tremolo in life.

This song, wind-strewn and prostrate to you,

Gathers note after note, fife after fife.

River pilots and odd accounting

My bills are paid and the garage emptied

of all my lounging wear and raincoats.

The downpour outside strums indeed

a somber but steady set of colored notes.

The torn fragments of respect and greed

meander down the river, barely afloat.

Guileless moviemakers watch the feed

of Earth, channel deception and gloat.

My receipts, buried in a box in the reeds,

remind me that there is more in life to tote.

There is more in life than I perceived

and it is this more that pilots my boat.

The meaty soul

The center cut of the soul is the meatiest,

with plenty of spicy morsels for each guest.

A simple recipe, annotated and indexed,

the sublime soul wanes, rude and perplexed.

Eat not the candied outer fragments and brine

for they sour the canals below and sully the mind.

Lavish upon your diners more than just leftovers,

keeping them bound to your cafe of mettle flavor.

And with the last mastication comes an epiphany,

a dessert laced with treasure and hegemony.

The center cut of the soul is the meatiest

and its unrelenting aroma the sweetest.