typewriter.ten

I was a proud twenty and five and wasn’t gonna grieve some misspoken awkwardness in a common beehive. The world then was an accident before it got taped off, a natural intoxication, a Dionysian dream. How could I turn away? I wanted to be out on the streets and not miss a thing. Only when confronted by the sadness of financial insecurity in a large American city, would I submit myself to a nine to five, pushing papers like a mule. I was young and full of pride. I skipped down the sidewalk, afternoons away from work. Whatever I witnessed I either photographed or wrote down in my journals, then took home to type up — only that which had captured my heart.

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mag.pie

magpie valley summer

i bent down by the river and cupped water to cool my face and hair. the summer was hot as ever and not letting up. you flew down and hopped over to me, where i could admire you in the half-light. little magpie of the valley, what have you seen and where have you been? your tail feathers long and dark, of blue and purple hue, your legs like twigs and feet splayed. cocking your head to one side so i can meet your parrot eye. what can i do for you, brave bird?

you told me of the coyotes and their dens above the levee, and how they walk the rails to get from town to town. you told me of the river and how it made its way. you told me of your kind, long gone from here…and yet, you stay? there is an old man comes from the city to see you, he cracks a beer and lies down with a jacket rolled up under his head. you look after him. he speaks to you in a calm and gentle tone. you climb upon his shoulder where he takes selfies with you. then feeds you shavings of turkey and ham…dear magpie, i am hot and tired and wish to rest for a while. what more do you know? would you share with the likes of me?

if friday was

if friday was saturday

the cost of living was an abbreviated attention span and the tasteless smell of green in the back of your throat. the cost of living was a cold brew coffee fueling an organism programmed to turn on itself. the cost of living was an unholy alliance with anonymity, a television you paid the company to babysit for, hours on end in an armchair, and a remote to control you by. the cost of living was free.

early

early morning americans

struck a balance with all, in the city in the summer after dawn, when the morning bird was heard and the sun at eye level, playin hide and seek behind deciduous trees, while the cat trailed you partways to the cafés, and the barista knew your name without asking, and the statesman laughed and folded his newspaper and nary a phone was ringing, the time was reserved for a church bell and silence. americas were thick with technology, in the cables in the air, and you wouldn’t need to care in the early, early mornings. in the city on the streets, face values appreciated and if you looked past the wheels and the burden of homes that were carried, you were sure to find an honesty and goodness that survived any standing recession, knew more than money and politics combined, and had a penchant for pastimes of early morning. as deep as any faith, the devotion. rise and shine, america!

k. early morning devotée

peaches

peaches. subsumed

all the rest
made me only more tired
so i stopped sleepin
now im
trackin shadows
cross the wall
while my ice cubes
wave water trails
into ginger ale
rattlin the cubes
against the glass
to remember you
the man above me
looks off the wall into space
dreaming of life
with someone real
i am sunk into a couch
like buried treasure
all the gouramis gape at me
silent kissing
an air bubble
tough feelings to feel inside
more than i can handle
i
rattle the cubes
to remember you
another character
jumps off a page
into my heart
i wonder bout the man
the life in two
dimensions. how safe not having
a back to watch
not being real
how safe
how dry
how terrible
you cannot
lend a friend
a hand or take a stand
brushed off
like you are. canvassed
for meaning
pretty rendition
come into my heart!
lemme hold you there
make you real
i rattle the glass
and remember you
wax inwards
street sweep the cottons
real estate gets pricey
along the ear canal
listen
i need an extension
of gratitude
outward. my ideals are almost met
almost
there is
there is
still time yet

one

journal # june one

Couldn’t stand you but
the weather was
fine

I was under it when we got home
and the heart seated in the center
of the bloody thing
making it go

Organized chaos and classified a mess
your up style had gone down
the eggs scrambled
mostly whites the yolks fell
outta fashion

Couldn’t stand it
i mean together

The coffee was too
white i mean
mixed
up with what the cows
gave

I think it all started
i mean ended
in 1992