SHADOW WITHOUT A MAN

shadow without a man RESIZE 1

SHADOW WITHOUT A MAN

.

Drip

D

R

I

P

Can you hear that?

No, not that. That.

There, that.

Listen.

Like rainwater from the mouth of the gargoyle

Garglin’ gutter, utter guttural

Diverted funds

Glitter in the crow’s nest

Amputated trees, heaven for a friend

Cathedra Gloire

Cloaked in snow

Mary, the holy vessel, exhalted

Above cynical searches staring

Up her stone dress

Dropping prices break the braggart’s oily words

Tough times mean hard choices

Tax the unemployed

Pale yellow rind of the day, squeezed dry of daydreams

Sucking off the TV set

12,000 teenage suicides

(makes it easier to get a job)

Groaning streets, wheeling, dealing

The head of St. John, encased in gold

Welded to a platter

Scoured from the holy land

A nail for Jesus

Bile from a spigot

Blood blown spatters on the ceiling of the synagogue

Fingers scrape splinters from the polished coffin

Poem de terre, de la guerre

Tearing care, carry tears

Grasping fog, enshroud

Touch, tenderly

Rest your edges upon my fingers

Grasping for a form, to and fro, from far afar,

Touch, tentatively, blindfolded in black ribbon, hesitate

Milk the alligator, darling

Words rocket like flares

Burn this long night lost

Pebbles of thought, piled in monument

To the inner world

Verses strung like cheap fake pearls

Clichés clash like gnashing false teeth

Paper gliders aimed at the stars

Fallen to raw earth

Prospectors pan nuggets, dust, mud

Essence shorn of slag

Notes, words, scales without rhythm

Soup de jour: brain soup

Sopped up in chips of ink

Slurped into the eye

Words like blasts of birdshot

Fired blind hope bring down

Edible ideas

Screams of conscious

Soundwiggles

Piss in the Stream of Conscience

Words like noisy little firecrackers

Won’t make you fill-in the blank

Playing taps on the typewriter

Bitching obituary

Feels like so much, looks like so little

At the No-Tell Motel

Fire red enamel

Glossy lip

Glancing off the surface

Reflecting the rage of emptiness

Burn this page in flame black and white

Inner smile

Playing with my plastic girl

Beheaded by jagged glares

We are what you eat

Timid word forays go not far

Dash into the white darkness of this no-man’s land riddled with words way out to here

I’m back

Sequestered in soft tissues

Exhausted, losing sight

Invisible, unheard in passing

Purposelessness, and empty purse, abandoned nest

This empty space so pregnant with potential

Avoid a void

Might as well be drunk in the bar below

Lying about the opposite sex

Howling down the walls of darkness

Laughing in the parking lot

Cool the dancing sweat

Suckle beer singing

Puttering in my garage

Old stuff never quite mended

New things not built

A place for dirty pictures

A calendar unchanged

Except for edges of creeping brittle yellow

Words lift man to the moon

Scoffing at coffins

Sheets of poems stop bullets

Plop, poems fall plump

Some hard, some overripe

Scatter, rot or grow

Soiled in gnarled shadows

Downrooting, trodden, sullen

Burst upright blasting green

Uprooting heaven

Verbal compost, yes, all this, I know

Hot stinking mulch of severed ideas

Scrap images

Scraped off the inner walls

Behind the eyes, in the migratory, imagined mind

So-called, as cloud versus stone wall

Shadow versus skyscraper

Verse versus verse

Old age and death laugh at the material world

Pride, pain seek material

Work means so much now, work for food, reproduction

Escape from the pendulum

It isn’t in a book, it isn’t what you know

It isn’t what you think you don’t know

#

The coffin was on a frame like a brass four-poster bed.

The hole lay below, with the lowering lines already draped.

The unearthed pile of dirt was discreetly covered with a tarp.

The minister did not show up.

The man’s brother gave the eulogy:

“People said he was 52, but he looked 70.”

The balance is too fine to weigh with words.

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