A tangled bit of lie,
letting go the bridge's stare

on windows of shops
across the street where we
sat and drank tea.

We ate toast halves and sang

wet love songs when the
day moved west;
giving liberal dues to Fog and

grass fed Winds blowing your
hair across your face and making

it harder to breath, think and see

what else mattered. I thought if tea
was free we could bet on the stars

and let them choose the light

that guides us. But the message
was lost on

graveled rooftops
of a city, indifferent to the rain

and the snarled streets below.

We left, to get out of the bridges eye,
tossing money on the
table and casting shadows of our

own. A nearly finished plan, well
dressed and cured for the night-

shaven neatly and laid upon
the concrete to be eaten

at leisure.

Wool and Memership

She keeps her heart hidden in
wool. Not unlike the sheep it was

shaven off of. Tucked behind a secured
neckline with scarves or strings,
depending on the weather.

And weighted evenly between her shoulder
blades, it hangs and does not move

in fear of playing to much.

She chokes at the thought of
being discovered boring. And the

effort she needs to keep up, bullies
her freckled skin and
builds a coiled labyrinth

of vines and avid eyes breathing

all the air around. Blankets of wool
is needed so she stays up late
for the crowd-

but rises early for herself.
To the sheep she sings a damn good

tune, picking and shaving only the
good parts ignoring the rest-

leaving what she can not use.

But the sheep are sheep, and
they will ignore the cold if a single
one does. Lacking the memory to care,

everyone wins.

Trampoline Karate

The days where made long, by simply reaching towards the clouds. Thoughts of missing a fill-in your-daily-scheduled-meetings, and the dauntly complaisant feelings left when doing them but nothing specific, were years away. All there is to do is the doing, creating and making it clear to friends what is happening next in the world that does not exist until described. There is jumping and keeping your arms outstretched, and fingers straight-like the turtles did it. No breaks you just quit; I never remember being tired. That comes much later in a twice used gunny sack sown into your life while your still dreaming; containing words like pursuit, restraint, projects and duty-but this time you can't smile.

We played to the sound

We played to the sound of
sirens; keeping time

like thieves, and staying in
the shadows as if

we were the ones being chased.

A mindful
wind blew from the Bay and touched
our coats like the

Usher did at the theater we
came from. To avoid real conversation

we crossed the street, dodging the moon

and some news rolling past our
shoe strings; But it was really us

rolling, the printed past fading, driven
by the wind and road construction.
Launching towards

a curb we could not climb

ourselves. We walked the night
touching arms, and talking

cross streets-looking
for a bar she swore I'd love.

One Night on the Fourth of July

One Night on the Fourth of July


We combed through scents of spice and smoke,
comparing stories of guiltless

prose. A settled darkness lay on the streets,
so we happily circled the roof of our

building in sweaters, with jokes

and gnomic sights of youth. We played
and danced to the words that
were spoken, as fog

grew between the trees and houses of
the Twin Peaks. It came across

the Bay and encircled the city, ourselves
and a thousand others plucking

cords of our grandfathered freedoms.

Soon the fog had covered the sky so our eyes
fell to the indifferent stars below us,

We warmed to the change of hue,
and stepped closer together for a better view

of whatever could be seen, breathed in and
used to stay awake and

live through moments that could last forever.

Voices like whispers heard from
open windows slowly made there way across
the sky, only to be

drowned in a sea of sparks and sounds of
energies trapped by fate.

We recognized their pain
and tone, so lighting wicks we let them out,

for it was all that we could do.
One burst was heard then a hundred

more until all had been set free.

And taking hands we left to sleep, feeling
lighter as we walked, to beds of friends

or friends in bed waiting calmly to
warm the sheets. For behind us now

stood a piece of life lived, one night
on the Fourth of July.

jump in and swim

I plot with points the view
of quils, angled so

the the feelings show on purpose. seeing only

rooftops, and not the pains,
life, and love within-I

smile. asuming good things,

is easier with a beer. brass and
dreams are static, so I must walk between them to move life along.

giving what I have in my pocket, and what is left

of my shoes to the pavement-
in order to breath.

I jump in and swim in the city
so shadowed because that

that is what is needed. burning bits of self, ill use the ashes to write,

about the story lived before
we knew how.