closing hours

25 May

Originally posted on colorsetbrushes:

as the wind slipped under cemetary walls,stepbystep 001
crunchy leaves were forced into exile
and tall grasses swayed so proudly
even the puddles rippled their applause
Mervins the  watchman heard a familiar whistle
and sent for the nails and planks,
to keep the dead at rest beneath the ground,
but the wind,
“that whistling wind,”
said Mervins
“does what is best…
and we best believe”

words by steve, broken bats

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i almost asked the mailman in for a drink

24 May

Originally posted on colorsetbrushes:

branche 001a bird whirls onto a branch
and chirps,
wakes me up too and
stays just long enough so
i know it’s there
like an ancient alarm clock,
with a message just for me,
a reminder to….
“have a great freaking day” and then just like that,
the bird is gone….
i never did get its name.

words by steve, broken bats

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and in today’s weather

22 May

there’s a deep blue sky
hinting of beautiful black outer space,
but gravity is such a (?*))++_
always trying to keep us down
but wait a second,
over there in the west,
is that a tropa?
or is it a jet stream?
maybe it’s momentum?
definitely some kind of change.
i’m putting my cape on.
this could be the day.

 

but still in love with the future

21 May

it’s the same storm that wets us all
and branches
bob in wind’s wake
behaving like tongues reverberating
in want of
more more more.

far away from either shore

19 May

Originally posted on colorsetbrushes:

playing utopia in the corner;paperwall 001 (2)
that was their game;
at parties or in bed;
country miles apart,
one balancing budgets
the other dreaming pumpkins
and somewhere underneath was
tailpipe annie exhaust
that last lap  game
where everybody wins:
hearts and livers too;
onward and 
alone.

words by steve; broken bats

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the show must go on

18 May

Originally posted on colorsetbrushes:

lobinierefinal 001 (2)I like it when
the short story, poem or letter
i’m writing
feels like a tornado:
in an open field
with nowhere to hide
and i realize;
right or wrong
the only way to survive
is to finish the damn thing.

Words by Steve: broken bats

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the ellis island viper room

15 May

maybe it always was a museum;
the immigrants surrendering their long names and smells,
but i love free libraries in anywhere and
pigeons still hang like cement gargoyles under overpasses
and i don’t notice,
but then i look up for whatever reason and i do see them looking buddha still
and i feel naked and ashamed
but that smell of piss rescues me
back to life insurance and what i’ll do after 4 pm punch clock.
drink beers is what i’ll do and not think about any of this.
i guess immigrants had no choice;
shrouding their deepest desires in poetry;
to make it more universal and accessible
so all could sing to it or be stirred up by it
just another nazi dagger i thought
another step towards annihiliation extermination final solution,
but those lines from Rafi Aaron’s poem “My Bubby’s House,”
those lines about the ritual washing of hands
“that distanced her from the long journey”
sound like medicine
slamming her into the fabric of this world:
the meats and pies and scraped knees
the book shelves and dancing and drunkenness
it was always about this world
with the gilgulim just another word,
just reincarnation;
a discussion for a summer saturday shabbat
when the fucking sun would never go down
but it did and round and round and so forth and so on
until the house is clean or dirty in preparation
like we humans really know the damn difference between the two.

 

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