another day in the valley

16 years later

words by steve, broken bats

mt rushmore’s confession suggestion

standing strong

this one by colorsetbrushes makes me sweat; words too.

colorsetbrushes

it’s good to wake up again and 
see light give shape and form to objects
the branches begging the sun;
all kinds of begging;
some with still hands at their side;
others bending,
waving wild in the wind;
never before shadows
creeping slowly across nearby mounds.

words by steve; broken bats

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same old pilgrim frontier

still the shuffling masses;
crowding onto buses,
waiting in post office lines;
the china man in ski vest,
quarter naked teeny boppers,
down syndrome,
suit and tie,
headphones,
a never before seen mustache,
smell of patchouli and beer,
all tapestrified;
the tree stump eyes droop.
clouds dance heavy now.
stoic buildings crumble.
dreams behind wasted eyes;
all  pining for dawn’s car wash.

the portage

noah built an ark at the perfect time;
when it wasn’t raining,
some sort of Lao Tzu;
prepare for peace during times of war
prepare for war during times of  peace,
some sort of brain freeze is a good time to sweep the floor,
do dishes, clean inside the oven.

flicking night the birdy

night is a know it all bully,
seducing us with its claims on reality,
greedy in its stay,
dangling us all kinds of gargoyle moods to worship.
we ignore it and dream instead and
twilight returns.
it’s neither here nor there,
skipping absolutes as bad for complexion sky
splashing us bipolar drunk visions
and solstice tokens to be redeemed twice a year.
twilight…
lover of change.

my favorite revolution

four season climate is
a hill of sliding beans
every new step stuffing memories
6 feet further under
rainy day orbit  around the lake
amnesia in a mist of new possibilities.

not exactly a cyclone, but still

sainte cunégonde park doesn`t really echo in oscar peterson.
that`s just the tourist brochure
playing BIG montreal jazz legends hung out there,
but kids play dice in the alley
and the park`s day glow wood chairs are new and
so is the outdoor public piano
and the drunk playing whatever
we enjoy the wind
until it kicks us out
just like it sucked us in.
playing facelift
whenever the hell it wants,
moooohahahaha….

no bus fare, magic carpets, and what not

the reaches of a room never seen like
a hidden wall socket or egyptian floor board design
are the moon’s forbidden zones.
i welcome them like gashes to my rudders,
a pause to the constant calculations so
i can play dead in float chair river
and never bother tying rope to dock.
waking up somewhere else is the whole idea.