Struggle

The sound of battle
floats over the hill.
It had moved on,
leaving the bodies
still as the earth
to which they return.

A flutter of black wings
calls attention to a man.
Untouched he walks through the dead.
He cocks his head
listening to the cacophony of war
and walks safely behind.

fuzzy details

They slip past unnoticed
like carpenter ants or termites
life goes blithely by
and the roof stays above you
and the walls around you
and all is good
until the details have gnawed away
the solid base of the big picture
and it comes crashing down
around your ears

leading

What's the meaning
of this 10 dollars?
Slipped from sweaty palm
to sweaty palm.
Increased freedom? dinner?
encouragement from God?
The livings and die-ings
the comings and goings
of relationships, insects,
relatives and moneys
all come freighted
(or so it seems)
with meanings too subtle.
Upon these
(butterfly breath) meanings
I place my decisions
placing ideas on intracicies set to topple
betting on shadows and breezes
on coffee grounds and cigarette ash.
In this fickle world of faith
I place my future.

Settling

The faces of classmates and childhood friends

grow more familiar each year.

Faces and stomachs grow
Rounding up over cheekbones and trouser tops

With each pound, growing to resemble

The clerk at London Drugs,

The hotel night manager,

The owner of the corner store
That have always existed.

Stomachs and jowls sag 

weighing down their owners,

keeping them seated in office chairs and la-z-boys.

Swimming through time

the day swims in and out

today, then tomorrow and finally yesterday 

time bends and creaks its
unwieldy frame around my mind

a boa of continuity,

bending me to its will

now and then

present and past

etc.

always it drags me forwards

in figure eights too complex to understand

the past reaches out to the present

and the future pulls a U-y and crashes into the now

the now is never but was and will be

the watch was mans effort to control the fluid

to put it between bars of hours and days

which works, until you think

and time bends in sickening ways

until days have no meanings

and you sleep in the afternoons and take tea at midnight

At the station

in that muddled place between reality and sleep, in T.S. Eliot's shadow. Between thought and action, I neither move nor think. My plane is about to arrive and it has just left depending on your point of view. We could sit here talking of the paradoxes I am experiencing all day but I won't bore you. The thing that scares me is the Devil always meets you at the crossroads, at the in between times and the choices. This is not superstition, this is fact, They say the devil is in the details and they're half right, the devil's in the choices, and the details require so many that you're bound to screw up and give him that crack he's looking for so he can come and ____ your party. Here I sit, unable to make that decision, to close the gaps. My mind is too fogged and my body is empty. Why can't they just open the gates and let me ride free, propel me to my destination so I can begin my decisions again. I can't sit here waiting to meet him. It's sunset somewhere in this world and I can feel the lion prowling nearby, that well-dressed dandy in snakeskin loafers who keeps his mouth in the shadows as he talks so you can't see his forked tongue. You know him when you shake hands with him, those dry hands that make a rasping sound as he slides his hand into yours, pulling you in just a little closer and smiling like he's already got your windpipe. Watch out my friend. Make you decisions and don't linger, keep away from the crossroads and most of all don't go out during sunset; night's bad enough, don't compound it with the slow faze in and out of sunset. My plane's here, I've got to go. If I stay here any longer I'll lose my resolve, I can feel it slipping away already. Never let that voodoo man get you with his promises, remember that.

A world of frills

My muse isn't here yet. She's late again. Just give her a few minutes; I'm sure she'll be here soon. No, I can't just start. What do you think I'm some day labourer? I make Art: and Art can not be made to 'toe the line.' Just wait. You'll love it when she comes.Don't worry about her, she'll make it. There she is, coming through the door. Yes, I see it now. I know exactly what you need. What? No. This. Is. Art. Art doesn't need rules. It's stream of consciousness. This is now. If you wanted ease of understanding and concise work you could get some schmuck off the street. But you got me because you want high quality work. Work that gets inside you and works from the inside out. You wanted that visceral feel that not just everyone can give. That's because I'm not a professional. how many times do I have to tell you? I'm an artist. The run on sentences are intentional. No, the spelling mistakes aren't. This is just a rough sketch, I'll get someone else to correct it afterwards. Comma splice? Yeah, those are intentional too. You just don't understand. I need to get an audience that understands. Just be quiet for a minute. No, wait it's not working.I'm gonna chuck it. I'm finished. Come back tomorrow, maybe I'll be able to get you something then. No, I can't just write it. Just go.