In the Cool Dry

so on the seventh day
we swore against
our round hats
and muscled through snow
a hill side tipped by the meadow
took ourselves out of focus
nobly, steady…full.

while in the cooled dry
a vanishing of identity
scarring the focus
of a two toned maturity
the strange days, long lost pointless
travel to hear the crackle of footsteps
to liken the depths of recession
soliloquy of repeated phrases
to swear against love, conformity…hypocrisy
the grim reasons of certitude
kept tucked inside wool & flannel
I did keep a happiness in bounty
and I did sicken the mind
restless teaming disconnected alibi
or a hallow spent bullet aimed
to my hands

I have noticed nothing since I last shook
myself warm
I can feel those leaves turning
and I can wrinkle past habitual encampment

on that seventh day
which stood utterly still
I begged you not to turn your back on me
as we silently capped the evening off
has it turned its wobbly knees to me
a fiber beneath a dim light
no magic or nostalgia
gives back to me what was stolen
and never replaced
because looking homeward only makes
it ill & untrusting
that age old remedy is only
too much business to take care of
not enough food for the heart
will we pass away these words
tonight, against the grass
of my last winter promises
did I guide at all to what
I used to claim
or not sink my name into oblivion
wishing to know what death becomes
while soul lingers on

or did I stolidly confess the truth
of my mayhem and muster
or did I cave in because I got lonely
that memory is so clear that I can read it
and my bitter truancy is that it will not
unfold from my hands
I will not agonize why I had to be alone
why in my shame forsaken this only
ambition, I crave and I admonish,
my wheel to open me again
like reading The Prisoner of Chillon in
my car with my fingers burning in the cool dry
to turn the pages, crying, whispering to myself
this is life.






June 11, 1997



ШАМРО
from: paper hanging son of a bitch

© 1997 private stock poetry
© 2007 woundedlordliterature

IV

of the splendid joy of manifest
come the festering of instinct
what have I laid down before thee
the thundering of belly
the haplessness of tribute
altho, I fair nothing in that
placement
I do feel the focus of a far unlit time
where agents of purity are a nostalgic tyranny
place not thine’s hopes in thine’s hands
let the peacemakers make the peace
and the warmongers make the war
let only the lively understand
that living is more than just an acquisition
and time more than a calculation

February 3, 1997

ШАМРО
from paper hanging son of a bitch
© 1997 private stock poetry
no epitaphs remembered
© 2007 woundedlordliterature

Tenderfoot ‘94

way back in yesteryear
a cold way from home
sometimes an idle moment would
pass to me
with logic staring into my heart
I peered everso lonely
to begin believing that the road
went west, east, north & south
depending on the direction you were facing
someone must have told you that before
altho, my good friends
its another thing to realize it

I’m not sure if I remember my fourteenth birthday
I mighta dreamed about it today
this moment now that I gaze out
and peer off into
someone saying my amigo your amigo
any amigo to spare
who sought out life & love
the domestic guardian lowering soft hands
to raise a chance
to give an opportunity to blow

deep into the night there will be regrets
the ones that continue to follow all thru the ages
Tenderfoot you are afraid of changing
you will never change so much that I don’t know you
since from time to time you have chosen to leave me
each return I have felt the earnest of yer years
what you say hasn’t changed will
one long bead falling slowly down the windshield
you're not speaking in circles
just breathing out the silent debate
light me a cigarette, mine is going out

my lover will you be willing to forgive me
wake to the morning of what dies in me daily
will you let Tenderfoot come in for a beer
will you stand in this dimmed room to watch
the baleful sky beautiful like child
who does remotely remember the cast out
rebels stand close to your loyalties
see what fades by your work by your age
will you still love the you of stages
or the seemingly empty emptiness of admonished pleasure
Tenderfoot come near me, come nearer still
I need you understanding your power of words
I’m leaving the last of my life
take me as I am

the forward motion of the stone I do not realize
I know it carries its momentum to the bottom of the sea
where all tremendous throws must die
I sit here on the bank, still and rested
waiting and wanting my plea of innocence returned
I have you to thank creator, do you have me to avenge
Tenderfoot, take me for another ride
into the caverns of space or the dew drop seclusion
let us mock the trees and stars
let us deny the afterbirth again
I want to skip stones once more in the park
I want to watch the fish dance under the rocks
are you going to grow up on me too

we were never the ones to belong to this place
let me take away the pain once more
lets balance on the fence, throw apples at the gate
watch the bees buzzing while we slap with branches
dont you think Johnny Appleseed passed thru here
talking to the Indians and carving out pipes of peace
once in a lifetime did you ever place a bet
I dont mind the rain when the crickets are out
lets go out to the cars one more time
and take a ride…

august 25, 1994





ШАМРО
from LIFE IS REVENGE,

the audience of the dead,

private poetry productions

exempt stage stories

all eptitaphs remembered

© 2007 woundedlordliterature