Tag: poem

The Threads Hang down

beligerant smoke sepia 2

Let the threads unravel all the way to Oz

let them knot and choke and cut veins

on their way back to the original spool

like taught ghosts with razor wings and spurs

digging into your dreams like barking dogs

teeth snarling and punctuating the air with grist

be the chaff that blows into invisible dust

be the blood that dries brown on grim sunlit walls


Let the threads unravel in damp tangles

let them snake into your sour heart like sugar cubes

melting into a hostile room full of small savage fires

like crystals the dead wear in blazing caskets

hope misshapen with eyes full of soot and ash

be the heart that walks doubt down the plank

be the heart that cuts all the tangled knots free


Let the threads hang down, used and frayed

the way you felt when you were turned inside out

by your first crush of bone and muscle out on the field

where you fell hard into the turf and time stopped

with breathless love never whispered through the heat

be the one girl who gets up and walks away with dignity

be the one who knows the prize waits out of frame


Let the threads weave voice into uneven weft

without hyperbole of fiber or selvedge edge building up

believe the pattern your nightmares have drawn

like tight hot embers burning through every layer

like your heart is made of a spider’s web

be weightless and open in your search for truth

be everclear in your spirit and clean water in your heart

Market Street

ghilly brogues

Take up your drums with your suit.

Don’t let Market Street go to sleep on you.

Quick-step your Ghillie-brogues past the gum, the spit, the piss, and the pimps.

Take it up a ride, take it up a step, take it down the city –

The young reek of opium and smoke where they posture

Stiff white collars smudged with lipstick and musk

jasmine trailing off skin in accidental innocence

Walk it off like shameless poets in the split night

Walk it off Market street, bricks and cracks, a static goal

electric energy polarizing steps

like percussion waking a dead heart forward

move – move – move, past Powell into the bowels of hell

leave your eyes open and your weapons drawn

This is your siren streaking across the asphalt

into the deafness of your heart

Open, that you might hear your own musk settle on a green branch

that you might hear closure with every night bird’s song